CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ronan
THE THRONE ROOM BLAZED GOLD AROUND HIM, mirrors and molten light stretching the king’s shadow across the marble.
He sprawled on his throne, looking down to the world as though it bent to keep him comfortable.
Ronan’s boots struck the ground in measured rhythm as he approached the dais. He bowed, low enough to mock, and let a smile slash across his mouth.
“Your Majesty.”
Obrann’s chin tilted, silver eyes sliding over him from head to toe.
“Prince Ronan,” he said smoothly. “Luamis is honored by your presence. Even after your dragon’s tempered display.”
Ronan’s smirk curved. “What kind of ruler would I be if I allowed my kingdom to earn the reputation of refusing such a gracious invitation?”
Obrann’s laugh came edged, humorless. “And yet you’re satisfied with it being remembered for reducing my town to cinders?”
“A misunderstanding,” Ronan said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the word.”
Obrann clicked his tongue. “So, not a king and no control over the beasts bred in his realm. Perhaps you should have sent a more rightful ruler in your stead.” A slow, poisonous smile unraveled. “Tell me, where is Aero these days?”
Silence—Ronan let it hang.
Satisfied with the weight of it, Obrann leaned back. “That’s right, he’s reigning your kingdom for you.” At the king’s side, Ira snickered, clothed in white robes, his black eyes flashing.
Ronan’s glare slid past him to the smaller throne beside Obrann’s, sitting empty. “I’m curious, your heir isn’t at your side nor on the floor celebrating his bride.” He gave a small tilt of his head. “Where is Perseus?”
Obrann waved a jeweled hand, false indifference dripping from the gesture. “Perseus finds his own entertainment. He’ll appear when it pleases him.”
Ronan’s teeth flashed. “A dutiful heir.”
Ignoring the jab, Obrann motioned to a servant waiting by his feet, letting an oily smile leak across his face.
“You wear disinterest well,” he said, eyes forward, smile fixed for the room. “Most men try harder.”
Ronan’s eyes moved up from Obrann’s twisted face, toward the gem fixed in the center of his crown. “Most men want something.”
Obrann chuckled softly. “Everyone wants something.”
“Want is loud,” Ronan replied, finally lowering his glare.
Obrann’s gaze sharpened—pleased, not offended. “Power,” he murmured, as if offering a shared secret. “That’s what you and I understand, isn’t it? Not the performance of it.” He leaned back into the curve of his throne. “The ownership.”
Ronan glanced around the room, across silk and jewels and carefully arranged alliances—until his eyes landed where they’d already been returning all evening.
Verena stood near the far columns, dark against the gold, as she watched the room, utterly unimpressed.
“Ownership is a fragile illusion,” Ronan spoke after a beat.
“And yet,” Obrann murmured, “entire kingdoms kneel for it.” He tracked the shift in Ronan’s focus, smiling like he learned something useful. “Ah,” he said. “You’re not as detached as you pretend.”
Ronan turned back to him slowly, his gaze sharpening back into warning.
“Go,” Obrann exclaimed. “Enjoy yourself. Luamis has the most beautiful women in all Selvarra.” A finger traced down the servant’s bare leg as she approached Obrann’s side, before he yanked her onto his lap. “Take your pick.”
Ronan huffed a quiet laugh, bowing again as he said, “Your hospitality overwhelms.” He turned, leaving the dais behind.
“Enjoy the ball, prince,” Obrann called after him. “Tomorrow, the world will look very different.”
Ronan hated rooms like this. Masks painted in arrogance, waltzing in rehearsed steps, each smile lacquered on.
He kept to where dim spilled into the ballroom, jaw tight, glass in hand.
If Aero had come, the suffocating obligation might have been easier to endure. But he had been right to stay behind.
Dragons had burned Luamis soil and now Obrann wanted both Ryuu’s ruler and heir under his roof?
No.
One of them had to stay alive in case this celebration proved a declaration of war.
Aelia’s sun was already pushing at the horizon, the night dragging by, though not nearly quick enough. He stifled a yawn behind the rim of fresh wine, his gaze finding her as the bitterness of drink eased sweet.
Verena spun, a vortex of silk and shadow. More strands of hair had slipped free from the knot at her neck, brushing her cheeks, flushed from too much laughter.
She was magnetic, commanding every eye to be drawn to her without even trying.
He had never seen her like this. Not the Viper. Not the curse he’d been hunting. Just reckless joy.
Dangerous in an entirely different way.
He moved only a few steps before stopping again, this time near a cluster of Lords whose voices dipped when they realized they weren’t alone.
“…soon,” one murmured. “He said soon.”
“As soon as he finds them,” another replied, fingers tightening around his goblet. “That’s the promise.”
“And when he does—” a third whispered, “no one will challenge us again.”
Ronan kept his focus on the room, letting them believe they were unheard.
Promises. Challenge. Finds them.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t need to ask what them meant. There were only six things Obrann would hunt with that kind of confidence. Six relics powerful enough to justify treachery dressed as loyalty.
He turned away, eyes lifting once more to Verena. She had shifted now, subtly, but her eyes rose as if tugged by instinct.
For a fraction of a second, their gazes locked across the room.
Ronan didn’t look away.
Not until he followed where her eyes drifted, noting Obrann, then lingering on the empty throne beside him.
Her stare was honed, and far too intentional.
Whatever Obrann hunted in shadows and whispers, whatever bargains were being struck beneath crystal light, Ronan knew this truth with cold certainty: Kings would always chase power like fate would chase inevitability.
A presence drifted beside him, soaked in salt, sour wine, and pride smothered in oil.
“Extraordinary, isn’t she?”
The voice was twisted with knowing, too casual to be harmless. A flask glinted, black rings catching the chandelier’s light as it slipped behind a coat pocket.
