The old fat lion pauses before the vulture’s door, his mane tinged with silver and his breath slow and deliberate. The hut, decorated with bones and feathers, stands eerily silent except for the distant call of the nightjar. "It's time," he murmurs to himself, gathering the last of his strength before knocking.

The vulture, regal in his own macabre way, peers out, his gaze resting on the lion’s tired frame. "Why have you come to my door, old king?" "I have come to surrender myself. My days of ruling the grasslands are done. I wish to go out on my own terms," the lion replies, his voice both proud and weary. "Then step inside. Tonight, you will be honored," the vulture intones, beckoning him in.

The lion climbs atop the table, his movements slow but dignified, as the vulture carefully arranges scented oils and begins to work his claws over the lion’s aching muscles. "You have lived well. Let me ease your final hour," "Your touch is gentle, friend," the lion sighs, his eyes drifting shut as tension leaves his body.

The vulture hums a low, mournful tune, the sound echoing off the hut’s walls. "I am ready," the lion whispers, a contented smile on his face.

The process is slow and ritualistic, the lion’s body disappearing inch by inch as the vulture gulps and inhales, until only the lion’s thick, tufted tail remains dangling from his beak.

Outside, the savanna is still, as if the world itself bows in respect. The old lion’s spirit seems to linger in the air, his surrender complete, his legacy carried within the vulture who now sits content and dignified at his table.