The Lion Who Waited — Before the first bell, Arden carried her silver shield to the high road above the pines. She wanted to hear the lion crest roar, just once, the way old songs promised. Read the full story →
Before the first bell, Arden carried her silver shield to the high road above the pines. She wanted to hear the lion crest roar, just once, the way old songs promised. Wind combed her hair across her cheek, and far below, the castle flags snapped like tiny fish tails.
She did not strike the shield or shout. Arden only stood with her boots on the cold stones and waited while clouds slid over the white mountain teeth. Her sword hummed softly in its sheath, a low note like a bee inside a jar. “I can be quiet longer than thunder,” she whispered.
Then a warm breath brushed her wrist. Not from the valley. From the shield. The carved lion opened one golden eye and yawned, not fierce at all, but sleepy and magnificent. I roar only when someone has listened to the road first, it seemed to say.
Arden smiled and lifted the shield toward the traveling clouds. The mountains gave back a slow, round echo—more purr than roar—and the pines shivered silver-green. Next time you trace the lion’s mane, see if you can find the patient breath Arden heard before the first bell.
