"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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Nicolas couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this dense. A deep-seated pressure undulated in the center of his forehead, bringing forth starbursts of heat and light to his eyes, hidden behind a sheen of darkness; his eyes were closed. It took nearly all of his illusive strength to reach up and touch the pulsing pain. Tentatively, he felt his fingers brush and scrape lightly against the frayed cloth. Someone had tended to his head. His stomach flipped with unease as he let his shaking hands drop to his sides, suddenly all too heavy. The surface was plush, smelling oddly musty. Quilts. Nicolas finally opened his eyes.
In the first instance, all he could tell was that he was housed in a dim stone shell, smelling profusely of lavender and rosemary. Nicolas gave pause, affronted by the sudden change in scenery. He was sitting in a small nook of a room, and a large, roaring fire flickered in the hearth. He could feel the waves of heat warming a black iron cauldron that bubbled animatedly in the gloom. An expansive, high wooden table ran horizontally in front of it, earthen shadows from the fire dancing upon the knick-knacks laid on the weathered tabletop. He noted that a little chest of drawers was lying open, with little vials and jars positioned in an orderly manner around it. As Nicolas turned, he also took note with an alarming shock that the window inlaid in the short stone wall a few meters from the table had darkened. Rain pelted and slicked the glass from outside, accompanied by a distant clap of thunder—a typical storm again.
With a scoff, he resumed his acclimation to the new space, his eyes moving slowly over the straw and dust coating the large gray stone floor. The grooves between the stones were caked with the grime of age, though some parts had a slight sheen to them as if they had been trodden on recently. His interest was piqued; whose quarters was he intruding on?
