The Forsaken King-Chapter 35: The Making of a King

"Do you want the opportunity to become a king?"

Lucian burst into uncontrollable laughter.

"What’s so funny?" he asked.

Sylas narrowed his eyes.

He stared at him, confused. What the hell was so funny? he wondered. Nothing about what he said even sounded like a joke.

He loomed above him, voice low and calm. "I’m being serious."

After telling the kids to go play with each other, Lucian rose to his feet. He was taller than Sylas. His expression sharpened. The smile he’d worn was gone.

He looked down at Sylas. Their eyes locked—cold, focused, like two predators sizing each other up over the same prey.

"You heard me. I’m the black sheep of the family."

The words came out heavy. Slow.

"I’ll ask you again. Do you want the opportunity to become a king?"

Lucian looked down. His shoulders slumped, like just standing up was too much.

For a moment, Sylas saw something slip through—a part of him he’d been trying to bury.

His voice dropped. The words came out cracked and raw, like they were tearing their way out of him.

"I’m his eldest son. I was supposed to be someone my father would’ve been proud of."

He paused.

"But I was the weakest among my brothers and sisters."

"Hey," Sylas said flatly. "I asked you a question—not for your backstory."

His tone shifted—sharper now. Firmer.

Lucian stared at him with disgust. He felt like Sylas was mocking him—just another person looking down on him.

"They were right about you," he muttered, then turned and walked away.

Damn, Luis... your reputation even reached here, Sylas thought, letting out a quiet laugh.

Excalibur appeared. He plunged it into the ground, his hand resting on top. He stood tall, steady. His once-red eyes turned gold.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Lucian turned his head. Slowly.

Sylas glowed with golden light.

He looked like an angel descending from above—calm, warm. The kind of light that made you want to kneel. To follow.

"Look at them," he said, pointing to the crowd that had gathered.

His voice was calm. Measured. But it cut through the air.

The glow pulsed—bright. A wave of golden energy rippled toward Lucian.

"You think they care how strong you are?"

Another pulse.

"They follow you because you’re kind. Because you care."

Sylas took a step forward.

The people moved, covering Lucian—as if protecting him from something dangerous.

His voice grew heavier with each word.

"Power doesn’t make a king."

He pointed at the people in front of him.

"They do."

He stepped forward again—slow, deliberate.

"Look around you," Sylas said. "They’re willing to die for you."

"So stop feeling sorry for yourself."

Another step. His voice dropped—deeper, commanding.

"And stand up."

His eyes gleamed like the sun.

"And answer the damn question!"

Sylas’s voice rang like thunder.

"Are you just going to stand there and watch the people who believe in you suffer?"

The words slammed into Lucian.

He froze.

His breath caught. His eyes widened.

For a moment, it felt like everything he’d been running from had finally caught up to him.

People called his name. They shook him. Tried to snap him out of it.

Nothing.

He didn’t move.

Sylas turned away.

"You have until the end of the day to choose," he muttered as he walked past.

Then he stopped. Turned back.

His sword gleamed—just for a second—then faded into light.

"I will grant you power beyond your imagination," he said. "All I want... is your loyalty."

And just like that, he left him—still frozen—as Sylas walked alone toward the palace.

At night, the palace lit up.

Music echoed through the halls.

Fireworks lit the sky.

Tables overflowed with food.

Sylas stood near the edge of the crowd, dressed in a long black coat. Hair slicked back. He looked every bit the prince he was pretending to be.

People smiled at him. Bowed. Introduced themselves.

None of them recognized him. freёnovelkiss.com

Not one.

They all believed he was Luis.

It didn’t make sense.

Has no one here ever left the country? he wondered, scanning the room.

He moved closer to King Kael, who stood at the balcony, looking over his kingdom.

"When’s the last time you left this country?" Sylas asked.

Kael took a sip from his cup.

"I don’t remember," he said. Another sip. "Maybe fifteen years."

He sighed. "After my brother died," the king said, voice low, "I carried the burden."

He paused. Something cracked in his voice.

"Because of this war, we haven’t gotten the resources we need."

His next words came slower. Heavier.

"Workers can’t work. Ships don’t sail. Slowly... everything begins to rot."

Sylas took a sip from his drink—then immediately spat it out.

"That’s not juice."

The king burst into laughter.

"Don’t laugh! It’s disgusting!" Sylas wiped his mouth, still spitting. "Why does it burn?!"

Kael clapped him on the back, nearly knocking the air out of him.

"Man up, my boy."

Sylas scowled. Still gagging. "I prefer Merlin’s wine."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Merlin?"

"Never mind that."

Sylas turned to the horizon, eyes narrowing.

"I’ll help you take back the mine," he said calmly. "But after the feast... I’d like to spar."

The king’s smile widened. The sadness in his eyes—gone.

Now he looked almost happy.

Too happy.

And Sylas knew—if he wanted a real conversation, it would have to be on the battlefield. The only place the king wouldn’t try to kill him.

"Well, let’s go back to the party," Sylas muttered.

She moved with quiet grace, every step slow. Measured. Perfect.

Her long purple dress trailed behind her—deep violet.

Her hair was long. Braided.

Their eyes met.

Sylas held out his hand.

"Let us dance."

She gave him a sharp look—unimpressed.

If looks could kill, he’d be already dead.

Still, she placed her hand in his. Slow and graceful.

"Relax," Sylas muttered with a grin. "It’s just a dance. Not a marriage."

They stepped onto the floor.

The music played.

They moved—elegant, practiced. Like they’d done it before.

For a moment, she reminded him of Guinevere.

"You know," he said softly, "you could just tell your parents to call off this wedding."

She didn’t miss a beat. "Then why don’t you?"

Sylas smiled. "Because I’m not Luis."

Before she could speak, he spun her—smooth, controlled.

She blinked. "What... do you mean?"

He leaned in slightly, voice light. "Hello. I’m Sylas. And you are?"

She hesitated, like the words were stuck in her throat.

Then finally: "Ana. Ana Zarulek."

He grinned. "You’re terrifying, Ana. Absolutely terrifying... for someone with such a cute name."

She glared—and moved to stomp on his foot.

He sidestepped—spinning her again before she could catch her balance.

"Stop doing that," she snapped.

"No can do, milady. It would hurt," he said, smirking.

"That’s the plan." She threw a slap. He ducked.

"You are feisty." Another spin. He caught her wrist, guiding her back into rhythm.

"You dance well," Sylas muttered, voice low.

"Shut up, you liar," she whispered back, not missing a step.

Then, with a sly smile of her own, she added, "Just wait until my father finds out."

Sylas grinned, unbothered.

"Oh, I’m already planning on telling him," he said. "We’re sparring after this."

She raised an eyebrow.

"So... should we finish this dance with a kiss?" Sylas teased.

Ana narrowed her eyes.

"Try it," she said.

He only smiled.