Whatamidoing

Serving: The Uncrowned King

The Botanical Garden at Night Raven College was usually a place of quiet study, a lush, climate-controlled sanctuary where students could observe rare magical flora. But in the deepest, most overgrown corner of the Temperate Zone, hidden behind a massive, ancient cluster of weeping ferns and broad-leafed elephant ears, it was simply a hiding spot.

Leona Kingscholar lay flat on his back, stretched out across a wide, flat slab of sun-warmed stone.

His uniform jacket was discarded somewhere in the bushes. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his golden necklace resting against his collarbone. His lion ears were pinned back, flat against his messy, dark brown hair, and his thick tail gave a slow, agitated flick against the stone.

He was hiding. And he was incredibly, deeply annoyed.

Today was July 27th.

Since the moment the sun had crested the horizon, his phone had been buzzing in his pocket with a relentless, maddening frequency. There had been a localized earthquake of a voice message from his older brother, Farena, booming with obnoxious, overbearing cheerfulness. There had been a chaotic, high-pitched video call from his nephew, Cheka, screaming “Happy Birthday Unca!” so loudly that Leona’s sensitive ears had rung for ten minutes afterward.

And then, there was the Savanaclaw dorm itself.

Ruggie and Jack were currently attempting to organize a "surprise" feast in the main lounge. Leona had smelled the raw meat and heard the frantic whispering before he even opened his eyes this morning. The entire dorm was buzzing with the nervous energy of a hundred beastmen trying to throw a party for a Housewarden who actively despised parties.

He didn't want a party. He didn't want gifts. He just wanted to be left alone.

Every single birthday was the exact same. The royal court of the Sunset Savanna would send lavish, empty gifts—golden trinkets, rare magical artifacts, expensive silks. They were obligations. The courtiers didn't care about Leona; they cared about maintaining a polite relationship with the King’s brother. It was a suffocating, gilded cage of politics. Every smile was a transaction. Every gift was a reminder that he was the secondary option, the backup plan, the shadow cast by Farena's blinding, beloved sun.

Leona let out a long, rumbling growl from the back of his throat, lifting a heavy hand to drape his arm over his eyes, shielding them from the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.

"Stupid day," Leona muttered to himself, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Stupid herbivores making a racket over nothing. I should have slept in the Spelldrive stadium."

He tried to force his brain to shut down, willing the familiar, heavy blanket of sleep to pull him under. But his senses were too sharp today. The humidity of the garden felt sticky and oppressive. The buzzing of the magical insects was too loud.

And then, his ears twitched.

Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, and entirely human.

They weren't the heavy, thudding steps of a Savanaclaw beastman, nor were they the clicking, formal strides of someone like Riddle or Azul. These footsteps were familiar. They were the sound of the only person in this entire school who possessed the sheer, absolute audacity to seek him out when he was actively hiding.

Leona didn't move his arm. He didn't open his eyes. He simply waited.

The ferns rustled softly as the branches were pushed aside. The footsteps stopped right at the edge of his sun-warmed stone slab.

"You know," your voice floated through the humid air, carrying a distinct, playful lilt, "if you're going to hide from your entire dormitory, you shouldn't leave your uniform jacket hanging on a branch in plain sight. It’s a dead giveaway."

Leona let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. He slowly moved his arm, cracking one vibrant, emerald-green eye open to look at you.

You were standing over him, wearing your usual slightly rumpled uniform, though you had rolled the sleeves up to combat the heat of the greenhouse. Slung over your shoulder was a heavy, dark canvas bag, and in your hands, you carried a large, flat wooden box adorned with intricate, burnished metal clasps.

"What do you want, herbivore?" Leona grumbled, closing his eye again and turning his head away slightly. "If Ruggie sent you to drag me back to whatever disaster they’re cooking up in the lounge, you can tell him to shove it. I’m not going."

"Ruggie didn't send me," you replied, setting the heavy wooden box down on the ground before shrugging the canvas bag off your shoulder. "In fact, I distinctly saw Ruggie yelling at a first-year for dropping a crate of steaks, so I slipped out the back. I came here for entirely selfish reasons."

Leona’s ear gave a slight twitch. That caught his attention. He was used to people wanting things from him—favors, money, protection, political influence. But you rarely asked him for anything.

He groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows, the muscles in his arms shifting under his tanned skin. He looked at you, his gaze sharp and calculating despite his lazy posture.

"Selfish reasons," Leona repeated, a lazy, dangerous smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "Are you finally admitting you just want to bask in my presence? Because I charge an hourly rate for that."

"In your dreams, Kingscholar," you laughed, stepping closer to the stone slab. "Move over."

"I was here first."

"Move, or I'm sitting on you."

Leona scoffed, but he lazily shifted his long legs, making just enough room for you to sit on the edge of the stone. He watched you intently as you opened the canvas bag.

