Chapter 9 A Royal Bargain

The King's private wing in Valdoria Palace was a sanctuary of stillness, where the air hung heavy with the competing scents of medicinal herbs and the aged leather of ancient tomes. Crimson tapestries, embroidered with the golden Klbasian falcon, absorbed the sound, their sharp eyes watching over the room's sole occupant. King Ozzan sat in a polished ebony wheelchair, positioned by a large window that overlooked the palace gardens, a riot of jasmine he could no longer walk through. A heavy crimson blanket was draped over his knees despite the Klbasian warmth.

His silver hair was sparse, his once-robust frame withered, his bronze skin made pale by illness. Yet his deep brown eyes, though tired, retained a sharp, penetrating clarity, the last vestige of the formidable ruler who had guided Klbas for decades. At seventy years, his heart, weakened by a recent stroke, was failing. His urgency to secure his kingdom's future had become a burning, all-consuming fire.

Tarkan entered, his own bronze skin glowing with vitality in a tailored navy suit. His dark eyes were shadowed with the weight of the previous night. He was the picture of Klbasian nobility, yet his heart was a storm of guilt and longing.

"Father," he said, his voice soft as he knelt beside the wheelchair. "You sent for me?"

Ozzan's frail, almost translucent hand rested on Tarkan's shoulder, a slight tremor in his touch. "My son," he said, his voice as thin as parchment but still warm. "Sit with me. We must speak of Klbas." He gestured to a cushioned chair, his wheelchair creaking as he shifted. "My time grows short. This chair, these medicines... they are temporary measures against an inevitable tide. I need to know the crown is secure before I can rest. It is my desire to delegate my authority to you, Tarkan, as soon as possible. The council respects you, but your youth... it unsettles them."

Tarkan's throat tightened. "Father, you're still strong. We have time..."

"No," Ozzan interrupted, his tone firm with a king's finality. "I have ruled long enough. Klbas needs a king who can stand tall, not one who is bound to a chair. But you must be ready. You must be stable. Married. Focused. And your heart, my son... your heart has been elsewhere, has it not?"

Tarkan's face flushed, an image of Mia's sapphire eyes flashing in his mind. "I am committed to Klbas, Father. Always."

Before Ozzan could reply, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. Queen Faya entered, a silent, gliding presence in a silver gown, her dark eyes sharp with purpose. She took a seat opposite Ozzan, her posture regal, her voice smooth but resolute. "Ozzan, we must finalize the matter of Tarkan's future."

Ozzan nodded wearily. "I was just telling him, Faya. The throne will soon be his, but he needs a queen to steady his reign."

A faint, winning smile touched Faya's lips. "Precisely. The council grows restless. They see an unmarried prince, one whose heart is distracted by... unwise attachments from the past. An official engagement to Lady Lamar would silence all their doubts. Her father's political clout would cement Tarkan's rule, proving to all that he is a king who leads with his head, not his heart."

"You mean House Ferrand's trade networks and their bloc of council votes," Ozzan said, his voice tired of the game. "Speak plainly, Faya."

She leaned forward, her tone like velvet over steel. "Plainly, then. Your health is failing, you cannot even walk through the gardens you so love. Tarkan must ascend soon, but an unmarried prince invites chaos and weakness. Lady Lamar is beautiful, poised, and has been trained for this role her entire life. She will secure the future of Klbas, and Tarkan's reign, before you are gone."

Ozzan's gaze drifted to the jasmine blooms outside, his silence heavy with the weight of his dilemma. He loved his son fiercely, but his love for his kingdom, his duty to the crown he had worn for forty years, outweighed all else. "You are right," he said at last, his voice thick with resignation. "Stability must come first." He turned back to Faya. "Send for him again."

"He is here," she said, gesturing to Tarkan, who had risen to his feet, his bronze face a mask of taut dread.

Ozzan's eyes, gentle but unyielding, met his son's. "Tarkan, the time has come. For Klbas, for your future, and for my peace, you will engage yourself to Lady Lamar. I must know the kingdom is in safe hands before I pass this authority to you."

Tarkan felt the world tilt. It was a checkmate. He could defy his mother's cold ambition, but he could not defy his father's plea, weighted as it was with a dying king's love and the burden of a crown. His rebellion died, smothered by duty.

