[BL] Rules Of Desire: His Majesty's Secret-Chapter 27 - 25: L.S.N. Voice of King

The palace grounds had been transformed.

Silken canopies in jewel-toned reds, violets, and golds rippled in the wind. Braziers lined the courtyards, their fires crackling like eager applause, casting shadows on the mosaic tiles below. Everywhere, pleasure pulsed in the air like the beat of a hidden drum calling the bold to bare themselves.

Zarethrone’s most infamous tradition had returned.

The Night of Proving Desire.

At the center of it all stood a raised marble platform surrounded by cushions, silk-covered beds, and velvet-draped couches. Noblemen, warriors, servant, even foreigners stood gathered, oiled bodies gleaming, eyes wild with excitement and curiosity. The rules were simple: the last to finish the one who endured the longest in carnal passion, would be crowned Champion of the Flesh.

But before the first body could moan, before the first kiss was tasted, the King appeared.

High on the grand balcony, draped in royal blue and adorned in gold, King Aldric stepped forward, overlooking his kingdom.

The crowd quieted.

His voice rang clear across the marble and torchlight.

Citizens of Zarethrone... on this sacred night, we do not shame the body, but celebrate it. We do not bind desire, we free it. For passion is the breath of the gods, and tonight, we breathe deep.

The people roared in approval, lifting goblets of wine, some already half-clothed or being kissed deeply by lovers at their sides.

But the King raised a hand and silence returned.

His voice softened, eyes drifting to the empty throne beside him, carved from crystal and draped in white and sunflowers the symbols of Zarethrone’s late Queen.

The music softened as the murmurs died down. Velvet skirts swished. Goblets were set aside. All eyes turned upward.

"Before pleasure begins... we remember the woman who once sat by my side.

Even the wind seemed to be still.

"Queen Eleanor of Eirenel. Light of Zarethrone. Flame of my heart."

Kaelith stiffened.

The name struck like a bell in his chest soft, deep, echoing down.

"She was not born a ruler," the King said, voice dipping lower. "She was born of a mountain tribe wild, brilliant, unbroken. I took her from her freedom, and still, she chose to love me. And this kingdom."

His hand touched the silk-draped throne.

"She walked these halls with mercy. She listened when I was blind. She smiled when I raged. She carried this crown not with pride, but with purpose."

"And she gave me a son."

Kaelith’s throat tightened. His fingers curled slightly at his side.

"A son who carries her fire. Her silence. Her storm."

For a long moment, no one moved.

Even Ronan who always had something to say stood still, watching the King with an unreadable expression.

The King bowed his head.

"Tonight, she is not here. But her spirit walks these stones. May she watch without sorrow."

Then, without a word, the King turned and sat upon his throne.

The silk next to him fluttered in the breeze.

And in that silence, Zarethrone remembered.

Some closed their eyes. Others placed their hands on their hearts. Kaelith looked down at his boots, jaw locked, the ache of her name still fresh in his bones even after all these years.

Ronan, standing beside him, leaned over and whispered, "You’re the prince. You can’t afford to look soft."

Kaelith didn’t answer.

Because he already felt like he was bleeding inside.

But Ronan’s voice softened just a little. "She must’ve been something... to make a king speak like that."

Kaelith finally looked up, eyes glossed with memory. "She was."

Then the horns sounded.

And the moment passed like breath in the wind.

"Let this night carry not only pleasure," the King continued, but power. The one who proves their mastery of desire, who lasts the longest, who endures without breaking shall be granted more than gold and land.

He paused.

"They shall be granted an audience with the royal court and a favor of their choosing from the crown itself."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Even Kaelith’s head lifted.

A favor from the King?

That was no small prize.

Power. Protection. Forgiveness. A request that could change a life or end one.

"Now..." King Aldric declared, raising his goblet, Let Zarethrone burn with pleasure.

The music returned. And the first participants stepped forward onto the velvet beds with pride in their stride and fire in their blood.

The competition had begun.

As the sound of the horns faded and the crowd began to stir again some stretching, others whispering, a few already undressing in anticipation Kaelith remained still.