The moment you unzipped the insulated interior, Leona's pupils dilated, his nose twitching instinctively.

The smell was incredible. It wasn't the raw, bloody scent of the Savanaclaw kitchen. It was the deep, rich, complex aroma of meat that had been slow-roasted for hours. It smelled of dark spices, cracked black pepper, smoked sea salt, and a hint of something sweet, like caramelized brown sugar and bourbon.

His stomach let out a loud, demanding rumble. Leona pressed a hand to his abdomen, a faint flush of embarrassment darkening his cheeks, though he masked it instantly with a scowl.

"What is that?" he demanded, his voice dropping an octave, completely dropping the uncaring facade.

"Lunch," you smiled, pulling out two heavy, dark ceramic containers. You popped the seal on the largest one, and a cloud of fragrant, savory steam plumed into the humid air.

Inside was a massive cut of beef brisket. It had been rubbed with a dark, heavy spice blend and slow-cooked until the fat had rendered completely, leaving the meat so tender it was practically falling apart in its own rich, dark juices. Next to it was a side of bone marrow, roasted in the shell with garlic and herbs, alongside a mountain of thick-cut, heavily seasoned wedges of potatoes.

It was a carnivore's absolute dream. It was excessive, heavy, and undeniably luxurious.

"I know you dislike sweet things," you explained, handing him a set of heavy silverware and a thick linen napkin. "And I know the dorm is probably going to try and force a cake on you later. So, I figured I would beat them to the punch. I bribed the ghosts in the kitchen to let me use the slow-roaster overnight."

Leona stared at the container of meat. He looked at the perfectly rendered fat, the dark crust of the spices. Then, he looked up at you.

"You stayed up all night to cook this?" Leona asked, his emerald eyes narrowing in suspicion. The transactional nature of his upbringing reared its ugly head. "Why? What’s the catch?"

"No catch," you said simply, opening your own, much smaller container of food. "It's your birthday. I wanted to feed you. That's it."

Leona stared at you for a long, silent moment. He searched your face, looking for the lie, looking for the hidden motive. He was a prince; he was trained to read micro-expressions, to see the greed hiding behind a smile. But looking at you, all he saw was genuine, unwavering affection.

He let out a soft huff, grabbing the container from your hands. "You're an idiot, you know that? You could have slept."

"And let you starve in a bush? Never," you grinned. "Eat, Leona."

He didn't need to be told twice. Leona picked up the fork and dug in.

The moment the meat hit his tongue, his eyes slipped shut, and a deep, resonant, vibrating purr started up in the very center of his chest. It was a sound he almost never made—a sound of absolute, unconditional comfort. The brisket was phenomenal. It melted in his mouth, the heavy, smoky flavor perfectly balanced by the sharp bite of the black pepper. The bone marrow was rich and buttery, spreading perfectly over the roasted potatoes.

He ate with the focused, quiet intensity of a starving predator. He didn't speak. He simply savored every single bite, entirely consumed by the sheer quality of the meal you had prepared just for him.

You ate your own food quietly, watching him out of the corner of your eye. You loved the way the tension slowly bled out of his shoulders. You loved the way his ears relaxed, pivoting slightly toward you to track your movements. You loved that, for just a moment, he wasn't carrying the weight of his family's expectations.

When he finally finished, the container was completely spotless. He set it down, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin, letting out a long, heavy sigh of satisfaction. He leaned back against the stone, resting on his hands, looking at you with a heavy, hooded gaze.

"Alright," Leona rumbled, the food completely mellowing his mood. "That was... acceptable. Better than the slop they serve in the cafeteria."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a Michelin-star review," you laughed, packing the empty containers back into the bag.

"Don't let it go to your head," he smirked, though there was no bite to his words. His eyes shifted from the canvas bag to the large, flat wooden box you had set on the ground earlier. He gestured to it with his chin. "So. Are you going to tell me what's in the box, or is it a bomb?"

"It's the other half of your present," you said, pulling the box onto your lap.

Leona’s expression instantly guarded up. The easy, comfortable atmosphere fractured slightly. "I told you, I don't want gifts. I have enough junk from my brother to fill a warehouse. I don't need you wasting your money on me, herbivore."

"I didn't buy this," you corrected gently, resting your hand on the warm wood. "And it isn't gold. I know how much you hate status symbols."

You unlatched the burnished metal clasps and opened the box.

Inside was a board game. But it wasn't a standard, modern game. The board itself was made of a heavy, ancient slab of polished obsidian, inlaid with complex, geometric patterns of silver and crushed lapis lazuli. The playing pieces were carved from bone and dark iron, shaped like abstract, terrifying beasts and strategic fortifications.

Leona sat up perfectly straight. His eyes locked onto the board, completely captivated. The lazy, sleepy lion vanished, replaced by the brilliant, sharp-minded tactician.

