"Very good, Your Majesty," he said. And this time, when he looked at the cave wall, he saw the stone.
The torches of Pride Rock flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the royal chamber. Simba, now a young king with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, sat on the edge of the great stone dais. He wasn't looking at the stars. He was looking at his majordomo.
"I remember the quiet ," Zazu said. "For years, I was a mouthpiece. A songbird for a mad king. Scar would send me to deliver impossible edicts—'The zebras will graze only on the eastern ridge. The antelope will forfeit their calves to the hyena clans.' And I would fly. Wingbeat after wingbeat. I would land in the middle of a herd, open my beak, and the words would come out. My voice. His poison."
Simba touched his nose to the hornbill's chest. "That's an order."
"It's the middle of the night."
Simba waited.