He hadn’t moved since the King’s voice fell silent.

The silk-wrapped throne still shimmered beside Aldric like a memory refusing to vanish.

A quiet pair of footsteps broke through the murmur behind him.

Hale.

Kaelith didn’t have to turn to know, it was always Hale who approached him with such controlled stillness, never demanding attention, just present.

"Are you alright?" Hale asked softly, stepping to his side.

Kaelith didn’t speak at first.

His eyes remained fixed on the balcony, where the King now sat staring out at the crowd, his face a sculpted silence.

"I don’t know," Kaelith murmured at last. "Can you miss someone you barely remember?"

Kaelith blinked, slowly turning his head to meet his eyes.

"Is that how it is for you?" he asked. "Your mother?"

Hale gave a faint nod. "Sometimes it’s the absence that leaves the deepest mark. Like a room you walk through in the dark, always knowing something’s missing but never know what was meant to be there."

Kaelith’s lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he just let himself breathe in Hale’s presence.

"I wish I knew her better," he said quietly.

"She knew you," Hale said. She named you. She loved you. That kind of love doesn’t vanish.

Kaelith turned his eyes back to the white throne, a quiet ache curling inside his chest.

"Thank you," he said, voice softer than silk. "For asking."

Hale hesitated, then added in a whisper meant only for him, "You don’t have to carry it alone."

Kaelith didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes the one only Hale ever seemed to catch was enough.

The horns sounded again.

Then came the drums.

Low, primal beats that echoed across the palace courtyard like a heartbeat deep and ancient. The flames in the braziers flared, fanned by servants dressed in nothing but gold-painted skin and sheer veils.

The King remained seated on his throne, a silent god watching chaos unfold.

Around the platform, silks were pulled away, revealing the beds of pleasure plush, padded surfaces draped in reds and blacks, each one wide enough to hold more than just two bodies.

Then they began to step forward.

The first pair, two boys bare-chested, slim-waisted walked onto the central bed, their fingers already laced together. One kissed the other as they lay down, mouths hungry, bodies pressed. They didn’t wait. The darker-haired one spread his thighs with confidence, pulling the other between them, their bodies moving slowly, deliberately, like a dance meant only for gods.

The crowd howled.

Next came two girls, curvy and striking, their nipples pierced, their mouths stained with wine. One pushed the other gently onto her back, hands sliding beneath her breasts, mouth descending between thighs already glistening in firelight. Their moans were soft but rising delicious, unashamed.

Gasps rang from nobles and servants alike.

Then came a boy and a girl, both wrapped in translucent silks, their garments falling as they kissed. He spun her into his arms, her leg around his hip, and pressed into her with slow, strong thrusts. She rode the rhythm like a dancer, head thrown back, hair wild as her cries echoed into the night.

A pause, a beat.

Then came two men and a woman all of them tall, toned, covered in scented oil. They moved together like a trio of wolves. One man kissed the woman’s neck while the other dropped to his knees between her legs. She gasped as they touched her from both sides, mouths and hands in constant motion. Then, one lifted her, and the other pushed into her from behind, her legs wrapped around both their bodies like a living bridge.

Cheers exploded from the balcony.

Then came two women and a man, soft and sinuous. The man lay flat as the women straddled him one taking his mouth, the other riding his hips. Their bodies glowed under the torchlight, the man moaning between the two as they took turns kissing, licking, pressing against each other and him, every movement soaking in heat.

Then the wildest of them all.

Three men. Three women.

Six bodies.

One bed.

They moved in a chaotic rhythm mouths on mouths, tongues on skin, fingers tangling between thighs. A woman rode a man’s face while another kissed her from behind. One man was sandwiched between two others, their moans layered with groans and cries that climbed higher than the drums themselves.

It wasn’t sex.

It was a war painted in pleasure.

It was glory dressed in sweat.

And as bodies writhed and grinded, as limbs tangled and mouths found home after home, the crowd roared, laughed, and reached for one another.

Because in Zarethrone, on Lost Shame Night, desire wasn’t hidden.

It was worshipped.

And this was only the beginning.

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