"Is this..." Leona breathed, leaning closer, his fingers hovering over the pieces. "Is this a first-edition set of Kingsfall?"

"It is," you smiled, seeing the pure, unadulterated fascination in his eyes. "I found it buried in the deepest archives of the school library. It was completely covered in dust. I asked Professor Trein about it, and he said it hadn't been checked out in over fifty years. I got permission to restore it and borrow it."

Leona carefully picked up one of the iron pieces—a towering, jagged knight. He ran his thumb over the cold metal.

Kingsfall was an incredibly complex, ancient tactical game from the Sunset Savanna. It was notoriously difficult, requiring the players to manage resources, deploy magical terrain traps, and anticipate their opponent's moves ten steps in advance. It was a game that required genuine, raw intellect. It was not a game of luck.

"My father used to have a set like this," Leona murmured, his voice surprisingly soft, lost in a distant memory. "He would play it with his generals. He taught Farena how to play... but Farena was terrible at it. He didn't have the patience. He just wanted to attack everything."

Leona set the piece down on the starting square, his jaw tightening slightly. "When I was eight, I challenged one of the King's top generals to a game. I beat him in fourteen moves."

You watched him, listening intently. "What happened?"

Leona let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "The general was furious. He accused me of cheating. My father told me I shouldn't embarrass the military staff, and he put the board away. They never let me play again. They said a prince should focus on his studies, not 'war games'."

He looked up at you, his green eyes burning with a dark, resentful fire. "They didn't want a second-born son who was smarter than the heir. It made Farena look bad. So, I learned to play dumb. I learned to sleep. It’s easier that way."

Your heart physically ached for him. Beneath the arrogance, beneath the laziness, was a brilliant, capable mind that had been systematically starved of stimulation because his mere existence threatened the status quo.

You didn't offer pity. Leona Kingscholar would tear your throat out if you pitied him.

Instead, you reached into the box, picked up one of the bone pieces, and set it firmly on your side of the board.

"Well," you said, your voice ringing with a calm, unwavering challenge. "Farena isn't here. Your father isn't here. It's just you and me. And I read the rulebook cover to cover last night. I am not a military general, Leona. I'm not going to get mad if you beat me."

You met his gaze, refusing to back down.

"Show me how smart you actually are. Don't hold back."

Leona stared at you. The dark, brooding resentment in his eyes completely shattered, replaced by a sudden, intense thrill. His lips curled into a wide, dangerous, feral grin that showed a flash of his sharp teeth. The apex predator had just been offered a hunt.

"You're going to regret this, herbivore," Leona purred, his voice dripping with arrogance as he began rapidly setting up his pieces with practiced, terrifying precision. "I am going to utterly annihilate you. I hope you like losing."

"Bring it on, kitty cat," you shot back, matching his setup.

The game began.

For the next two hours, the only sounds in the secluded corner of the Botanical Garden were the heavy, satisfying clack of the iron and bone pieces striking the obsidian board, and the quiet, concentrated breathing of the players.

Leona was a revelation.

You had known he was smart, but watching him play Kingsfall was like watching a master artist paint. He didn't just play the board; he played you. He laid traps that looked like vulnerabilities. He sacrificed pieces to draw you into devastating counterattacks. He read your hesitations, capitalized on your defensive strategies, and completely controlled the flow of the game.

He was entirely focused. His posture was rigid, leaning over the board, his eyes darting across the pieces, calculating thousands of permutations in a fraction of a second. His tail swished behind him, not in annoyance, but in deep, stimulated concentration.

He was brilliant. He was beautiful.

You put up a valiant fight. You managed to outflank his infantry twice, and you even successfully caught his knight in a terrain trap, earning a raised eyebrow and a low hum of genuine approval from the Lion. But in the end, it was a slaughter.

With a decisive, echoing crack, Leona moved his iron warlord piece across the board, cornering your final bone king.

"Victory is mine," Leona breathed, his voice vibrating with adrenaline and satisfaction.

He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, the joints in his shoulders popping loudly. He looked at the board, then at you, and let out a genuine, booming laugh. It wasn't his usual sarcastic scoff. It was the sound of a man who had finally, truly flexed a muscle that had been atrophied for years.

"Thirty-two moves," Leona grinned, his emerald eyes shining. "You lasted thirty-two moves. That’s actually impressive. Most of the Savanaclaw seniors can't last past ten."

"I told you I read the rulebook," you smiled, leaning back on your hands, exhausted but completely thrilled to see him so happy. "You're a genius, Leona. Seriously. The way you used the archers to bottleneck my flank... I didn't even see it coming until it was too late."

The compliment hung in the humid air.

Leona’s smile slowly faded. The adrenaline of the game subsided, leaving a heavy, profound stillness in its wake. He looked at you, his gaze dragging over your flushed face, your messy hair, the way you were looking at him with absolute, unshielded admiration.

