Siddhi watched as her son, Okropir, grew from a small, golden cub into the lion who was destined to rule. From the moment he was born, she had known he was special. Bomuháli, her father, had always said Okropir would follow him on the throne one day, and Siddhi believed it without question. She saw the future king in the curve of his ears, the strength in his paws, the quiet wisdom in his amber eyes. He was her son, and she would protect him from all the hardships that the world might throw at him.
Siddhi had always been a lioness of gentleness. She wasn’t like the other lionesses of the pride who would wrestle and spar with their cubs, pushing them to be tough from the very start. No, Siddhi believed in love and care. She believed that her cubs, especially Okropir, deserved nothing less than the best—comfort, safety, and nurturing. She fed him first, made sure he had the softest spots to sleep, and always kept him close, where she could watch over him.
Bomuháli, her father, often grumbled at her overindulgence. "A lioness who coddles her cub will make a weak king," he’d say with a rumble in his deep voice. "You spoil him, Siddhi."
But Siddhi wasn’t worried. She knew Okropir was different. He was born to be king. He didn’t need the same tough lessons Abrik and Yemi needed. He was a prince, and she would ensure that his path was as smooth as possible.
As he grew, her love for him only deepened. He spent so much time with Bomuháli, soaking up the old king’s wisdom, learning the ways of leadership, the ways of a king. Siddhi was proud of this bond, of the way Okropir adored his grandfather, hanging on every word. She thought it would be enough. Bomuháli had always been such a figure of strength, and Okropir was his heir, his successor. What more did he need?
But then there was Abrik.
Siddhi knew her eldest son’s jealousy was something she couldn’t ignore, though she tried. Abrik, with his heavy muscles and sharp eyes, was a lion of action. He was the first to challenge anything he didn’t like, and his resentment toward Okropir—her precious cub—was hard to miss. Abrik was used to being in charge of things, used to taking what he wanted. But Siddhi had always believed Okropir’s gentleness, his thoughtfulness, would make him a far better king.
Still, it hurt to see the rift between them. Abrik had always been a good son, a strong son, but there was something in his heart that didn’t quite fit with the role he was given. He wanted more. He wanted to be the one to rule, not Okropir. And Siddhi feared this jealousy would grow into something worse.
Then there was Yemi, the youngest of the three. Her fiery spirit often clashed with Okropir’s calm nature, and Siddhi noticed that the two never seemed to understand each other. Yemi would pick fights with her older brother, taunting him with sharp words and teasing him about his lack of strength. Sometimes, Siddhi would overhear her daughter saying, "You’re just a prince, Okropir. What good is that if you don’t know how to fight for it?" It pained Siddhi, but she couldn’t change Yemi. She was stubborn, and her independence made her difficult to manage.
Siddhi did everything she could to calm the tension between them, but the cracks in their family were becoming too wide to ignore. Okropir, meanwhile, seemed unaware of the rising animosity. He was so absorbed in his lessons with Bomuháli, in the gentle hands of destiny that guided him, that he never noticed how his siblings looked at him. He never noticed the weight of expectation on his shoulders.
And then came the day that Bomuháli passed away.
Siddhi was with him when he took his final breath, his great body growing still under the shade of the baobab tree. The pride mourned, but for Siddhi, the world seemed to shift on its axis. The king was gone, and now Okropir, her Okropir, would take his place. But she saw the hesitation in his eyes, the way he held back from truly stepping into the role. It was as though, for all his training and the care she had given him, he didn’t fully believe in his own strength.
“Okropir,” Bomuháli had told him before his passing, “you are ready to lead. But you must prove it, to the pride and to yourself. It is not enough to inherit a throne. You must fight for it, and for them.”
Siddhi had not been ready for the weight of her father’s words. She had always believed that Okropir would simply become the king. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. It wasn’t supposed to involve so much struggle. She had wrapped him in cotton wool for so long that the idea of him needing to prove himself felt like an assault on her entire way of raising him.
