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Majestic black lion black fur, huge black mane, muscular, yellow eyes lying on the stone steps of an ancient jungle temple stone, cracked, broken, pieces missing, weathered; temple is abandoned, environment is filled with ancient, cracked stone, overgrown vegetation, and a misty otherworldly glow. In the style of Boris Vallejo, Frank Frazetta, Ken Kelly, Rafael DeSoto. Hyperrealistic, hyper detailed, photorealistic, masterpiece, incredible composition, amazing depth, imposing, meticulously composed, high definition.
And it came to pass that the cities were emptied, and the temples were left without
voices.
The pillars stood.
The carvings endured.
The names were forgotten.
Stone remembered what people did not.
In the long silence after prayers ceased and banners fell, the jungle advanced in
measured patience. Roots entered the cracks. Moss took the corners. Rain wrote its
slow corrections across every surface. The fabulous works of once-mighty kings
became shelters for insects, then birds, then shadow.
And at last, the lion returned.
He did not arrive in conquest. No proclamation.
He simply lay down where authority once resided.
His weight settled into the steps worn smooth by centuries of devotion. His forepaws
claimed the threshold. His gaze passed over columns raised for gods who no longer
answered. The temple did not resist him. It recognized him.
For before there were crowns of gold, there was fur.
Before law, there was territory.
Before empires, there was presence.
What humanity had borrowed from the world, time reclaimed without urgency.
He does not remember the builders.
He does not honor the dead inscriptions.
He does not mourn the vanished rituals.
He accepts inheritance without ceremony.
The jungle holds its breath around him. The ruins become furniture. History lowers
its voice.
This is not ruin, but restoration.
The long experiment in meaning concludes quietly, and the old hierarchy resumes its
place. Power returns to its original form: embodied, breathing, unconcerned with
memory.
And the crown, which was never truly lost, finds its rightful bearer once more.
