Chapter 351: Humiliation
The King already had the perfect candidate in mind. A not-so-powerful nobleman's daughter. The plan was simple: change the rules of the game and let him be the true leader, not his bride. Marrying someone with no great political backing meant no interference in his decisions, no dangerous alliances threatening his crown. What his mother demanded was an heir, and she would get it—but nothing more.The scene shifted again.
Leon now stood at the heart of a grand ceremony. The world felt too bright, too loud, too overwhelming.
He could feel every gaze pinned to him but when he turned around he saw the King, that what who they were looking at.
The King was dressed in long, heavy robes of gold and crimson silk, the fabrics glimmering under the sun as if the gods themselves had woven them. Gold encircled him everywhere—crown, necklaces, bangles, the embroidery at his cuffs—each thread was spun from molten sunlight, shimmering with authority, with auspiciousness.
Beside him stood a young woman, his bride. She had soft brown hair and hazel eyes, her head lowered, her posture meek. She did not dare look up. Yet she wore the gown of a Queen: a white and red silk dress, the embroidery glinting with real golden thread.
On her head sat a tiara, delicate but unshakable, marking her as the chosen one. To the people watching, she looked different from the ideal bride they were used to, but it was not a completely unwelcome change. Humble, soft and blessed with fortune.
Leon's chest tightened. His eyes darted away, scanning the sea of faces.
And then—he saw him.
The young man. His young man. The one who used to sit across from him, plucking the strings of his lyre while anklets sang in harmony. The one whose ears would twitch at every stolen compliment, betraying feelings too raw to hide.
He was there, standing among the crowd.
But something was wrong.
He was dressed in red and white, yes—the colours of blessing, of ritual, of shared joy, the colour of a bride. But his clothes bore no gold. Not a single thread of it. In a culture where gold was sacred, where it was believed to summon prosperity and divine favor, he had chosen to wear none. It was not forgetfulness. It was defiance. A quiet, aching declaration that he would not—could not—be part of a union that did not belong to him.
Leon's gaze dropped lower.
The anklets were gone too.
The same anklets whose bells once filled a quiet chamber with laughter and light, whose sound marked his every step toward the King. The absence of that chime was deafening. It was as if he had stripped away every trace of joy.
Before the King and the lady were declared husband and wife, the young man turned to leave. His back disappeared into the crowd.
Leon wished to follow him, but the dream would not let him. Instead, he was forced to witness the wedding.
Leon watched helplessly as the King led his new bride by the hand. The people outside were still celebrating, drums still echoing through the streets, while inside the palace, the ceremony continued in silence. The King's grip on her hand was cold, mechanical, a gesture made not out of affection but duty.
Their chamber had been stripped clean.
Not a single trace of laughter, of music, of anklets, of lyres, of whispers remained. The room that had once been alive with stolen moments of tenderness and warmth was scrubbed so thoroughly it felt foreign, sterile—like a stage set for strangers. The King had ordered it himself. He could not risk faltering. He could not perform his duty while reminders of the man he truly desired lingered.
"I hope you know what this marriage means," the King said, his tone ice.
The bride raised her head, hazel eyes sharp with understanding. "Of course," she replied flatly. "Once I am pregnant, you will never touch me again." That was her condition for this marriage. That he could not have sex with her after she had a baby, she did not want him as much as he did not want her.
When it was done—when the sacred duty was complete—the King rose from the bed, still dressed in gold and red, and left her behind.
He made his way to the room where his lover had been moved. His men had carried out the order well—too well. The young man was no longer in their chamber. His anklets, his lyre, his silks—all swept away like dust, as if he had never existed.
The King pushed the door open.
"Haven't I been humiliated enough?" the young man's voice broke through the silence, sharp with betrayal. He did not wait for the King to speak. His eyes, once bright with music and laughter, now gleamed with tears.
"You married her in front of the entire world. They cheered for you. They blessed you. They crowned you with gold while I stood in the shadows like a stain you had to hide." His voice trembled, but it did not falter.
"My life with you was nothing but four walls. Four walls and silence. I was caged in that room because you were too afraid to be seen with me. Every smile, every touch, every word you gave me had to be hidden, stolen, as if my love for you was something shameful." His fists clenched, his whole body shaking. "And now even that is gone. You ordered them to strip away the only world I had. You tore me from the only place that held our memories."
"You broke my heart the moment you placed that crown on her head. You broke it again when you held her hand. And now—you dare stand before me, expecting me to stay put, to listen to your excuses, to swallow your lies as if they could stitch me back together?"
Tears burned his eyes, but his fury kept them from falling.