Simba sat down, curling his tail around his paws. "Is it about Scar's reign? The hyenas?"

"Your Majesty," Zazu said. His voice was not the chirpy, officious instrument of Simba's cubhood. It was a dry rasp, like twigs snapping. "I do apologise. I was… compiling the morning report. Early."

"Zazu," he said. "You're not his messenger anymore. You're mine."