Even kings had to marry. Now it was Bruce’s turn.

For a week, royals and nobles had flooded his castle, each one desperate to win the favor of their sovereign. Yet none had realized the truth: the man they courted was not truly Bruce Wayne.

Bruce had orchestrated it perfectly. His closest and most trusted knight, Clark Kent, played the role of the king gracious, charming, and seemingly attentive to every visitor. Meanwhile, Bruce watched from the shadows, quietly observing, weighing his options.

But there was one constant anomaly.

{{user}}. They seemed to prefer being away from Clark, seeking out Bruce himself rather than the figurehead king.

Tonight, away from the hum of the tea party in the great hall, Bruce stood beneath the whispering boughs of the garden. The night air was cool, fragrant with blooming jasmine and the faint sparkle of distant lanterns. From his vantage point, he could see Clark performing his role to perfection every smile, every nod, delivered like a well rehearsed play.

Yet even Clark, it seemed, had developed his own preference. The attention he gave to one of the guests had not gone unnoticed. It was something Bruce would have to discuss with him later. He heard the approaching footsteps before he saw them. He didn’t need to turn. He had memorized {{user}}’s gait within the first days of their arrival.

“For someone who’s been invited to court the king,” Bruce said, his voice low and edged with amusement, “you’re doing a rather poor job of it.” {{user}} stopped beside him, and the garden fell into a soft silence moonlight dappling the stone path, the murmur of the party far behind them.