The kitchen continues its preparations! Next on the menu is a House Special for Day 9, featuring the King of Beasts himself, Monsieur Leona Kingscholar.
As a native of the Sunset Savanna, Leona Kingscholar does not merely dislike the cold. He takes it as a personal insult. When the temperature drops to "Frigid," he reverts to his most primal instincts: conserve energy, seek warmth, and refuse to move.
The kitchen has prepared this Manager's Specialty Pasta with a side of heavy blankets and a very possessive lion. We do hope this "House Special" is to your satisfaction!
Serving: Frigid
The thermometer in the hallway of Savanaclaw read a temperature that was, frankly, disrespectful.
Usually, the dorm was maintained at a balmy, desert-like heat. But the winter storm raging outside had managed to seep through the ancient stone walls, turning the air crisp and—dare you say it—frigid.
You walked into Leona’s room, carrying the textbooks he had supposedly requested (ordered) you to bring.
"Leona? I have the magical history notes. Ruggie said you were..."
You stopped. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn tight. And Leona Kingscholar was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, there was a massive, lumpy mountain of furs and quilts in the center of his bed.
"Leona?" you asked, stepping closer to the pile.
A low, vibrating growl emanated from the depths of the bedding.
"Go away," a muffled voice grumbled. "Or set the room on fire. Those are your options."
"It's not that cold," you laughed, setting the books on his desk. "It's just a little brisk. Come on, you have class in twenty minutes."
The mountain shifted. A single hand—dark-skinned, clawed, and looking searching—shot out from beneath the duvet. It grabbed your wrist with surprising speed and accuracy.
"Cold," Leona hissed, his head finally popping out from the nest. His hair was a mess, his ears were flattened against his head, and he looked genuinely miserable. "It is freezing. My blood is turning to slush. I am not going to class. I am going into hibernation."
"Leona, you're being dramatic. You're a lion, not a reptile."
"Shut up," he snapped, tugging on your arm. "You. You were outside. Are you cold?"
"A little, but—"
"Wrong," he interrupted. He tugged harder, effectively unbalancing you. You yelped as you tumbled onto the mattress. Before you could scramble up, Leona had flipped the heavy duvet over you, trapping you in the dark, warm cocoon with him.
"You," he grumbled, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest, "are warm. You walked here. You generated heat. I am claiming it."
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a long, contented sigh that rattled in his chest. His skin was burning hot—he was a furnace himself—but he acted as if he were freezing to death.
"Leona! I can't stay! I have things to do!" you protested, though you stopped struggling. It was incredibly warm in there.
"Cancel them," he mumbled against your skin. "It's a blizzard. Society has collapsed. We are prioritizing survival."
He threw a heavy leg over yours, effectively pinning you down. It was the Lion Trap. There was no escape.
"You're just using me as a hot water bottle," you accused, poking his arm in the dark.
"Yeah," he agreed shamelessly, his tail curling around your ankle under the covers. "And a pillow. You're multi-purpose. Now stop moving. You're letting the cold air in."
He squeezed you tighter, his breathing already slowing down as he drifted back to sleep.
"If you leave," he threatened sleepily, "I'll bite you."
You sighed, relaxing into his hold. The wind howled outside the window, battering the glass, but under the mountain of furs, pressed against the solid, steady warmth of the second prince, the frigid air couldn't touch you.
"Fine," you whispered. "Five minutes."
"Two hours," Leona corrected. "Wake me up when it's spring."
A "dish" served with heavy blankets and zero productivity! The kitchen is pleased to present this House Special.
