Perspective: Freya Van Daalen
In the end, words weren't really necessary.
Not that she could have spoken them anyway.
Everything that came from her mouth now was a mix of roars — sounds born of an instinct she still struggled to understand.
But even those sounds weren't needed.
Aslan knew.
Freya couldn't explain how, but he knew.
And it became painfully clear through the change in his behavior.
Something between the chivalry expected of a man — or of a lion who fancied himself a knight — and the care of someone who understood exactly what was happening without needing an explanation.
First, he simply gave her space.
As the days passed and the pregnancy — or whatever it truly was within that world — advanced, Freya's instincts screamed for distance.
It was a visceral need that bordered on pain.
She wanted to protect, to hide, to guard what was growing inside her from the rest of the world —
even if "the rest" consisted only of Aslan.
And he… he understood.
He didn't try to approach, didn't try to force anything.
He simply accepted it.
He kept a respectful distance — far enough not to provoke the lioness within her, yet close enough for Freya to know he was there.
Watching.
Guarding.
Caring.
It was a fragile balance — almost instinctive — yet perfect.
And, strangely enough, Freya found comfort in it.
Aslan always seemed to know exactly how far he could go.
He never crossed that invisible line separating "far enough" from "too close."
But she knew he was there.
He always was.
Beyond that, he began hunting more.
Perhaps it was a more human gesture than a leonine one — after all, male lions usually ate only after the females finished the work —
but Aslan did the opposite.
He hunted for her.
And when he returned, he always left the prey at her feet — untouched.
As if silently saying that it was hers, and her cubs'.
A simple gesture, yet filled with something Freya couldn't quite name.
Protection, perhaps.
Or care.
Or something even deeper — something she preferred not to define.
It was strange and, at the same time, comforting.
Reassuring, even.
Because unlike before — unlike that first man, the one who had abandoned her the moment she needed him most — Aslan stayed.
He didn't disappear.
He didn't turn his back.
He didn't pretend nothing was happening.
He stayed.
Of course, Freya knew he didn't have much choice.
After all, they were trapped within that savanna, and the Black Tower offered no option for escape.
Even so, there was something different in the way he handled it.
He didn't treat her like a burden, nor like a responsibility.
There was a silent, almost sacred respect in his gestures.
And that was enough.
But even though that quiet care answered one of the questions that had haunted Freya — whether or not he would stay —
the other two still weighed heavily on her mind, day after day.
Because whatever was growing inside her… felt far too real.
It wasn't some vague or symbolic sensation.
It was physical.
Tangible.
The warmth, the weight, the slow rhythm of changes in her body — all of it was real.
And the more time passed, the harder it became to believe this was just a test, an illusion, or some temporary effect of the Tower.
Sometimes, Freya even wondered if the Tower was truly a game.
Because if it were, she shouldn't be able to feel all this — the pain, the fatigue, the fear…
and especially this silent, fierce love that had begun to grow within her.
A love that had claws and roared.
A love she recognized — even inside the body of a lioness.
Freya closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
The rustling of leaves in the wind was the only sound around her.
Honestly, she had long stopped trying to lie to herself.
With every new sunrise over that golden savanna, with every sunset painting the horizon in orange and blood-red tones, she grew more and more afraid of what would happen when all of it ended.
And alongside the fear, something far more dangerous grew:
Desire.
The desire that, somehow, what she carried within her might continue to exist — even after the test ended.
At first, she forced herself to treat it as a simulation.
A code, an experiment, a performance inside the Black Tower.
But as the days went on, that lie became impossible to sustain.
Because what was happening inside her body — inside her — didn't feel fabricated.
It felt real.
She could feel the warmth growing in her belly, the faint weight that followed her even while hunting or resting.
She could feel the change in her movements — how she instinctively became more protective, more cautious.
And she could feel, with almost spiritual clarity, the heartbeat.
It wasn't hers.
It was theirs.
Tiny, fragile, rhythmic — beats that only she could hear, echoing somewhere between her heart and her soul.
And with each passing day, that sound filled her a little more — blending fear and tenderness in equal measure.
It was madness, and she knew it.
But it didn't matter.
Freya was in love with something that hadn't even been born.
She loved beings she had never seen, never touched — and might never see at all.
Love was irrational, instinctive, animal.
And yet, profoundly human.
She knew, deep down, that she was preparing for pain.
Because when this test ended — and it would end, sooner or later —
the world of the Black Tower would cease to exist.
The savanna, the wind, her leonine body, even Aslan himself… all of it would vanish.
But what would happen to them?
Would the tiny hearts beating within her simply cease to be?
The very thought made the air feel heavy.
She lay down beneath a tree, her paws trembling slightly, her body weary.
The sky above was painted in violet hues, the sun sinking behind distant hills.
The warm afternoon breeze swept softly across the dry grass, carrying the scent of dust and herbs.
There, alone — or at least feeling alone — Freya closed her eyes and did the only thing she could when there was no other way out: she prayed.
She didn't know if prayer still meant anything inside the Black Tower.
But she did it anyway.
She prayed in silence, without words — because words no longer made sense for a lioness.
It was a plea from the heart, a voiceless cry sent to the heavens.
That the heavens — or God, or whatever ruled this world — would hear her.
That they wouldn't let her wake up only to lose them.
That somewhere, in this cruel system, there might still be mercy — even in a place that seemed to have forgotten the meaning of the word.
And as she prayed, something within her softened.
Maybe it was the wind, gentler now.
Maybe it was simply the act of believing — in something, in anything.
But for a fleeting moment, the fear receded.
She opened her eyes and looked toward the horizon.
Aslan was still there, across the field, watching as always.
His golden silhouette against the sunset — steady, vigilant.
And even without him moving closer, something within her grew calm.
Maybe… maybe none of it made sense.
Maybe it was all just a dream.
But in that instant, she believed — with all her heart — that someone was listening.
And that was enough to keep going.