"THE GOLDEN LAND"

The earth began to tremble softly, a gentle vibration running through the narrow streets of the Golden Village, sending small stones rolling and leaves rustling. The villagers, alerted by the quivering ground beneath their tiny feet, hurried to gather in the central square. Some were excited to see Queen Sarabi up close, others clapped in approval, while the more cautious shrank behind small walls and barrels, daunted by the presence of a creature so grotesquely immense.

At the center of the square, the village’s human representative tried to organize the tiny crowd, signaling for everyone to stay visible yet safe. Expectation and tension mingled in the air — each villager could feel, without words, the magnitude of the presence soon to cross the horizon.

The wind began to blow through the houses, stirring dust and leaves, announcing the queen’s approach. The imagined tremor of her steps sent shivers across the square, a sense of absolute power hanging over them. The villagers, gathered and alert, barely dared to breathe, watching as the colossal figure drew near, her eyes sharp, her posture firm, exuding both protection and the reminder that a single movement could crush them in an instant.

The wind rose stronger, lifting dust, leaves, and small branches, as Sarabi’s colossal shadow entered the square. Each of her steps made the ground quake, and the village’s four-story tower seemed even smaller in her presence. Some villagers shrank, clutching one another, while the more curious peeked from behind houses and walls, fascinated by the queen’s size and commanding presence.

Sarabi stopped in the center of the square, chest lifted, faintly smiling, her posture relaxed yet radiating natural authority. Her eyes swept over the crowd of tiny human “ants,” and a cold, fleeting thought passed through her mind — a single lift of her foot could crush them all. Yet she only smiled slightly, distant and calculating, continuing her giant strides undisturbed.

She leaned slightly, the breeze from her movement lifting even more dust and leaves, and her deep voice echoed through the space, firm yet controlled:

“Little ones,” she said, in the tone they all knew — strong and protective, but without unnecessary kindness, “I come on behalf of my son and King Simba, who, due to the duties of the kingdom, could not be present today. He sends his apologies for his absence and entrusted me to receive this year’s tribute.

I see the effort each of you puts into keeping the village thriving, and I observe your dedication carefully. Continue to honor our pact, and know that even in his absence, King Simba values every act of courage and devotion you show.

My son and I celebrate your bravery. May every day you live here be safe, prosperous, and full of hope.”

The ground still trembled with every step Sarabi took, some villagers clapping in admiration, while others remained tense, hiding behind walls and barrels. A mixture of fear and awe filled the air; no one dared move too much, yet all felt the quiet security that radiated from the queen.

Even with her relaxed stance and gentle smile, Sarabi carried the presence of absolute power: protective, yet reminding everyone that if she wished, she could flatten the entire village in an instant. Still, the Golden Village stood united, minuscule beneath her, witnessing the grandeur and natural authority of the queen watching over them with benevolent indifference — a sovereign born from the heart of the savanna.