Chapter 357: The Culprit

The King rose from his seat with a sudden, explosive force that silenced the music mid-note. The golden goblets trembled on the table as his chair scraped harshly against the polished marble. His amber eyes blazed with barely contained fury, his fingers curling into fists at his sides."Enough!" he roared, the sound echoing against the high vaulted ceiling. Conversations died instantly. The nobles, diplomats, and attendants froze where they stood, their gazes darting between their sovereign and the royal musician who had been innocently plucking at his lyre moments ago.

Riven's hands hovered above the strings, confusion written plainly across his face. His black wolf ears twitched nervously, picking up the sharp edge in the King's tone. He hadn't finished the song—the song Theresa had asked him to play, a tribute to the First Queen.

It was meant to be a moment of reverence and beauty. He thought the King would be proud of his skill, of how perfectly he had captured the grandeur of the ancient melody.

But instead, he was being dismissed.

"Your Majesty…?" Riven began cautiously, his green eyes searching the King's for an explanation.

The King's voice turned cold, like steel drawn across a whetstone. "Leave."

There was no room for question.

"Why?"

"I asked you to leave." He did not have to explain himself to anyone. How dare he defy his orders?

Riven's breath caught in his throat, and for a brief moment, the humiliation burned hotter than the confusion. He wanted to ask what he had done wrong, to explain that the song was chosen with care. But a royal command could not be defied. He bowed his head in silence, his long black hair falling over his face to hide the tightening in his expression.

Then he set his lyre down and walked out of the ballroom. The door closed behind him with a soft but final thud, the absence of music leaving the air heavy and tense.

Theresa's eyes followed him like a hawk. She exchanged a fleeting glance with Sahira—an unspoken signal between conspirators—before she too excused herself gracefully. No one questioned it, she was the King's wife, after all.

The King turned his burning gaze on Sahira. "You have some nerve," he spat, his voice rising again. "To come to my kingdom and insult me under my own roof."

Sahira, standing tall and regal in her dark embroidered silks, did not flinch. Her amber eyes, mirroring his but colder, sharper, met his gaze without wavering. "Your kingdom is utterly mismanaged by you," she shot back. "How do you think I know about your secrets?"

A ripple of shock spread through the room.

Sahira continued, her tone calm and cutting, like a blade sliding through silk. "Think about it. Someone doesn't want you on the throne. I am merely taking advantage of your internal strife. Think, Your Highness. If you care about the prosperity of your people, you will agree to my terms. I have the upper hand now."

The King's jaw tightened until it ached. Rage simmered just beneath his skin, but logic whispered coldly in his ear. She had information—dangerously accurate information—and she was leveraging it flawlessly. Refusal now would only paint him into a corner he could not fight his way out of.

"Fine," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Bring the documents."

As the attendants rushed to fetch the trade agreements, the King gave a subtle hand signal to his personal guard. They knew what it meant without a word: search every diplomatic chamber. Tear through every room, every trunk, every letter. No one was above suspicion. Someone had betrayed him from within his palace.

His mind whirled as he signed the agreements with a flourish that looked decisive but hid his seething turmoil. Who could have done this? His sisters were the first that came to mind—they had always been ambitious, chafing under his rule. They had allies, influence, and old grudges. It would not be the first time royal siblings plotted against each other.

Minutes later, a captain approached him quietly, bowing low. "Your Majesty," he murmured, passing a folded letter into the King's hand.

The King opened it with the sharp precision of a man expecting a dagger inside. His eyes scanned the contents quickly—and his blood ran cold.

The letter was written in a familiar, elegant script. It was not official correspondence. It was personal. And it revealed everything.

Detailed information about the kingdom's military weaknesses, economic strains, and political fractures was laid bare in ink. It spoke of crumbling border defenses, the scarcity of grain reserves, and court factions that could be exploited by foreign powers. It was a perfect weapon, and someone had handed it to Sahira.

But one line burned brighter than the rest.

"If he were not the King, he would not have a reason to marry someone else and leave me."

The King's breath hitched. His eyes narrowed dangerously. He recognised the handwriting—it was unmistakably Riven's.

The walls of his mind closed in, a storm gathering behind his eyes. The betrayal felt… How could Riven do this? The letter did not merely expose his kingdom. It exposed his private life—his relationship with Riven, his marriage to Theresa, the unspoken complications that lay between them.

He could not believe it for a moment, but the evidence seemed too glaring. How could he?

He looked up slowly from the letter, scanning the hall as though the traitor were still lurking among them. The thought of Riven's gentle hands writing something so damning twisted his stomach. He had trusted him, given him his heart.

Was it all a lie?

No. Something didn't align. Riven wasn't cunning in that way. He wasn't political. But the letter… The script… It was his. It was clearly his handwriting.

The King folded the letter quite slowly... His amber eyes glinted with fury beneath his composed exterior. He would find out. Whether it was Riven or someone using him, he would uncover the truth.

He wanted to grab Riven by the shoulders and interrogate him but his heart told him that Riven could not. However, the evidence was stacked against him.