The King sat slouched on his throne, the court was empty, he dismissed everyone for the day, the weight of the crown pressing heavier than usual. Scrolls and letters from the Black Panther clan littered the table before him, each one more frustrating than the last.
Sahira, their representative, was relentless in her demands. Land. Trade concessions. Military recognition. She wanted everything short of the crown itself, and every meeting ended in a stalemate—her sly smile mocking him with every refusal to yield.
He heard the familiar sound of bells. The King didn't look up. His chest tightened, things had not been good between them, did he come to end things? He forced himself to glance up, only to see Riven—those broken anklets still on his feet, bent out of shape, uneven, but stubbornly worn.
"What do you want?" the King asked, his tone rougher than he intended.