Chapter 358: Many Losses

The grand doors of the ballroom closed behind Riven with a muffled thud, cutting him off from the roaring argument that erupted inside. He was oblivious to Sahira's provocation and everything that happened behind those doors.Riven walked aimlessly at first, his steps hollow, the humiliation still echoing in his ears. He had played that song with his heart — each note meant as homage, as love for the kingdom he had come to call home. And yet, the King, the man he had devoted himself to, had told him to leave. He was not looking for praise, he just wanted some dignity.

He might be broken, but he had some pride, some self-respect. Lately, he felt like he had none left. He chipped away too much of it.

His throat tightened. His black wolf ears flattened against his hair, a silent sign of distress. He had been dismissed in public before, but not by him. Never by him. But that was also because he was never allowed to go out freely. The King was afraid of people finding out.

Was he really leading a different life than before? Than how he lived under his father's control?

"Riven," a soft, almost soothing voice called out behind him.

He turned slowly, and there she was, Theresa. Golden hair, immaculate posture, eyes warm with concern she did not feel. Her steps were measured as she approached, her gown whispering across the floor.

"You didn't have to tolerate that," she said, her tone dipped in sympathy. "He had no right to humiliate you like this in front of everyone. You've given him everything, and this is what you receive in return?"

Riven blinked rapidly, his vision blurring. He hadn't expected comfort from her of all people, but in that vulnerable moment, her words cut straight through his defences. How was his lover's wife his only friend? What kind of situation did he end up in?

He opened his mouth to respond, maybe to deny it, maybe to defend the King despite the pain, but his breath caught when he noticed movement behind her.

Two men were approaching from the far end of the corridor.

They were palace guards, he recognised them. Their armour bore the insignia, their steps heavy and deliberate. One was broad-shouldered, his face shadowed by a helmet, the other leaner but with sharp, predatory eyes that locked onto Riven. He felt fear. Something he hadn't felt in a while.

Riven stiffened. His ears twitched upright, picking up the faint metallic rasp of their weapons. "Theresa…?" he murmured, unease seeping into his voice.

Theresa quickly turned around. The guards pushed past her, and Riven was on high alert.

Before he could take a step back, the larger guard surged forward. A calloused hand fisted into Riven's hair, yanking his head back sharply. He gasped in pain, stumbling as his knees buckled.

The second guard grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him down. In one brutal, practised motion, Riven was forced to kneel, his hands instinctively reaching up to pry the iron grip from his hair.

"Stop—!" Theresa's voice rang out suddenly, perfectly timed. She stepped forward with a convincing gasp, her hands raised in a show of alarm. "What are you doing? Release him at once!"

The guards didn't even glance at her.

She reached out, grabbing at the leaner guard's arm as if to pull him back. He shoved her away without hesitation, his voice barking through his helmet, sharp and cold:

"You're just a figurehead. Don't act like you have power. These are the King's orders."

The words landed like a dagger between them.

Riven saw Theresa fall, she- She was starting to bleed! He screamed her name out loud. She was hurt!

"Riven!" Theresa started to panic. She called out his name, as if he were the only one she could trust.

Ignoring her, the guards cuffed Riven and started to drag him away.

"W–wait—!" he gasped, but his protest fell on deaf ears.

The broad-shouldered guard gave him a rough shove, forcing him forward. The cold marble scraped against the soles of his feet as they dragged him through the corridor, past empty halls and startled servants who quickly averted their eyes. His heart pounded in his chest, fear, humiliation, and betrayal tangled inside him like thorned vines.

Theresa stood where he had left her, golden hair slightly dishevelled from the scuffle, brown eyes wide with apparent worry. Blood trickled down her legs. She clutched her abdomen tightly, her expression painted with anguish.

And Riven seemed to realise something.

"Theresa…" he whispered hoarsely, just before the guards yanked him around the corner and out of sight.

She stayed there for a moment, listening to the sound of his footsteps fade down the hall. Then slowly, deliberately, she exhaled.

She felt the pain slowly increase. She staggered against the wall, her golden hair falling over her shoulders, one hand pressing hard against her belly. Her breath came in shallow gasps.

She stumbled down the hallway, clutching her abdomen, forcing herself toward the ballroom. The music had softened, diplomats mingling as the King's sudden departure had sent murmurs through the crowd.

And then, she emerged.

Her pale face and bloodstained gown drew every gaze like a sudden flare in the dark. She staggered to the centre of the ballroom floor, where moments ago Riven's song had enchanted the crowd. Her knees wobbled, her voice came out hoarse but perfectly pitched to carry across the room.

"I… I need… a healer…"

The crowd gasped. Nobles rushed closer. Some froze, hands over their mouths. Others whispered in frantic tones, their eyes darting between her and the King.

The King, however, wasn't looking at Theresa. In fact, he did not even care. His thoughts were filled with Riven, Riven's betrayal, and the fact that Sahira had won.

His amber eyes burned with fury and betrayal as he reread the treacherous lines. The words written in Riven's hand felt like knives to the chest.

All he saw was that damning sentence:

If he were not the King, he would have no reason to marry someone else and leave me.