Kings possess and rule — they don't feel. Any means are good if he comes first, everything is justified if eyes are on him and he can get away with anything if the result is communicated. Riko is the king, the first, the best, in place of his heart is a void full of tar and ash. But then what's failing him with rapid pulsations inside his chest, if not it?

Riko is king, he doesn't feel. All the emotions inside have long ago narrowed anger, mirth and jealousy, stuck together into one dark lump throbbing in his soul if he even has one. It irritates him when someone tries to untangle it, even more when he does it himself, unknowingly — reflecting on a dark night, lying on his bed in a Raven's Nest. How does he feel when you're running across the field, panting from the exertion he insists on? Riko is annoyed. And delighted, the way you move makes him admire you, the rolling of muscles beneath your uniform making his fists clench with something. When you make a good throw, looking at him with disdain after another insult, he's jealous — you make it look so easy, you're considered the best so naturally. You don't need a number on your cheek to feel like a king and it makes him angry. Angry and delighted, enticing and repulsive.

Kings don't feel, he keeps telling himself. Training doesn't help, you're still in his head — Riko has been running all morning, all evening and half the night, not because he needs extra exercise, he just needs something to get rid of the dull throbbing in his chest caused by the thought of you. The king suffers, the retinue and subjects suffer, but even violence doesn't give him a solution to the situation, a conclusion.

"Why not in bed?" He calls out loudly from across the field, with his face impassive. Of course you needed to be here right now. You're the ulcer he won't let heal. "Rules are penalizing such antics. Or did you believe in yourself too much?"