Chapter 355: The Man He Loved
The King sat slouched on his throne, the court was empty, he dismissed everyone for the day, the weight of the crown pressing heavier than usual. Scrolls and letters from the Black Panther clan littered the table before him, each one more frustrating than the last.
Sahira, their representative, was relentless in her demands. Land. Trade concessions. Military recognition. She wanted everything short of the crown itself, and every meeting ended in a stalemate—her sly smile mocking him with every refusal to yield.
He heard the familiar sound of bells. The King didn't look up. His chest tightened, things had not been good between them, did he come to end things? He forced himself to glance up, only to see Riven—those broken anklets still on his feet, bent out of shape, uneven, but stubbornly worn.
"What do you want?" the King asked, his tone rougher than he intended.
Riven didn't flinch. He stepped forward, back straight, emerald eyes shining with resolve. "I would like a position," he said calmly.
The King blinked, finally lifting his head fully. "A position?"
"Yes. I refuse to just be hidden away," Riven replied, his voice steady but carrying the sting of old wounds. He forced a smile, trying to soften the blow. "Make me your royal lyre musician. Like a court jester, except with music."
He did not know what the right words were, the best he could come up with was 'royal lyre musician'.
The attempt at humour didn't ease the tension. If anything, it twisted the King's gut further.
The King leaned back, his jaw tight. His first instinct was to refuse, but then his eyes caught the glimmer of those broken anklets again. Shame prickled him. He had forced those onto Riven, like they were shackles.
"Play me something," the King said at last.
Riven hesitated. He had come for an answer, not another performance. But he saw the weariness in the King's shoulders and relented. He picked up the lyre resting against the wall, fingers brushing over the strings with familiarity.
He remembered...
The marketplace was still lively during the night, even though most of the people had cleared out.
The light of torches and oil lamps spilt across the cobblestones, and the air turned cool.
Riven found himself a seat around the fire, huddled with strangers. They were all the same—wanderers, beggars, runaways like him.
His cloak was thin, his cheeks flushed from the cold, but he smiled anyway, clapping along to the beat of a group of street musicians who had started dancing and singing.
That was when the King saw him.
Disguised in plain clothes, hood pulled low, he had been moving through the bazaar like a shadow. But when he spotted a young man across the fire, something stopped him. The way the flames flickered across his pale face, the way his green eyes caught every glimmer of light—they drew him in. His laugh, his eyes, the way his lips parted, his heart worn so openly on his sleeve.
The King sat down with the group. No one suspected who he was, not the ragged men warming their hands nor the runaway boy clapping to the music. But through the flames, his gaze never shifted. It was as though Riven alone existed, every movement, every smile tugging at something inside him.
The scene shifted.
Riven now sat awkwardly on his lap, stiff as a board. He looked around, they were in the palace gardens, though it was empty now, it would not be empty for long.
"You are no longer in disguise. If anyone sees us like this—"
The King chuckled, his voice low, teasing. "Stop fidgeting so much. And what will they do? I am the king." His hand slid over Riven's waist, holding him firmly in place.
Before Riven could argue further, the King placed something in his hands—a lyre. Not a common one like the musicians in the streets used, but a masterpiece, custom-made. Its body gleamed with gold and mother-of-pearl, it covered the rich wood.
Riven gasped. If he had sold this, he would be set for a lifetime!
His lips parted to thank him, but the words faltered as he became aware of the man's hands—wandering, unashamed. Fingers brushing his thighs, sliding along the curve of his side, pulling him closer as though even air between them was too much distance.
Riven flushed crimson, torn between pushing away and staying still, his grip tightening on the lyre as though it were an anchor. The King, meanwhile, looked utterly content, burying his face in his hair, "Now, let's begin."
...When the final note faded, silence stretched between them.
The King's hands twitched, then reached forward. He took Riven's hands in his, rough lips brushing over each slender finger one by one, as though they were treasures. "Fine," he said quietly, his voice a mixture of surrender and affection. "You have your title. You will be my royal musician."
It was a piece the King always favoured, one Riven had played countless nights to lull him into calmer sleep.
Riven's breath caught, a small smile breaking through. But before he could bask in the victory, the King continued, his brow furrowing.
"There's a ball coming soon," he said. "You will play there. That will be your first duty."
The weight of his words hung in the air. The King's expression darkened, shadows crossing his face. That ball wasn't a simple celebration. It was the final stage of the negotiations with the Black Panther clan. If he didn't break the deadlock with Sahira, his sisters would seize the opportunity, dragging him down from the throne he fought so hard to hold.
"I am sure that you will impress them all."
His hands still tingled from the King's kisses, the broken anklets cool and uneven against his skin. He wanted to ask again, to make sure he'd heard correctly. For a long time, they had been at odds, but he seemed much kinder and more like the man he fell in love with.
Riven's chest swelled with pride. Finally, he wasn't just someone hidden in the shadows. He bowed his head and whispered, "Thank you."
The King pulled him into a light kiss before letting go. All of which was seen by one person.