"I will do as you command, Father," he said, his voice hollow. Then, a spark of strategy flickered in the darkness, a desperate gambit for the most precious commodity he could imagine time. "But I ask for one condition. The wedding will be delayed until next summer. A year. It is only fair to Lady Lamar, and to the dignity of our union, that we are given time to get to know each other."

Faya's eyes narrowed, sensing the move, but Ozzan nodded slowly, his wheelchair creaking. "A reasonable and honorable request. So be it."

The Queen's triumph was palpable. The engagement was the key; it was a binding contract. A year's delay was a small price for a guaranteed victory.

Later, Tarkan found Myar in her private salon, its crimson walls adorned with Klbasian mosaics. "Engaged to Lady Lamar?" Myar exclaimed, sitting bolt upright on a velvet settee, her dark curls bouncing. "Tarkan, how could you agree? What about Mia? You were at her house last night, begging for forgiveness!"

Tarkan paced before the crackling cedar fire, his bronze skin flushed, his dark eyes stormy. "I had no choice, Myar. Father is in a wheelchair, barely holding on. He needs the kingdom stable before he passes the crown. I couldn't refuse him. Not our father. He's the one who always understood us, who shielded us from Mother's worst ambitions. How could I deny his wish?" He stopped, his voice raw. "But I bought time. I have a year. And I am not giving up on Mia, I will find a way to sort things later."

Myar's gaze softened. "But you can't keep pulling her into this game. Mother is ruthless, and Father's health is a ticking clock."

"I know," Tarkan said, his fists clenched. "So I have to change my strategy."

The engagement ceremony was a breathtaking spectacle of Klbasian grandeur. Lady Lamar was resplendent in a gown of woven gold, her smile poised as her hand rested on Tarkan's arm. She was the perfect bride-a mirror showing him everything he was supposed to want. Tarkan, in a crimson and black suit, played his role flawlessly, his smile an exquisite piece of royal architecture, beautiful and entirely hollow.

Weeks later, Tarkan buried himself in his father's duties, the immense weight of governance a welcome distraction from his frozen heart. His office became his fortress. One afternoon, surrounded by stacks of diplomatic cables and trade agreements, he rubbed his temples, the exhaustion a welcome ache.

"Ramzi," he called out. "I'm drowning in this paperwork. These documents require precise and discreet translation. I need a new assistant, the best we can find."

Ramzi, ever-present and poised, nodded. "I will send an inquiry to the palace staffing office, Your Highness."

"No," Tarkan said, his voice firm, precise. "No old staff. I want a fresh perspective. Contact the university directly. Request a list of their top ten graduates from the most recent class in the linguistics and international relations program. I want the best of the best, Ramzi."

Ramzi's gaze flickered, a flicker of suspicion dawning in his perceptive eyes, but he bowed. "As you wish, sir."

Two days later, Ramzi returned, placing a slim folder on Tarkan's desk. "The university's list, Your Highness. All are highly qualified."

Tarkan opened it, his dark eyes scanning the names, feigning an interest in trade routes and economic theory. Then his finger froze, tracing a name that made his breath catch: Mia Ritchard. Number seven, with top marks in diplomatic translation and a glowing recommendation. Her image flooded his mind-the blond hair, sapphire eyes, the crimson gown. A spark landing on dry tinder.

"Ramzi," Tarkan said, his voice a mask of perfect neutrality despite his hammering heart. "An impressive list. I will need to review their work samples closely before conducting interviews. Especially the top candidates."

Ramzi's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew a loaded directive when he heard one. "Of course, Your Highness. But may I ask... is there a specific quality you are looking for?"

Tarkan met his aide's gaze, his own face unreadable. "I am looking for the most competent person to serve Klbas, Ramzi. That is all. Ensure the process is fair and entirely transparent."

Ramzi held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded, his loyalty masking his deep-seated doubt. "It will be done, sir."

As Ramzi left, Tarkan stared at Mia's name, the black ink a spark of hope and chaos. He was an engaged man, bound by a royal bargain. Yet a new plan, born of that bargain, was taking root. It was a desperate, dangerous bid to bring Mia back into his world, not as a lover, but as a professional. It was logical. It was defensible. His mother could hardly object to him hiring the best. But as he pictured Mia's sapphire eyes in the palace halls again, her golden hair catching the light, he knew it was a lie. He was laying a trail of breadcrumbs, leading her back into the lion's den. The question was no longer about surviving his duty, but whether he could survive the temptation he was so carefully orchestrating.