You weren't praising him because he was a prince. You weren't sucking up to him to get a better grade or political favor. You had given him the board, you had fought him fairly, and you were praising the mind that his own family had tried to bury.

"You..." Leona started, his voice dropping into a rough, intimate whisper. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently pushing a few stray pieces out of the way, stopping just inches from your knee. "You are a very dangerous creature, Prefect."

"Me? Dangerous?" you laughed softly, your heart suddenly beginning to hammer against your ribs. "You just massacred my entire army."

"You know what I mean," Leona rumbled, shifting closer. The space between you on the stone slab suddenly felt incredibly small.

He didn't look at the board anymore. He was entirely focused on you. His gaze was heavy, possessive, and stripped of all its usual lazy defenses. He reached out, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed over your pulse point, feeling the frantic, jumping rhythm of your heartbeat.

His hand was incredibly warm, his skin slightly rough.

"Everyone else in this school looks at me and sees a title," Leona murmured, his thumb stroking your skin, sending a violent shiver down your spine despite the heat of the greenhouse. "They see Farena’s little brother. They see a lazy Housewarden. They see a beastman they need to avoid."

He leaned in closer. You could smell the scent of the smoked brisket, mixed with his own natural scent of sandalwood, dry earth, and sun-warmed fur.

"But you don't," he whispered, his emerald eyes locked onto yours, blazing with a terrifying intensity. "You look at me... and you actually see me. You see the things I try to hide. You feed me. You challenge me. You don't ask me for anything. Why?"

"Because you're Leona," you breathed, completely mesmerized by his proximity. You reached up, your smaller hand resting lightly over the hand that was cupping your neck. "You aren't a shadow to me. You are the smartest, strongest, most capable person I know. You are a king, Leona. Crown or no crown."

Leona’s breath hitched.

The words hit him like a physical blow. The absolute, undeniable sincerity in your voice shattered the final, iron-clad vault he had locked his heart inside.

He let out a low, ragged groan, a sound of complete, overwhelming surrender.

He didn't hesitate anymore. Leona shifted his weight, closing the remaining distance between you in a fluid, predatory movement. He tilted your head up and crashed his lips down onto yours.

The kiss was everything Leona Kingscholar was—dominant, possessive, and breathtakingly intense. He didn't ask for permission, he simply took. His free hand slid around your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his chest, completely ignoring the heavy wooden game board digging into his thigh.

You gasped into his mouth, your hands instantly flying up to tangle in his thick, dark brown hair. He let out a deep, vibrating purr at the contact, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. He parted your lips, deepening the kiss, tasting of the rich spices of the meal and the intoxicating, dizzying heat of his absolute devotion.

He kissed you like a starving man who had finally been offered a feast. He poured years of repressed frustration, of loneliness, of being the second choice, into the physical contact. He was claiming you. He was making sure that you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you belonged to him.

You kissed him back with equal desperation, your fingers scratching lightly against his scalp, right at the base of his lion ears.

Leona shuddered violently. He pulled away slightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath ghosting over your collarbone. He was panting, his broad shoulders heaving, his powerful arms wrapped around you like a vice.

"Mine," Leona whispered fiercely against your skin, his voice thick with raw emotion. "You hear me? You're mine. I don't care about the throne. I don't care about the savanna. I am never letting you go. You are my prize."

"I'm yours," you promised softly, wrapping your arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as you could. "I've been yours for a long time, Leona."

He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His emerald eyes were shining, incredibly soft and entirely unguarded. The cynical, angry prince was gone. The man looking at you was profoundly, deeply in love.

He leaned forward, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, and finally, a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

"Best birthday," Leona murmured against your mouth, a beautiful, genuine smile curving his lips. "Best damn birthday of my life."

He pulled away reluctantly, letting out a long, heavy sigh. The adrenaline of the game and the intense emotional release of the confession had finally caught up to him. The heavy meal was doing its work, and the warm, humid air of the greenhouse was pulling at his consciousness.

He shifted, lying back down on the wide stone slab, but this time, he pulled you down with him.

He arranged you perfectly against his side, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist to keep you from falling off the stone. He adjusted his position, his thick tail curling protectively around your ankle.

"Sleep," Leona commanded lazily, his eyes already fluttering shut.

"I'm not the one who takes ten naps a day," you teased softly, resting your hand flat against his chest, feeling the strong, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"Shut up," he grumbled playfully, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly purr. "I'm the birthday boy. I make the rules. And the rule is that we are sleeping here until the sun goes down. Let Ruggie panic. Let the dorm burn. I am exactly where I want to be."

You smiled, closing your eyes, completely enveloped in his warmth and his scent.

"Okay," you whispered into the quiet garden. "Happy birthday, Leona."

