Chapter 389: Chapter 389: I accept your challenge
The murmurs of the villagers still rippled through the night air, like a thousand whispers carried by the drums. The rain had not yet fallen, but the anticipation hung heavy, humming in the crowd’s bones. The older woman’s eyes glinted, watching Isabella like a hunter waiting for the prey to step into the trap.
Isabella rose slowly, every motion deliberate, like she was performing already. Her fruit was tossed aside, forgotten, her chin lifting with a defiance that silenced the closest whispers. She dusted her hands against her dress and tilted her head ever so slightly toward the older woman.
"Alright then," Isabella said, her voice carrying easily despite the noise, smooth and confident, every syllable laced with fire. "I accept your challenge."
The older woman’s face split into a wide smile, satisfied, smug even, as though she had been waiting to hear those exact words all night. Around her, the other women giggled knowingly, like the pieces of their plan had just fallen neatly into place.
But Isabella didn’t flinch. She bent gracefully, scooping Glimora from her lap, and turned to Cyrus. The calm snake was already watching her like she’d just declared she was going to wrestle a lion with her bare hands. His brows drew together as he stepped forward, shaking his head even before she placed Glimora in his arms.
Her sharp gaze softened at the sight of him, and she allowed herself a little smile. "Don’t worry," she murmured, low enough for only him to hear. "I know if anything were to happen to me, you’d immediately swoop in—like my personal knight in shining armor—and save me, right?"
The words tugged at something in him. Cyrus’s lips curved faintly, the smallest, softest smile, though his eyes still burned with reluctance.
He wanted to pull her back. Gods, he wanted to tell her no, to keep her safe in the corner where no one could touch her. She didn’t need to do this. She never needed to prove anything. Her presence alone, the tilt of her chin, the spark in her gaze—that was enough to seduce any man alive.
But Cyrus wasn’t in a position to stop her. He had no right to tell Isabella Devereaux what she could or could not do. All he could do was accept the small warm weight of Glimora in his arms and watch in silence.
Isabella turned back to the circle, her steps unhurried but deliberate. Each one echoed like a beat of the drums, as if the earth itself kept rhythm with her. The two other women already stood waiting, their heads high, their faces glowing with nerves and excitement. They were beauties in their own right, adorned with beads and flowers, but when Isabella stepped forward to join them, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
Confidence radiated from her like heat from a fire. The villagers felt it in their bones. The two women glanced at her out of the corner of their eyes, their shoulders tensing as though realizing that they weren’t standing beside just another rival—they were standing beside her.
Isabella’s gaze didn’t stray. She didn’t look at the crowd, at the women, or even at Cyrus again. She locked her eyes directly on Kian.
Unblinking. Steady. Daring.
The Lion King sat on his throne, cold and imposing. The flickering flames from the bonfire painted shadows across his sharp features, and his fur draped over him like the night itself. His expression didn’t change, not outwardly. But his piercing blue eyes caught hers, and for the first time all night, something unreadable flickered there.
He remembered Cyrus’s words. He knew them to be true: a woman who had never danced in the sacred rain would find it punishing. Even beast women trained their bodies for months to endure it, for the weight of it was not merely water but the Moon Mother’s trial.
But Isabella was not like the others. She had proven that since the very moment she set foot in his village—when she dared glare at him, when she mocked him, when she continued to surprise him at every turn. Every time he expected her to bend, she stood taller. Every time he expected fear, she gave him fire.
So when he saw her standing there, eyes locked on him with a look that screamed, dare not to pick me, I dare you, something inside him shifted.
The village held its breath.
Kian leaned forward, his jaw tight, his expression cold as the rainclouds gathering above them. And then—without breaking her gaze—he made his decision
Kian’s gaze didn’t waver. His decision was made the instant her eyes burned into his, sharp enough to challenge, reckless enough to intrigue. The others no longer mattered. He lifted his chin ever so slightly, the movement subtle but undeniable.
The signal.
The crowd gasped collectively, ripples of shock racing through them. Never before had their king moved so quickly, never had he shown interest this easily. The murmurs began instantly. "He’s chosen..." "Did you see his eyes?" "The Moon Mother herself must have sent her—"
Isabella’s chest tightened, but her smirk curved anyway. Of course. How could he not pick her? She held her head high, pride glittering in her eyes, and stepped forward.
The villagers shifted back, widening the space. The massive circle carved into the dirt waited like an open mouth, and Isabella strode into it as though she was walking down her own personal runway. Her steps were slow, deliberate, every sway of her hips radiating confidence.
Once she crossed the threshold, the chanting began again. The women hummed low and melodic, the men’s deep voices rising in rhythm. The fires snapped higher, casting long shadows, and the energy thickened until the air itself seemed to buzz.
Isabella stood in the center, shoulders back, chin lifted, her white dress catching the glow of the flames. She could feel every eye on her, could practically taste the anticipation rolling off the villagers.
And then... silence.
The older woman raised her arms high, her voice booming. "Moon Mother! Hear us! Send us the sacred rain!"
The sky, already heavy with clouds, darkened further. Isabella glanced up. Her smirk wavered just a touch.
The first drop fell—cold, sharp—straight against her cheek. Then another. And another.
And then the heavens opened.
The rain slammed down with brutal force, nothing like the soft showers she remembered from Earth. It was thick, heavy, endless, like the sky itself had split open and decided to bury her beneath its weight.
The ground splashed beneath her bare feet, mud forming instantly. Her hair clung wet to her skin, her dress plastering against her body. She clenched her jaw, trying to stay steady, to keep her stance firm.
But the pressure... gods, the pressure was suffocating. Each drop was like a stone pelting her, pushing her down.
Her knees buckled once. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself upright.
Then the next wave hit, harder, merciless, and Isabella’s body dropped, crashing down to her knees in the mud.
The chanting stopped. Gasps echoed. All eyes widened.
The king’s decision... the dance... Isabella—