Chapter 365: Challenge

"I really like wolf fur, 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…" Sahira looked right at Theresa before continuing, "…Your lovely Queen made it happen."The King froze mid-step. A strange, uneasy flutter rose in his chest, quickening his heartbeat. For a moment, the sounds of the hunting party faded, he only felt his heart beat.

He turned to look at Sahira fully, searching her expression. But she wore only that predatory smile, her eyes bright with anticipation, it was her usual look. Nothing he could pin down. Nothing overly suspicious.

Before the King could open his mouth to question Sahira's strange comment about wolf fur, a familiar, commanding voice cut through the chatter like a whip.

"Son."

It was his mother.

He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking visibly. Of all the people he wanted to talk to at that moment, the Dowager Queen ranked last. But as her sharp amber eyes bore into him, there was no escaping it.

She stood tall and regal, her silver-streaked blond hair tied in an intricate braid that spoke of both her age and her unyielding authority. "Did you ask Theresa how she is feeling?" she demanded, not even bothering with pleasantries. Her tone was accusatory—as though he had already failed some test he didn't know he was taking.

The King felt his patience snap. For years, he'd endured this- the endless comparison, the way she had always favoured his sisters. Sure, he was the only boy, but he was more of a trophy, she rarely considered him competent.

She had chosen him as King, yes, but it had never felt like she trusted him. She hovered, she micromanaged, she undermined. And now, as if to twist the knife further, she'd chosen Theresa as the new golden child.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. "No," he answered curtly.

"No, I did not ask. And I do not care," he snapped.

The Dowager Queen blinked, taken aback. "Watch your tone—"

But he'd already turned away. "I've had enough of this," he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

He didn't stay to hear the rest of her scolding. He didn't see the shocked widening of her eyes or the way her lips pressed into a thin line of disgust. He was completely oblivious—not just to her growing disappointment but also to Theresa's quiet schemes. He had no idea about the miscarriage. Theresa had made sure he wouldn't.

She wanted his mother to witness his coldness. She wanted the Dowager Queen to believe that her son was capable of cruelty toward his grieving wife. And it was working.

By the time he left, the Dowager Queen was simmering with a fury she hadn't felt in years—not at Riven this time, but at her son.

The horn blared, echoing across the open field and into the edges of the forest. The hunt had begun.

The participants mounted their horses one by one, their excitement mingling with the tense undercurrent of politics that hovered over the event. Theresa rode gracefully, dressed in an outfit that made it clear she was not simply here to observe—she was participating. Sahira sat tall on her dark mare, a confident smile playing on her lips, while the King adjusted his gloves, his expression composed but distant.

He had not seen Theresa since the day before, and frankly, he hadn't been interested in looking for her. The further she stayed away from him, the better.

But as soon as the group entered the forest, hooves pounding against the damp earth, Theresa manoeuvred her horse to follow closely behind him. Her presence grated on his nerves like sandpaper.

He tried to go faster, urging his horse to widen the distance between them, but she matched his pace effortlessly. Her persistence only deepened the frown etched into his face.

Finally, with a sharp tug of the reins, he stopped. His horse pawed at the ground, snorting in irritation, mirroring its rider. He turned to face her, eyes narrowed.

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, his patience wearing thin. There was no one around them except the trees.

Theresa met his gaze calmly, though there was a faint tremor in her hands that she quickly hid by adjusting her reins. "I lost the child," she said softly, but the words carried the weight of a blade sinking into flesh.

The King froze.

For a heartbeat, his world stopped. His grip on the reins loosened. "What?" he breathed out, his voice devoid of its usual strength.

"Did the Dowager Queen know?" he asked sharply after a moment.

Theresa's expression said it all. Her eyes lowered, her lips curled slightly.

And it hit him. Hard.

He suddenly saw the trap: how this would look to his mother. To everyone. He hadn't asked about Theresa. He hadn't cared. And now, she had lost their child, and he hadn't even known.

His hands curled into fists, his anger misdirected. It wasn't sorrow that consumed him—it was frustration at the situation, at how easily he'd walked into it.

Theresa's gaze hardened, and she scoffed bitterly. "If you want to appease your mother," she said, her voice rising, "then appease Sahira. Win the hunt. I challenge you."

Her words struck him like a whip.

"There is only one wolf," she continued. "And she really wants a fur coat. Also yes, I hid it on purpose because you don't deserve to know. You don't even care about our child."

She looked every bit the wronged woman, she looked like she had planned revenge, and not the clear manipulator she was.

Then, without waiting for his response, she flicked her reins and galloped away, leaving him staring after her in stunned silence.

Fine. If they wanted a King who played their little games, then he would.

His amber-blue eyes burned with determination as he kicked his horse forward, disappearing into the dense trees.

All that filled his mind now was the hunt. Not his dead child. Not Theresa's pain. Not his mother's judgment. Not even Riven.

Only victory.