"YOU'RE MY KING AND I'LL BE YOUR LIONHEART!" ||
Unknowingly created with immense power from the Great Lion Aslan, Princess Cattia of Telmar grows up in the den of murders and thieves, with only her brother, cousin, and dear Professor to guide her...
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'ONE WEEK LATER. . . '
𝔗𝔢𝔩𝔪𝔞𝔯 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔡; a chill seeped into the young boy's rattled bones as it breezed through the cracked stone walls. The sound of storms, whisking through the high, flimsy windows, often kept the inmate awake. He was starving. With every passing hour, Nicolas Davenwood seemed engulfed in a disconsolate gloom, sleepless and alone. His mind was ever still tortured by the death, of his departed nursemaid, his thoughts circling relentlessly back to that empty, sightless stare she had. Every time he fell asleep, she would haunt his dreams with such intensity that the boy would be rattled enough to wake up. The violence of each episode left Nicolas gasping and slick with sweat. He hoped for a different outcome upon awakening; different from the suffocating freeze and the taunting from the long, cavernous shadows of the lowly prison cell. Unfortunately, it was all for naught.
He'd been branded a prisoner of war; what war, he was too young to understand. The High Lord and his lady, his parents, had always worked to shield their beloved son from such savage topics. Yet, their plans had not succeeded, for with all the effort placed into their endeavors, Nicolas had lost everything. Within a churning course of events, he had been made an orphan; his nurse and only friend had been murdered before his eyes. What's more, the boy was confined under the jurisdiction of his family's enemy, estranged from his home. All of these happenings made him feel incredibly small. The enduring fear that plagued him was unexpectedly sharp, like a razor's edge. Nicolas couldn't help but wonder what fate had been sealed for him. Was there an unforeseen miracle of rescue on the horizon, or was he promised the shroud of blackened death? The coldness of uncertainty was a festering arrow, striking him hard and fast.
As a result of his callous worry, Nicolas' thin, shaking hands drew a crude record, recalling the seven days of his imprisonment. Each time he woke, he scratched a poll mark into the stone wall with a tiny metal needle. He found it while being fraught and restless one night, the tiny tool winking at him against the weak moonlight, hidden in the recesses of the straw beneath him. As of today, Nicolas found that, within that week, the bitter darkness tasted familiar; the bleakness of routine chill could generally ease him into a deep sleep. Whether the boy could allow such things to be pleasant or not, he recognized merit in counting the small blessings he had.