Leona didn't respond with words. He simply tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you closer, the deep, vibrating purr in his chest lulling you both into the deepest, most peaceful sleep of the year.

Outside the greenhouse, the Savanaclaw dorm was tearing the campus apart looking for their Housewarden. The feast was getting cold. The gifts were piled high.

But inside the sanctuary of the Temperate Zone, the uncrowned king had already found his treasure. And he wasn't going to share it with anyone.

-----

And there we have it. A massive, slow-roasted, heavily spiced serving for the King of Beasts.

Writing this out required a lot of patience, a lot of deep character observation, and quite a bit of culinary preparation! The goal was to give him an experience that validated his intellect and his heart, not just his royal bloodline. I hope this dish hit every single craving and gave Leona the quiet, possessive, fiercely romantic birthday he deserves.

Thank you all for taking the time to read through this serving! The kitchen is always happy to push its limits for our favorite patrons. Please, take your time digesting, stay out of the heat, and I will see you next time!

Happy late Birthday, Leona Kingscholar!

it’s a quiet moment when you two begin to date. he doesn’t post it anywhere, nor does he make grand displays of PDA around others, but his hand on your waist or your back as you two walk through campus is unmistakable.

when you study next to him as he naps, his eyes will be on you. unmoving and intense, his focused gaze will latch onto you. 

there’s a subject you’re stuck on? he’ll provide the answer out of the blue. when you turn to ask him how he knows, he’s fast asleep.

he doesn’t quite get jealous, but expect him to closely observe the way others act around you, and act accordingly. wrapping his tail around you or resting his arm on your shoulder as he stares down the other person with a grin.

that’s a habit he has. no matter what you’re doing, his eyes will follow you, whether to make sure you’re okay or simply to watch you. if anyone were to ask, he’d scoff and shut his eyes to feign sleep, but anyone could see the way his sharp green eyes soften in admiration

leona is a sleepy man. however, I think that when he’s in a relationship, he would try to take naps less often. being around you makes him feel seen. with you, he feels he is taken seriously, that he’s seen for his true strengths and worth. you give him something to look forward to. when he does nap, he wants you by him during it. expect a grumpy leona if he wakes up and doesn’t see you.

if you have insomnia or any fears relating to sleeping, expect him to help with that immediately. his steady breathing and warm presence are enough to help lull you to sleep.

on that note, even though he is a fast and deep sleeper, he will make sure you’re safe throughout the night. if you start tossing and turning, nightmares seeping into your sleep, he’s quick to wake you and provide comfort, draping himself over you as he wraps his arms around you tight. he holds you as if you’re something precious, something irreplaceable, and to him, you are.

when he’s alone with you, he‘s much softer than what anyone else sees of him. if you point it out or tease him about it, he’ll scoff, letting out a sarcastic retort with no real bite. “in your dreams, herbivore.”

as much as he loves you, he can tend to be a bit avoidant at times. he fears losing you, and that fear can make him hesitant when problems in the relationship occur. he doesn’t want to lose you, he doesn’t want to see you become bored of him and take interest in another, but that same fear can make him be distant at times. he acts like he doesn’t care if you’re ignoring him, or even goes ahead himself to ignore you. part of it is a test, to see if you’d really stay with him. his whole life he was always the lesser option, who’s to say you wouldn’t feel the same?

When you walked into Leona’s room balancing a box large enough to block your view, he was on a call with his nephew. Cheka’s voice was loud enough to be heard from the doorway, the little kid was determined to wish his uncle a happy birthday in as many different ways as possible. Leona finally escaped by muttering something about the connection cutting out and hanging up before the boy could launch into another song.

The dorm wasn’t much quieter though. Somewhere down the hall, several Savanaclaw students were arguing over birthday decorations. A crash followed, then a chorus of accusations.

Leona sat on the edge of his bed with several unopened presents at his feet. His brows were drawn together, and his tail flicked against the mattress in a steady, irritated rhythm.

He looked up, then his gaze moved to the enormous box in your arms. “What’s in that?”

You lowered the box to the floor with a dull thud and pushed it to the foot of the bed. “Your birthday gift. What else?”

“Actually,” you added, “gifts. Twenty-one, to be exact.”

Leona’s ears angled back slightly. “You tryin’ to bury me in junk?” Still, he moved aside to clear space for your gifts on his bed. 

You knelt beside the box. When you lifted the lid, rows of smaller packages were revealed inside, each wrapped separately. Leona leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee as his eyes passed over the collection. “You weren’t kidding.” 

You rested your hands on the edge of the larger box. “You’ve lived twenty years. I wanted to give something to every version of you that made it this far.”

He picked up the box marked with “1”. “Twenty-one gifts,” he murmured. “You’ve got too much time on your hands.”

He hooked one finger beneath the ribbon. “Better be worth it.”

