The Lion stands proud in his golden mane, eyes narrowed with anticipation as he stirs the fragrant broth. Wisps of steam curl into the afternoon air, carrying the scent of herbs and wild onions. The Goat, her white fur matted with dust, trembles but keeps her eyes fixed on the knots binding her ankles. Her heart pounds with fear and determination.

"If only I can loosen this knot before he looks again," she whispers, glancing up every few seconds to make sure The Lion is focused on his cooking. Every time the lion’s gaze swings her way, she freezes, acting as though resigned to her fate.

"The stew will be perfect soon," he boasts, licking his lips. The Goat briefly hides her nimble movements behind a patch of tall grass, concealing her progress as the lion glances over. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, but hope kindles in her eyes.

"Now, while he’s distracted," she mutters under her breath, steeling herself for what must come next.

"Wait, what are you—?" comes a muffled protest, but the goat presses her hooves onto the lid, holding it firm. "You wanted a stew, but it seems you’ll be the main ingredient," she says, her voice trembling with adrenaline and triumph.

The Goat sits beside the pot, basking in victory. The savanna is quiet but for her satisfied sigh, the cookpot gleaming in the moonlight—a symbol of wit over brute strength.