His tail flicked, a twitch of his leg his only response to the water she poured over his injured leg. He neither spoke or turned to face her, he did not growl or protest, to do so would have been foolish, he had after all told her to do whatever she wanted. If she had expected his gratitude or spoken thanks she would be disappointed, though perhaps his tolerance was enough.
He would remain as he was, in silent toleration, tail flicking against his paws, until the call came, the thunderous roar echoing across the dunes, the unmistakable cry proclaiming the old king's death. At that moment, the young assassin would rise to his paws, leaving the lioness behind without a second glance or thought, returning across the dunes and the new pride that waited.