“It is,” you said. “You are.”

He opened the first box and pulled out a soft blanket embroidered with traditional Sunset Savanna patterns. He ran his thumb over the stitching. “This is for a baby.”

“It was meant for you at one.”

“I had better blankets than this.”

“I know. I still wanted to give it to you.”

He gave you a flat look, though he folded it carefully before setting it aside. The second box contained a carved wooden lion family. Two larger lions stood beside two smaller figures. He held the smallest one up to his eye’s level. “Why is this one frowning?” “I thought that was your default facial expression.”

He smacked you with his tail before placing the figures on top of the blanket.

The third gift was an animal puzzle. The fourth was a children’s coloring book filled with savanna animals and landscapes. Leona looked from one to the other. “You expect me to use these?”

“No. They’re for the versions of you who might have.”

“Hmph.” He flipped through the coloring book. “The lions look ridiculous.” 

“They can always be corrected later.”

“I’m not coloring.”

You chuckled. “Of course not. But Cheka might. Maybe you can give these to him later?”

“I’ll think about that.”

The fifth box was heavier. Inside was a chess set, its pieces polished and neatly arranged. Leona picked up the lion-shaped king between two fingers. 

You leaned closer. “Is that like the one you used for your matches with Kifaji?”

“Close enough.” He set the piece back in its place. “His was just a bit more worn.”

“Even if it was new, I’m sure it would be worn in no time. Kifaji said that you demanded him to play chess with you all the time.”

“I couldn’t let that old bird win forever.”

“How many matches did it take?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen?”

“So what? The eighteenth was mine,” he said, his head held high like the victory had happened yesterday.

The sixth gift was an illustrated field guide bound in green cloth, its cover stamped with small golden paw prints. Inside were bright drawings of Sunset Savanna animals, plants, feathers, tracks, and insects. Short notes had been written beside them in your handwriting: where certain birds liked to nest, which flowers opened after rain, how to tell apart different animal paw prints, what to look for when searching for certain insects.

Leona flipped through several pages. “Why does this sound like Hunt?”

You hesitated. “I asked him for a few details.”

“You involved that freak in my birthday present?”

“He knows a lot about animals.”

“You could’ve asked me.”

“That would have ruined the surprise.”

Leona scoffed, but he continued flipping through the guide even as his ears flattened whenever he encountered a particularly dramatic note. “I’m crossing these parts out.”

“That’s why I used pencil.”

The seventh gift was simpler: a black notebook with no title or decoration. Its pages looked ordinary until Leona brushed his thumb across one. The writing sample you had left there disappeared beneath his touch, leaving the paper clean again.

You elbowed his ribs. “I assumed that 7-year-old you already stewed a lot of thoughts inside.”

He flicked your forehead and shut the notebook before setting it beside the field guide, closer to himself than the earlier gifts. 

The eighth package contained a small mechanical puzzle box made from interlocking pieces of dark wood. Fine gold lines ran across its surface, forming a pattern that appeared decorative. Each panel shifted only after another had been aligned correctly, and false mechanisms reset sections of the puzzle if handled carelessly.

Leona worked in silence, turning it in his hands, testing pressure points with the tip of his finger. After 10 minutes, the box opened with a crisp click.

“You made it too easy,” you rolled your eyes.

“I thought that was meant for 8-year-old me? Of course it was easy for me.”

Inside was a small bronze-colored coin. One side bore the image of a lion, the other had a simple crown engraved. He rolled the coin over his knuckles once, before slipping it into the pocket of his trousers. 

The ninth gift was a box of sweets. His eyebrows raised. “Finally. Something useful.”

“They’re for after martial arts training,” you said. “For when nine-year-old you got beaten up and needed cheering up.”

His hand paused over the lid. “I didn’t need sweets to feel better.”

“What did you do instead?”

“Learned where I made the mistake and made sure it didn’t happen again.”

“That sounds healthy and not at all vindictive.”

“It worked.”

You reached for one when he opened the box but he pulled the box out of your reach. Not petty at all, this one.

The tenth gift was the most carefully wrapped so far. When Leona removed the paper, he found a slim collection of copied inscriptions bound between two stone-gray covers. Each page contained a reproduction of an ancient script, followed by a small amount of contextual information. There's a complete translation at the end of the book.

His earlier irritation disappeared. He sat straighter and turned the first page toward the light. “These aren’t all from the Sunset Savanna.”

“No. They’re beginner-level inscriptions from several regions.”

“Beginner-level,” he repeated, offended.

“You were ten.”

“I could have handled more than this at ten.”

“I’m sure you believed that too.”

His eyes moved over the inscription. “Where did you get these?”

You hesitated for half a second, but as always, Leona noticed.

“Who?”

“Lilia.”

The book lowered.

“You keep involving the worst possible people.”

