Chapter 363: The Prize
Theresa stood before him, vial in hand, looking down at the man who had rejected her, who still belonged to someone else in his heart."Then," she whispered, voice trembling with emotion she could no longer control, "if you won't choose me… You won't get to choose anyone."
Riven didn't stir when he heard the door creak open, part of him had accepted that pain was inevitable here. But when he saw Theresa step in, his tired eyes softened with a flicker of confusion rather than fear.
"Theresa?" His voice was hoarse, filled with disbelief.
She moved slowly, deliberately, her golden hair catching the dim torchlight. In her hand was a small, stoppered vial containing a strange, shimmering liquid. Riven didn't even think to question it. Theresa had been kind to him—or at least, she had worn that kindness like a mask well enough. He never imagined she'd be the one to strike next.
She closed the cell door behind her with a quiet click.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, though there was no true remorse in her eyes.
Before Riven could react, she lunged forward and grabbed his face in both hands. Her fingers dug cruelly into his cheeks, forcing his jaw open. His green eyes widened in shock as she brought the vial to his lips and poured the liquid down his throat in one swift motion.
It burned. The taste was metallic and bitter, like blood mixed with ash. He gagged, coughed violently, and stumbled back, trying to spit it out.
"What—what did you—" His words broke into raw coughing.
But it was too late. The drug worked quickly, searing through his veins like wildfire. His skin prickled, his bones ached as his body was forced to respond to an unnatural command. His nails lengthened, black fur pushed through his skin, his spine curved. The sound of cracking bones filled the cell.
"No…!" He rasped, trying to resist the change. But the drug didn't just force the transformation—it locked him there.
Riven was gone. In his place stood a black wolf with trembling limbs. His green eyes still held that flash of bewildered betrayal. He tried to shift back—once, twice, over and over again—but nothing happened. His body refused to obey. He was stuck as a wolf.
Theresa crouched down, her breathing heavy, her hair falling over her face. "It's for the best," she whispered to him as if comforting a frightened animal. "If you can't be with me, be of use to me."
She pulled out a thick leather muzzle, custom-made, and forced it onto his snout. He growled weakly, thrashing against the chains, but the drug dulled his strength. She tightened the straps until his jaw ached.
"Perfect," she breathed. Her hands trembled—not with guilt, but with adrenaline. Her plans were moving. Finally.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the palace, the King sat in Riven's empty quarters.
Everything was untouched. His lyre rested against the chair, the strings silent. The scent of him still lingered faintly, and it made the King's chest tighten. His mind replayed the ball, the song, Sahira's sharp words, the letter… And then Riven's stunned face as he'd ordered him to leave.
Why didn't I trust him?
His heart waged war against his reason. Every piece of evidence pointed to betrayal—the letter in his handwriting, Sahira's taunts, Riven's surprising choice of song. And yet, the King couldn't accept it.
"No," he muttered under his breath, slamming his fist against the table. "He wouldn't."
His amber eyes burned with conviction. If Riven had left, he'd find him. He refused to let the truth be written by someone else's hand.
He rose from his seat, fists clenched. "Search for him," he ordered his closest subordinates. "Turn the palace upside down if you have to. Find him. And if you can't—don't bother returning."
The men bowed, sensing the storm in his voice, and hurried away to carry out the search.
He was about to return to the war council when his mother appeared in the doorway. The Dowager Queen, regal and cold as marble, looked him with a hard gaze. She was disappointed in her son. Seeing his indifferent behaviour towards his miscarrying wife disgusted her.
"Organise a hunt for tomorrow," she said without preamble.
He frowned. "What?"
"For the Black Panther Clan," she replied, her tone clipped. "It is their tradition to celebrate diplomatic successes with a hunt. You will host it. You must make them feel welcome."
"I don't have time for—"
Her sharp voice cut through his words. "This is not a request, my son. It is a royal duty. You will not insult Sahira and her people by neglecting their traditions."
He exhaled slowly, annoyance threading through his voice. "Then ask the Queen to organise it. I'm dealing with other matters right now."
The Dowager Queen's eyes narrowed. "You're neglecting your responsibilities for a wolf," she hissed. "Do not make me regret the throne I supported you to ascend." How dare he ask the Queen to organise it? She was recovering, she went through a traumatic event. She lost her child, she was grieving. And her son did not care!
He did not care for his child or his wife! She felt better about banishing that wolf. She was a mother, and mother's correct their children's mistakes, they set them on the right path. And she will do exactly that.
He clenched his jaw, caught between rage and exhaustion. The last thing he wanted was to play host while his heart and mind were consumed by doubts about Riven. But facing his mother's fury he relented.
"Fine," he muttered. "The hunt will happen."
She nodded curtly and swept out of the room, leaving the King standing there alone, surrounded by the echoes of Riven's absence.
He pressed his hands against his face, inhaling slowly. He didn't know it, but while he was preparing for a ceremonial hunt, Riven was still in his kingdom—trapped, drugged, and muzzled in the dungeon below.
And Theresa? She stood at the edge of a dangerous game, her pieces moving exactly as she intended.
"You are a prize, Riven." Theresa whispered into the sleeping wolf's ears. "There will be many looking for you... But only one will find you. That one person is the very same person you love so dearly. He will win tomorrow, but lose everything."