Chapter 364: The Hunt

The King sat on the edge of his bed, he was in a state of undress, his golden hair unbound and falling over his shoulders. His amber eyes stared at nothing in particular. He hadn't seen Theresa since the morning, and truth be told, he hadn't gone looking for her either. He didn't care to.The further she stayed away from him, the better. And her choosing not to sleep next to him that night only brought him relief.

He looked emotionless, but that was far from the truth. It wasn't that he didn't feel the sting of recent events. He did. Deeply. The ball, the letter, Riven's disappearance—it was like a knife had been lodged beneath his ribs, twisting each time he tried to breathe. But Theresa? She was the least of his concerns now.

He had once tolerated her because she was useful, politically necessary, and perhaps because he thought she knew her place. But after everything, the thought of facing her made his stomach twist with irritation.

He exhaled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Riven.

The name alone brought with it a wave of conflicting emotions—anger, hurt, longing, doubt, but above all, stubborn belief. Despite everything, he knew in his gut that Riven hadn't betrayed him. Riven wasn't capable of that kind of malice. Not against him. He could still picture those green eyes wide with confusion as he'd ordered him to leave. That moment replayed endlessly in his mind, and with every repetition, his regret deepened.

He was always impulsive, and it had always cost him. He could not let it cost him this time, especially since the stakes were so high.

The scouts he sent came back empty-handed, but he would not take that for an answer. They were to keep searching the entire night. Riven could not hide for long. He will find him.

"I'll find you," he muttered under his breath, fingers curling into fists. "And when I do, I'll fix this."

But fixing it would mean more than just apologies. It would mean standing up to the real chains that had bound them both: his mother.

His amber gaze shifted toward the closed door, as if he could see through the walls to where the Dowager Queen resided in her wing of the palace. Her voice still echoed in his mind, sharp and imperious, full of warnings and veiled threats. "Do not make me regret the throne I supported you to ascend."

It always seemed like she did not want him to be King, but decided to support him anyway. She was always criticising him and comparing him to his sisters, dangling their existence like a sword above his head. Why even anoint him if she had so little faith?

He could not say he was forced to be King. He always chased after glory, power, anything that placed him at the centre of everything.

However, he did not realise the burdens that came with it.

For years, he'd let it control him, and it cost him. It was his own selfishness, his own entitlement, that cost him. He did not want it anymore.

He would make things right.

He did not know when he fell asleep, only that his dreams were filled with scenarios where he lost Riven. He dreamt that he pushed him off the precipice and into a never-ending abyss.

Gratitude was what he felt for the sharp sunrays that woke him up. It was particularly warm that day. He couldn't tell if he was sweating from the heat or the nightmare.

He rose from the bed, his movements slow but deliberate, as if shedding the lethargy that had held him down since the ball. The servants waiting outside stiffened when he opened the door, his presence was different now. Colder. Sharper.

"Prepare my attire for the hunt," he ordered.

He had to arrange it in such a short amount of time on top of dealing with other issues. Where was Theresa in all of this? Perhaps avoiding all her duties now that she had an excuse.

Theresa stood before her mirror, adjusting the leather straps of her fitted hunting attire. She had the royal tailor make this for her specifically, a while ago.

This was her stage.

She stepped out into the corridor with measured steps, her boots clicking softly against the polished floors. The palace was buzzing with activity—servants carrying baskets of food for the royal party, stable hands readying horses and hounds, courtiers gathering in small groups, whispering about the foreign guests.

She turned a corner—and almost collided with him.

The King.

His presence hit her like a wall of cold air. He wore his ceremonial hunting uniform, sharp and imposing, with the gold embroidery of his rank gleaming faintly in the morning light. Their eyes met for the briefest second—hers sharp, calculating, while his were distant and unreadable.

She lowered her gaze with feigned humility, stepping back and offering a polite bow. "Your Majesty," she said smoothly, "I apologise for not being able to assist much with the preparations. Though," she added, tilting her head with carefully crafted sweetness, "I did make a small change to better accommodate our guests."

He didn't even pause.

The King brushed past her without a glance, his cape swishing as if the very air refused to acknowledge her.

For a heartbeat, her mask cracked. Her eyes narrowed into a cold, cutting stare fixed on his retreating back.

She could endure this.

Just a little longer.

Because after today, there wouldn't be a crown left on his head to look down on her with.

The hunting grounds were alive with the scent of horses and the metallic tang of sharpened weapons. Nobles laughed and exchanged pleasantries. The forest loomed nearby, dense and alive, waiting.

The King arrived with his usual coldness and arrogance, his gaze scanning the assembled party. The foreign delegation from Sahira's clan stood out in their leathers and flowing scarves. At their head, Sahira herself approached him like a serpent, graceful and self-assured.

"Your Majesty," she greeted, dipping her head slightly. A sly smile tugged at her lips as she glanced toward Theresa. "I have to thank the Queen for making this event so special."

It wasn't a thank-you to him.

It wasn't even subtle.

She had deliberately chosen to praise Theresa instead, in front of everyone. Courtiers nearby shifted awkwardly, but no one dared speak.

The King's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Her words bruised his ego—his event, his hunt, and yet the credit was being handed to someone else like an afterthought. But he didn't rise to the bait.

He inclined his head in stiff politeness. "I'm glad it meets your expectations," he replied evenly.

But Sahira wasn't done.

"I really like wolf fur," she said casually, almost dreamily, tracing a finger along the intricate embroidery of her glove. "But it's very hard to get where I live. The climate isn't suitable for wolves, unfortunately. I've always wanted to hunt one…"

Her gaze slid toward Theresa, who stood beside the horses, wearing that faint, knowing smile. There were many promises between them, and this was one of them. She was repaying the favour.

"…Your lovely Queen made it happen."