Chapter 350: Legal Heirs
Leon asked softly, almost under his breath, "Should I return the favour?"
Normally, Riven would've leaned back, smirked, and said yes, obviously—because why not? But this time, he shook his head with a lazy smile. "I'm fine." He stood, stretched his arms overhead with a dramatic yawn, and turned to leave the room without so much as a backward glance.
Leon sat there frozen, blinking at the empty doorway. Fine? That was it? Fine? He didn't tempt him even a little? Leon's jaw tightened as indignation brewed. His hair was perfect, his shirt slightly rumpled, no, very dishevelled, and he showed a lot of skin!
Yet Riven just… Walked away?
Leon rolled across the bed like a sulking cat, then collapsed face-first into the mattress with a muffled groan. He lay there, half-burying himself in the sheets, as if he could suffocate the sting of rejection. Yes, he was throwing a tantrum. But honestly, how could Riven leave when Leon looked this good? Absolutely handsome, absolutely irresistible—well, apparently not irresistible enough.
Grumbling to himself, Leon rolled again, limbs flopping dramatically. Eventually, his irritation dulled into a drowsy haze even though he had just experienced a caffeine high. Offended or not, the warmth of the blankets and the faint scent of clean linen lulled him to sleep. His last thought before drifting off was a childish 'he'll regret not looking back.'
And then, like slipping into a dream, the world shifted.
Music filled the air—soft, melodic, the delicate strumming of a lyre. The room glowed in golden candlelight. A voice spoke to him.
"What about me do you like the most?" The young man asked, voice hushed yet eager, his emerald eyes earnest. His fingers plucked the lyre gently, trembling ever so slightly.
The King, relaxed on the bed with his head propped lazily against his hand, smiled faintly. "I like the way your fingers move when you play the lyre."
Leon was confused, who was that, and why- This was them...
The young man's hands froze for a fraction of a second, startled, before continuing to play. His heart skipped a beat.
"What else do you like about me?" he pressed, almost desperately, as though he could not bear to stop hearing those words.
The King's gaze lingered on him for a moment. "I like the way those pearls move when your ears betray your emotions."
As if testing the truth of it, the young man's ears twitched ever so slightly, causing the pearls dangling from them to sway. His face warmed, his pulse quickening.
"What else… Do you like about me?" he whispered again, emerald eyes wide, shimmering like they were holding back something greater—adoration, longing, need.
But the King only chuckled, rising from the bed with fluid grace. "Come now. You should be singing praises of this King, not the other way around."
His laughter echoed, warm and careless, as he walked away.
The young man's fingers stilled on the lyre. His eyes followed the King's retreating figure, unwavering, as if the man's back was the only thing in the world worth watching. His entire being was drawn to him, hopelessly.
The song ended, but his heart kept playing.
The young man set the lyre gently to the side, the soft strings vibrating with a faint echo as his fingers released them. Rising slowly, he crossed the chamber, and with each step, the sound of tiny bells filled the air—his anklets chimed like whispers, delicate yet persistent in the silence.
He stopped before the tall, gilded mirror. Candlelight flickered across its polished surface.
He took in his own face, emerald eyes clouded, brows furrowed with worry. His lips parted as though to say something, to confess the storm that churned within him—but nothing came out. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, his breath shallow, as if the weight of his feelings for the King was too much to bear.
Leon, trapped within this vision, could only watch. He had no control, no voice—only the helpless perspective of an observer.
And then the scene shifted.
The chamber was gone. The hall in front of him was now vast, cold, and familiar. Shadows stretched long along marble floors as the King strode forward, his robe trailing like a banner of authority. Before him stood the Dowager Queen, her presence filling the hall with suffocating weight. She still held power. And he hated that.
"Mother," the King greeted, voice low, measured.
Her lips curled, sharp with disdain. "Do not call me that. You've been avoiding me, and for whom? That little chamber toy of yours?" Her words dripped venom, every syllable a lash. "Your sisters have children. I can declare them heirs this very moment, stripping you of everything. Removing you from the picture entirely."
The King's jaw tightened, rage simmering in his chest. "I am the King!" he roared, the sound cracking like thunder against the gilded walls.
His mother did not flinch. Her chin lifted higher, her eyes cold and unyielding. "You have no power."
The words were sharper than any blade.
"You are King because I made you so," she continued, her voice rising with icy fury. "Without me, you are nothing. You sit on that throne by my will, and you will sit there only as long as I allow it. And I will allow it no more."
The King's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His gaze burned, if looks could kill, his mother would've died many times. "So what are you saying?" His voice was quieter now, but each word carved itself into the silence like steel. "If I do not marry… If I do not produce heirs… I cannot be King?"
The Dowager Queen raised her chin higher, her silence was answer enough. Her presence radiated victory, as though she had already won this battle.
The King's chest heaved with rage, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure fire. Finally, he spat out, venom thick in his tone, "Fine. You will have your legitimate heirs."