Father's POV
The request came from my son's lips like a curse.
"Papa… can I invite the King to my birthday?"
The cup nearly fell from my hand.
The King? Chris Blackwood?
Children spoke of him like they did of storms — distant, untouchable, terrifying. My boy said it half-joking, with the innocence only children could wield. But the silence that followed made the joke too heavy.
We laughed — forced laughter — but his eyes sparkled with mischief.
"What if I really send it? Maybe he'll come."
I froze.
To deny him would plant fear deeper. To allow it… might plant death at our doorstep.
Yet I couldn't crush that light in his eyes. So I let him write it — a small note in childish scrawl, sealed with clumsy wax. I sent it through the local governor's office, fully expecting it to vanish into the abyss of court bureaucracy.
I prayed it would vanish.
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The Day – Father's POV
The party began simple. Neighbors gathered, cautious laughter mingling with music. No one truly believed the King would hear of it, much less appear.
But then the fortress bells tolled.
Not alarm — announcement.
Boots struck the earth outside my home.
I stepped forward, heart hammering, as a procession of Blackwood Guards parted like the sea.
And through them, he came.
Not the throne-cloaked ruler seen on screens.
Not the iron mask.
But Chris Blackwood himself — dressed as a man. Dark coat, no crown, no parade. In his hands, a gift wrapped with care.
The air collapsed. Women gasped, men stiffened. Children froze like statues.
And then my son — fearless, foolish boy — ran forward.
"You came!" he shouted.
The King's lips curved. Not cruel. Not mocking. A faint, human smile.
"I was invited," Chris said simply. His voice was heavy, yet oddly warm. He knelt, offering the gift. "And I do not ignore those brave enough to call on me."
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