Ronan didn’t take his eyes off her, didn’t bother looking though the warning grew low in his gut.
“Indeed,” he said, setting the glass down and turning to leave, until a hand latched onto his arm.
Aero was going to owe him for this night.
The grip loosened, replaced by an outstretched hand. “Reve,” the man spoke again.
Ronan rolled his sleeves up, one deliberate fold at a time, exposing the heir mark stained into his skin.
Reve stiffened, paled, then dropped to one knee a beat later. “Your Highness.”
Ronan hated the display, the false reverence. But he knew exactly who this man was, knew the scent still clinging faint to him. Amber and sweet, a remnant of someone he had held too closely only moments ago.
It made Ronan’s blood run cold. Made him want to burn it off his flesh.
“Ronan,” he corrected.
Reve rose, stiff, avoiding Ronan’s stare.
Both men glanced toward the dance floor where Verena still danced with a laugh that made something wicked curl inside Ronan’s ribs.
“I should have known,” Reve muttered. “From the,” his hand waved between them, “smoke and all.” The pause was long, telling. “Though, you can buy anything these days,” he added, mouth twitching sharp where it shouldn’t be. “Even power.”
Ronan drew in a dismissive breath, not bothering to correct Reve’s assumptions. Let the man choke on the thought. Let him wonder how power forged in blood and flame could ever be bought.
“I heard there were many suitors for the princess,” Reve mused, twisting one of his rings until it clicked. “But this arrangement will serve Luamis far better.”
A finger gestured toward Elva where she twirled in graceful arcs, Verena steady at her side with their fingers entwined—darkness orbiting light.
Until Elva fell into her, resting her head against Verena’s shoulder with a tenderness Ronan didn’t expect.
“Safe to assume you were one of them?” Ronan asked, disdain wrapped in every word. “A suitor turned sour, here now among the rejected, licking your wounds?”
A faint flare of opal dawn cracked across the glass walls, a mirrored tear of Ronan’s patience bleeding through.
Reve laughed, straightening his spine. “Princess Elvira is a marvel, but no.” His eyes drifted, searching the crowd until they locked on the woman draped in midnight.
“No,” he repeated, voice slipping lower. “My tastes lean more…wild.”
There was nothing fond in it. Nothing warm. Only a nefarious edge, sugared with sin.
Smoke gathered at Ronan’s fists. “Miss Vale, then?”
Reve coughed, nearly choking on the liquor he’d been swallowing. He spat a half laugh, jabbing a finger at Ronan. “I knew it. I thought I saw you dancing with her earlier.” Whiskey smeared across his knuckles as he wiped his mouth. “You two are familiar?”
Ronan slid a finger along the open edge of his shirt, tucking the gold chain beneath the fabric. “We have history.”
“Ah.” Reve’s tongue pressed against his cheek, pupil widening as he followed Ronan’s stare back to Verena.
The princess had been whisked away by an older man, his peppered hair smooth, his smile creased and bright.
Verena stood alone now, curls glued to the sheen along her neck, the silk of her gown clinging tighter where sweat kissed her skin.
Reve’s smile sharpened. “Well, I could never compete with you.” The flask swung sluggishly toward her. “Are you thinking of courting her?”
Ronan’s laugh rumbled low. Courting. That word wasn’t for her. Not with him. Not when she was already bound by prophecy, by venom, by death.
Reve’s heartbeat hammered, loud enough that it vibrated through the space between them. The band only amplified it, tangling beat for beat as Reve’s hand slid, uninvited, to Ronan’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he murmured. “I’m going to get my closure.” A squeeze. A smile stretched too wide. “Then she’s all yours.”
Dark amusement twisted in Ronan’s chest. His gaze dropped to the offending hand, already picturing how loud Reve would scream if he tore each finger from his hand, one by one.
Across the floor, Verena had noticed, her eyes cutting toward them, reading the violence thickening the air.
Ronan leaned in, letting smoke scorch the space between them. “I suggest you remove yourself quickly. Unless you wish for more burns across that hand.”
Reve held on a beat too long, brows cinching together as he realized what that meant, before peeling back with a chuckle and a patronizing slap to Ronan’s shoulder.
“Is all that fury for her?” His chin dipped toward Verena. “Or is it because you smell something else?” he added, tone dripping slow. “Something forbidden.”
The words lodged between them, uncertain.
Was he speaking of her? Of himself? Of what Obrann had already set loose? Was that what this had been, bait? A ploy to provoke Ronan into striking, handing the king his excuse for retaliation?
Or worse, was the Viper playing her own part?
The ballroom doors crashed open before the thought could fully take shape, thunder ricocheting through the chamber, strangling music, and laughter mid-note.
A servant stumbled inside, face blotched red, chest heaving, eyes wide with terror. “Where is the king?” he cried. “Where…where is His Majesty?”
Obrann didn’t even bother to turn his head. He lounged deeper on his throne, fingers drumming idly against the armrest as if the outburst were beneath him. Ira leaned in close, whispering against his ear, which drew a curl to the king’s mouth.
Stillness rippled outward. Reve straightened. Ronan’s shoulder tightened. Murmurs knifed through the room.
Until someone asked, “What’s happening?”
Ronan looked back to where Verena had stood, but she was gone.
The servant gripped the doorframe, trembling so hard the hinges rattled. “He’s dead,” he gasped. “Gods—he’s dead.”
A tremor rolled through the crowd.
“I…I didn’t do it,” the servant stammered, shaking his head. “It wasn’t me!”
Obrann shot upright at last, robes snapping behind him, amusement stripped away as the crowd broke into chaos.
Ronan’s voice cut through it. “Who?”
The servant’s eyes swept the room until they landed on Ronan and held. “The prince,” he whispered. “The prince is dead.”