Rivertide’s King
Glassenhall Palace was awake, but its king was not. King Streetie sat on the edge of his bed, still dressed in yesterday’s shirt. The room was quiet except for the ticking of a small golden clock on the mantel.
The morning sun allowed itself to spill through the tall windows, soft and cold. He didn’t like waking up. There was nothing wrong with his usual routine, not really.
He had work, meetings, handshakes, and good people around him. But most mornings felt like walking into a play where he already knew every line and how it would end.
“Your Majesty?”
He turned his head slowly. His valet, Pennik, stood near the door, holding a tray with tea and letters. The young man was careful, like someone walking through a garden full of sleeping lions.
“You have a meeting with the council at ten,” Pennik said quietly. “And Princess Silver would like to have breakfast with you.”
Streetie gave a small nod. “Thank you.”
He stood, straightened his shirt, and walked into the bathroom. He didn’t lock the door, he never did but he stared at his face in the mirror longer than usual.
Gray was starting to touch the sides of his hair. The lines near his mouth had deepened. His eyes, always steady, now looked tired. Not weak but just tired of hiding things.
He had never told anyone, not even his late wife. Not even himself, not out loud.
Downstairs, in a sunlit corner of the palace, Princess Silver sat with a plate of pancakes and a tiny crown pinned into her hair.
“You’re late,” she said when Streetie arrived. Her voice was soft but firm, just like her mother’s had been.
Streetie smiled and kissed the top of her head. “That’s not a royal way to greet your father.”
She grinned. “Fine. Good morning, Your Highness, my wonderful but always late father.”
He sat across from her, reaching for a cup of coffee.
“You look tired,” she said, squinting at him.
“Do I?” He took a slow sip.
Silver stabbed her pancake like she was hunting it. “You always do when you don’t sleep properly. Are the council people stressing you again?”
“They’re not so bad.”
She looked at him the way children look when they know you’re lying. “You’re still not going to marry Lady Halyn, right?”
Streetie nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
“She came by yesterday. She brought me perfume. I don’t even wear perfume.”
“She’s just being polite.”
“She smells like roses and stress,” Silver said simply. “You don’t even like her.”
Streetie tried to hide his smile, but failed. “You are not supposed to speak about nobles that way.”
Silver shrugged and poured more syrup. “I’m not queen yet.”
Later that morning, as he walked the marble halls of Glassenhall toward the council room, Streetie paused before the large painting of his wife, Queen Milena.
She looked so alive in it. Eyes bright, skin soft, hands folded in her lap like she had just finished laughing. The painter had caught her light but not her strength.
She had been kind, yes. But also firm. Smart. She never made him feel like he was pretending.
He whispered, “You were enough. You really were.”
But after her death, the silence came. And with it, old thoughts he had buried. Feelings that didn’t make sense in the life he was expected to live. Feelings that had no place beside crowns and councils.
He had kissed boys twice, before Milena, before titles. One at seventeen. Another during training at the royal academy. They were quick, secret things, shoved into shadows and forgotten like misplaced letters.
And then came duty, marriage, fatherhood, war, peace, loneliness.
Now, something restless was waking again. But he didn’t know what to do with it.
The council chamber always smelled like paper, old wood, and politics. King Streetie sat at the head of a long polished table.
Around him, the members of the royal council settled into their chairs with quiet power.
Lord Varnel Quist, Chief Advisor, cleared his throat first. He always did. That sound, more than any bell, marked the start of every meeting.
“Your Majesty,” he began, tapping the end of his pen, “the Parliament is once again asking about your personal plans.”
Streetie raised an eyebrow. “Personal?”
“Your future marriage, to be specific,” Quist replied. “It’s been twelve years since Queen Milena passed. The people are growing concerned.”
“About what?” Streetie asked calmly.
“About the lack of a queen beside you,” Quist said. “And what it may imply.”
The words sat heavily in the room.
Lady Nirelle Dansha, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, leaned forward gently. “The press is circling again, Your Majesty.
Some have started crafting stories. I believe one headline read: “The Lonely Crown, Is Our King Still in Mourning or Hiding Something?”
Streetie gave a quiet sigh. “You think a marriage will fix that?”
“It will silence the gossip going around,” Quist said. “You have options. Daughters of noble families, Lady Halyn, for instance. The Ball of Unity is coming soon. You could make a gesture.”
Streetie didn’t speak right away. He stared at the long map of Rivertide that hung on the wall. Borders, rivers, cities, all carefully drawn.
He turned back. “And if I’m not ready?”
Quist’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Then perhaps the question isn’t if, but why.”
Lady Dansha stepped in gently. “No one is forcing your hand, sire. But waiting much longer will give others room to act on your behalf.”
Streetie gave a small nod, stood from his chair, and walked to the window. The wind moved the white curtains gently.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Quist’s reflection, stiff, judging. And beside him, Lady Dansha, more curious than cruel.
Streetie spoke softly, “Do any of you remember what it’s like to want something for yourself and not your title?”
There was silence.
“No?” he said, still facing the window. “Then perhaps you’re not the ones to advise me on this.”
He dismissed the council early.
Back in the quiet of the west wing, he stepped into the private hallway that overlooked the palace gardens.
He needed air. His footsteps sounded softly on the marble floors. He passed guards who bowed without looking up, maids who moved like shadows. Familiar walls, familiar silence.
He turned down a lesser-used stairwell and entered one of the side courtyards. Few people came here, mostly staff, sometimes delivery boys.
That was when he saw him. He was tall and wearing a long gray coat. Leaning by the back gate.
He had dark curls that moved slightly in the breeze and eyes that watched the world like it was a story he already knew the ending of.
Streetie slowed down, his eyes was on the stranger.
The man turned his head slowly, as if he felt the king’s eyes on him. Their gazes met. Not a bow. Not a salute. Just a look.
Then the man smiled, just slightly and turned away, walking into the street beyond the gate. Streetie stood still.
Something moved in him. Not attraction, but a shift. A stir. A question that had no name.
“Who was that?” he asked a nearby guard.
The guard looked out. “Not sure, Your Majesty. A delivery man, maybe. He seems to have left something at the kitchen door.”
Streetie knew better that, that was no delivery man. That was something else entirely. Something random. Something dangerous and somehow, he already knew, he would see that stranger again.
