Chapter 391: Chapter 391: I guess Kian did win after all... did he not?
The storm had finally begun to ease, though the rain still drummed gently against the earth. The villagers’ chants gave way to breathless whispers, rippling like fire across dry grass.
"She moved like the rain itself..."
"Did you see her? Not a single woman has ever danced like that."
"The king is smitten. He has to be."
Laughter, awe, disbelief—all tangled together as the crowd stared at Isabella, still standing tall in the circle. Her white dress clung to her like second skin, her golden hair plastered to her face and shoulders. Mud streaked her knees, her arms, but somehow she looked more divine for it, as though the Moon Mother herself had sculpted her from stormlight and earth.
And Isabella? She smirked. Of course, she looked good. She always looked good.
She lifted her chin with pride, sweeping her wet hair back from her face as though she’d just walked off a runway and not crawled out of the mud. The smug glint in her blue eyes made the women shift uneasily, for they knew—tonight, none of them compared.
Kian rose.
The murmurs died instantly.
The Lion King stepped down from his throne, his cloak dragging against the wet ground. He moved with unhurried certainty, every step echoing like a promise. His expression was cold, unchanging, but his eyes—his eyes burned. He never looked away from her, not once, as though the villagers weren’t even there.
He stopped in front of her, the rain dripping from his hair, his shoulders squared. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The silence was suffocating.
And then he lifted his hand.
The villagers gasped when he untied his royal white cloak, thick with lion’s fur, and swept it from his shoulders. The gesture was slow, deliberate, ancient. The cloak wasn’t just a garment. It was his symbol—his weight, his throne, his name.
Without a word, he draped it around Isabella’s shoulders.
The crowd erupted.
"She is chosen!"
"The king has finally claimed!"
"The Moon Mother blesses them!"
Cheers, chants, stomps, ululations filled the night air. Women clutched one another in disbelief, men shouted their approval, children danced at the edges of the circle. It was a scene the village had waited years to see, and they saw it now—not with any of their daughters, not with the beauties who had paraded themselves for decades—but with the outsider. With the goddess. With Isabella.
Her breath hitched as the heavy fur settled over her shoulders. The cloak was warm, smelling faintly of smoke and lion musk, swallowing her frame in its weight. Her pride warred with panic. She tilted her head up, glaring at him beneath dripping lashes. "Really?" she hissed under her breath, her lips barely moving. "You just had to do this in front of everyone?"
Kian’s jaw ticked. His voice was a low growl meant for her ears alone. "It was never for them."
Her heart stuttered.
The villagers didn’t care what was said. For them, the ritual was sealed. The chosen dancer always spent the night in the king’s chambers. To be seen with his cloak was to be marked—whether she wanted it or not.
Kian didn’t wait for her protests. He caught her wrist, firm but not cruel, and pulled her gently yet undeniably forward. Isabella stumbled half a step, glaring daggers at his back, but the strength in his grip made it clear: she wasn’t going anywhere else tonight.
The crowd parted instantly, chanting her name now as though she was already their queen. "Isabella! Isabella!"
She wanted to roll her eyes, wanted to snap that they were insane, but her throat was dry. Pride forced her to lift her chin instead, walking with deliberate grace as though she had chosen this herself.
Cyrus watched.
He hadn’t moved from where he stood at the edge of the circle, Glimora still tucked safely in his arms. His pink eyes tracked them, the storm in their depths quiet but deadly. His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening faintly on the creature who purred softly in his hold.
He said nothing. But the displeasure carved into his face was sharp enough to cut stone.
And so, beneath the howls of celebration and the echo of chants, the Lion King led Isabella away—past the fires, through the cheering crowd, and into the dark halls of the palace.
Into his chamber.
The villagers were still roaring, their cheers echoing long after Kian and Isabella disappeared into the palace halls. The firelight danced across faces flushed with excitement, the chants of Isabella’s name still rolling like thunder through the square. But not everyone celebrated.
Cyrus stood unmoving at the edge of the circle, Glimora a soft weight in his arms, his pink eyes still fixed on the path the king had taken with her. His face was unreadable, but his silence was heavy, dark, the kind that could crush bones.
That was when a low chuckle curled through the air beside him.
"You know," a voice drawled smoothly, steeped in mockery, "even I did not expect things to escalate this far."
Cyrus didn’t move. His eyes didn’t flick, his shoulders didn’t tense. But he knew the voice. He didn’t need to look to see the smug curve of lips, the gleam of amusement in dark eyes.
Zyran.
The other man stood casually at his side, his presence commanding without effort, a shadow in the firelight. His smile was sharp, playful, but his tone carried the bite of venom.
"Oh, you will surely need some relaxation tonight," Zyran continued, his voice silk wrapped around steel. "Lucky for you, I had left some wine in Isabella’s room. A gift, you could say. I had thought she would be returning there." He tilted his head, his grin widening with cruel delight. "But... it seems she won’t be going back tonight, will she?"
The words dripped like poison, meant to sting, meant to carve. The mockery was so thick it clung to the air itself.
Cyrus’s pink gaze never moved. He didn’t glance, didn’t react, didn’t even grace Zyran with the satisfaction of a frown. His silence was absolute, and that alone was an answer.
Zyran only chuckled again, savoring the stillness. He turned slightly, his cloak shifting, and began to walk away. His steps were slow, unhurried, his whistle low and tuneless, carried lazily into the night air.
But before he melted into the shadows, he threw one last knife over his shoulder.
"I guess Kian did win after all... did he not?"
The words lingered like smoke, taunting, echoing long after Zyran was gone.
Cyrus finally exhaled, his grip on Glimora tightening ever so slightly, his silence sharper than any blade.