His jaw tightened. He didn’t need to ask whatthemmeant. 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 couldeverbe 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.”