“He has access to very old material.”

“He is very old material.”

You covered a laugh with your hand before leaning against his shoulder while he skimmed through the inscription. This way you had better access to the sweet box too. What a coincidence.

The eleventh gift was a book on resource management in arid countries. It was a serious-looking volume, bound in weathered brown leather and thick enough to require both hands. Maps, irrigation diagrams, trade routes, mineral surveys, and case studies filled the pages. Several sections had been marked with thin slips of paper.

Leona glanced at the title, then at you. “You’re giving an eleven-year-old economic policy?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t dig through the royal library for these types of books at 11?”

He opened the book and skimmed one of the marked chapters. It described a kingdom that had improved rural water access by combining underground reservoirs with seasonal flood channels.

“At least you know your audience.”

The twelfth gift was more narrow than the others. Inside was a high-quality fountain pen, its body made from dark wood with gold detailing around the grip. Leona rolled it between his fingers. Then he removed the cap and tested the nib against the corner of an old envelope. The ink came out in one clean, dark stroke. “Acceptable.”

Coming from him, it sounded almost extravagant.

The thirteenth gift was the only one that hadn’t been wrapped completely. A small potted plant sat between your hands, its thick green leaves edged with pale silver. A few grains of soil had spilled onto the wrapping despite your attempts to keep it upright.

“This one needs very little water,” you placed it in his hands. “It likes sunlight and being left alone, so I thought you two would get along.”

His eyes narrowed. “Funny.”

“I thought so.”

The pot looked unusually small between his palms. One leaf had folded beneath the paper, and Leona carefully eased it upright with the side of his hand.

“My 13-year-old self would hate this gift.”

“I thought so, again. Still, I trust it in your hands, despite however your 13-year-old self thought your hands could do.”

He looked away from you and carried the plant to the windowsill. He moved an unopened present aside, checked where the light fell, then adjusted the pot until the leaves rested fully in the sun.

“There,” he said.

You looked at the space he had cleared for it. “See? I know it will thrive in your hands.”

His tail flicked once. “Keep talking like that,” he muttered as he returned to the bed, “and I’ll let it die out of spite.” But when the curtain shifted against the pot, he reached back and moved the fabric away from its leaves.

The fourteenth gift caught the sunlight before Leona had fully removed it from the box. It was a glass sculpture, clear at the base and gradually darkening into warm gold near the top. A lion emerged from a sweep of windblown glass, its body only partly formed, as though it were stepping out of a sandstorm. The mane dissolved into long, curved strands behind it. He held it up, turning it slightly. The light fractured through the glass and scattered across his hands.

“Yesterday, I watched a very interesting video about how glass is made from sand,” you said.

He placed it beside the plant. The glass catched light and sprinkled it between the leaves.

The fifteenth gift was an atlas of the Sunset Savanna. It was the official one: a broad volume filled with regional maps, borders, rivers, mineral zones, roads, grazing land, and population centres. Then Leona opened it and saw your handwriting fill the margins. The pages were littered with fragmented information he had told you over time.

You said the grass here turns silver before the first storm.

The market in this town sells the spiced meat you like, though you claim the palace cooks make it better.

You once said this region could support twice its population with proper water storage.

Leona stopped turning the pages. “You wrote all this down?”

“You talk more than you think.”

“I don’t.”

“You do when you’re annoyed.”

His gaze returned to the atlas. “You missed one,” he said eventually.

You leaned closer. “Where?”

He pointed to a stretch of land near the south-eastern border. “There’s an old seasonal route here. It hasn’t been used properly in years, but it could connect these two regions.”

You handed him the new pen.

The sixteenth gift was the last in that row. A grimoire case lay inside, made from dark leather reinforced with gold-toned metal at the corners. The interior was lined with soft fabric, with adjustable straps to hold books of different sizes securely. His initials had been engraved on the clasp.

At sixteen, his invitation to Night Raven College had arrived. He had already received the best education the royal family could provide. He already knew more about magic than many adult mages. There had been no reason, in his mind, to leave for a school that could offer him nothing new.

Still, this was for the boy standing at the edge of a future he couldn’t yet see, carrying knowledge that belonged to him even when every title around him was defined by someone else.

The seventeenth gift was a travel case. It was compact enough to carry easily but sturdier than an ordinary school bag, made from dark brown leather with reinforced corners and broad straps. The interior had been divided into practical compartments: one for books, another for folded clothes, narrow pockets for pens and magical tools.

He tested the bottom and found the hidden latch. You held up the enchanted notebook. “Oh wow, what a surprise. A secret compartment for your secret journal.” “This is too obvious.”

“It took me three attempts to find it after the craftsman demonstrated it.”

“That says more about you than the case.”

Leona set the case beside the grimoire holder. “At least this one can carry the rest of the junk,” he said.

“You like the junk.”

