The dust was beginning to settle.
The thunder of hooves had faded into the distance, and silence fell over the gorge like a heavy blanket. Mufasa lay near the cliff's edge, chest rising and falling with labored breaths, his body trembling from the effort and adrenaline. The sun blazed above, casting long shadows over the dry earth.
A shadow swooped in overhead.
"Sire! Sire!" came a familiar voice, panicked and sharp.
Zazu.
The hornbill dove down from the sky in a frantic flutter, wings flapping as he landed beside Mufasa with a squawk.
"Are you hurt? I saw the stampede and—I flew ahead—Great Kings above, are you alright?"
Mufasa gave a slow nod, still catching his breath. "I'll live."
Zazu turned sharply to Scar, standing nearby with his mane still bristling and his paws dust-covered. "You were up here—did you see what happened?"
Mufasa answered before Scar could speak. "Scar saved me. If it weren't for him… I wouldn't be here."
Zazu's eyes widened. He looked at Scar as if seeing him for the first time.
"You… you saved the king?" he asked, bewildered.
Scar simply gave a small nod. "I did what needed to be done."
But Mufasa's eyes suddenly shot open wider.
"Simba!" he gasped, trying to rise.
As soon as he put weight on his right foreleg, a jolt of pain made him wince and collapse back down.
"Stay down," Scar said quickly, stepping forward. "You're hurt."
"I have to find him—he was in the gorge—" Mufasa tried again, but his leg trembled, useless beneath him.
"I'll get him," Scar said, his voice steady. "You rest."
Mufasa looked at him, worry in his eyes—but also trust. He nodded once, reluctantly.
Without another word, Scar turned and sprinted down the slope toward the heart of the gorge. His muscles ached from the earlier effort, but he ignored the pain. His instincts guided him now—his eyes sharp, his ears twitching with every sound. He followed the scent of his nephew through the settling dust and fading hoofprints.
And then he saw him.
Simba was curled up beneath a narrow rock overhang, trembling, his eyes wide but unhurt. The cub flinched as Scar approached, but then recognition lit his face.
"Uncle Scar!" Simba yelped, stumbling forward.
Scar lowered himself and gently nuzzled the cub before lifting him carefully by the scruff. The boy was small, light—just a pup, really.
Simba's voice was muffled as he dangled. "You saved my dad! That was so cool!"
Scar paused.
That word. Cool.
He had never once been called that. Not in his past life. Not as Scar. Not ever.
He set Simba down for a moment and looked him in the eyes.
"You saw that?"
Simba nodded excitedly. "You pulled him up like—rawrrr!" He jumped, trying to mimic Scar's roar with a high-pitched squeak. "You were like a superhero!"
Scar gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Hardly."
"No, really!" Simba beamed. "Dad always said you were strong. I didn't know you were that strong."
Scar looked at the little lion cub—so full of admiration, so unaware of what should have happened.
Something twisted inside Scar.
He didn't deserve the praise. Not really.
But he had changed the story.
And now he had to live up to it.
Scar picked Simba up once more and began the climb back up the gorge. For the first time, the name didn't feel like a curse.
It felt like a challenge.