“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 wantssomething.”
“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.