“Keep dreaming.”

The eighteenth present was a rolled sheet of thick parchment secured with a leather tie. When Leona opened it, a full Spelldrive field spread across the page. The goals, boundary lines, elevation changes, and common player positions had been drawn. Smaller transparent overlays showed different formations, each one marked with movable pieces representing players.

He leaned forward, resting one arm across his knee as he studied the first arrangement. “This formation leaves the left side open.”

“Only if the opposing team commits both defenders to the centre.”

“They would.” He slid one of the markers across the map. “Any decent captain would see the pressure point here and force the attack wide.”

You watched as he moved the pieces across the page, changed the spacing between players, tried different formations… He rolled the map carefully after he finished, though he kept one overlay outside. “I’m testing this at the next practice.”

You smiled. “So you like my junk.”

“I said I’m testing it.”

The nineteenth package was smaller. Inside was a captain’s armband, handmade from dark brown fabric and edged with Savanaclaw gold. The stitching was not perfectly even. One section had clearly been redone after someone pulled the thread too tight. Leona ran his thumb across the embroidered captain symbol. Then he turned it over. The inside was covered in signatures.

Leona’s face gave away very little, but you could see the way his eyes tracked every name. “I’m surprised you can convince all of them to sign this.”

You took the armband and wrapped it loosely around his upper arm, just below the edge of his tattoo. “It took very little convincing. It’s for their reliable housewarden, after all,” you said.

“Hmph.” His fingers passed once over the fabric where the names were hidden underneath. “I can imagine their stupid faces when you asked them that.”

The twentieth gift came in a small black box. Leona opened it and found a signet ring resting against dark velvet. The metal was warm gold, and on the face of the ring, a black lion curved around the surface in the same shape as the tattoo wrapped around his upper arm. Beneath it, almost invisible unless the ring was turned toward the light, were his initials.

Leona lifted the ring from the box and turned it slowly between his fingers. The polished metal caught the room’s light, making the black lion seem to move across its surface.

“You had this made?”

“I designed it.”

“That explains why the proportions are slightly off.”

“They are not.”

“The tail should curve lower.”

You reached for the ring. “Give it back, then.”

His hand closed before you could take it. “I’m feeling accepting today.”

He slid it onto his finger. Then his gaze moved to the gifts surrounding him. The blanket. The carved lions. The puzzles and books. The plant standing in the sunlight. The atlas filled with his own observations. The grimoire case marked with his initials. The travel case, the tactic map, the armband signed by the dorm that had placed its hope in him.

Twenty versions of Leona Kingscholar, gathered together in one room.

“So, twenty gifts for twenty years.” Leona’s tail curled around your waist. “You said there were twenty-one though.”

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a velvet pouch. Leona watched as you loosened the cord and tipped a single brass key into your palm.

He stared at it.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He took the key from you, turning it once between his fingers. It was old, slightly tarnished, and unmistakably ordinary compared to the other gifts. “What does it open?”

“Ramshackle.” You reached out and moved the tip of your finger slowly over the worn teeth of the key. “You already steal my bed, complain about the furniture, and treat the lounge like your private nap room. I thought you might as well have your own key.”

You pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Not just Ramshackle though. Whatever happens next, I hope you know that you’ll always have a place with me.”

The noise in the hallway seemed farther away now. His tail, which had been resting loosely around your waist, tightened just slightly.

Leona closed his fingers around the key. “I’ll show up whenever I want.”

“You already do.”

“I could stay for days.”

“You already do that too.”

“I might move my things in.”

You glanced around at the twenty gifts surrounding him. “Apparently, you have luggage now.”

Your gaze had just been turned back towards him when his arm hooked around your waist and pulled you against him. You landed partly across his lap, one hand braced against his chest. He pressed his face briefly into the side of your neck, hiding his expression. His ears brushed your hair, and his grip stayed firm around your waist.

The key remained secure in his other hand. “You better not give anyone else one,” he murmured.

You smiled against his shoulder. “Possessive.”

“Answer me.”

“No one else.”

“Hmph. Good.”

He pulled back, then kissed you. It was unhurried, warm, and far gentler compared to the way his arms trapped you against him. You felt like he was taking every word you had said, every breath you let out. He kissed you until the room, the hallway, and the twenty opened gifts around you blurred into irrelevance. Until the only things you could feel were the way his hand grasp at your shirt, the warmth of his skin underneath your hand, the soft tickle of his breath beneath your nose, the thud of your combined heartbeat.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough for you to breathe. You glanced down at his closed hand. “So you like the gift?”

Leona opened his fingers. The key lay across his palm beneath the signet ring, plain brass against gold. He looked at it once, then closed his hand around it again. “Try keeping me out,” he murmured, his nose brushing yours as he leaned close again.

You smiled against his mouth. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Hmph. Smart.”