Chapter 200: Disrespect
The king paces his lavishly decorated chambers, the weight of the crown heavy on his head. His emerald-green eyes flicker with rage, his lips pressed into a thin line as thoughts race through his mind.
Disrespect. Insolence.
Ever since that humiliating spectacle on his birthday, things have shifted. He feels it in the air, in the way people speak to him—no, the way they dare not speak to him. Whispers, stifled laughter, sidelong glances. Even the nobles, once so eager to grovel at his feet, now avert their eyes, their deference replaced by pity or thinly veiled amusement.
How dare they? He is their king, chosen by divine right, the embodiment of power. Yet Duke Remiro, that insufferable thorn in his side, has been avoiding every royal summons, his excuses so blatant they’re practically mockery. "Not feeling well," the Duke claims. As if anyone believes that.
The king’s fists clench at his sides, his nails digging into his palms.
And his children—what a pitiful brood they’ve turned out to be. Useless, all of them. Not a single one possesses the cunning or strength required to command respect, let alone loyalty. They scuttle about like insects, more concerned with petty intrigues than with securing the throne.
But it’s Mirelle’s son who consumes his thoughts. That insolent omega, stolen from him under his very nose. Noelle, who should be by his side, bound to him in penance and devotion. Noelle, who dared to flee, dared to look at him with such defiance on that fateful night, he will be disciplined when he gets him back.
The king’s jaw tightens. He has tried to reclaim him, but Remiro has turned his estate into an impenetrable fortress. The guards have tripled, and every move is watched. Any forceful action would be a declaration of war—a war he cannot afford, not with the former crown prince’s faction lurking in the shadows like vultures.
The mere thought of his brother’s name makes his blood boil. A man long dead, yet his loyalists still cling to hope, still undermine his reign.