The journey was long and cold.
Ronan rode at the head of his army, his golden eyes fixed straight ahead, his thoughts were dark and heavy.
The rebellion had taken a child from him.
And now he would take everything from them.
He would find them—and burn them to the ground.
And yet, despite the rage that burned inside him he couldn't shake the lingering sensation of Selene's lips against his.
He shook his head sharply.
There was no time for distractions.
And yet, the taste of her lingered.
He clenched his jaw and rode harder, letting the wind bite into his skin. There would be no rest. No mercy until he avenged Hannah.
By the time he returned home, there would be nothing left of the rebellion but ash.
As they moved, something in the distance caught his attention. Smoke—thick, dark, and heavy—rising into the sky in wide plumes. It wasn't a cooking fire. It wasn't a forge.
It was destruction.
He pulled back the reins. Bluelight halted with a sharp snort, and the rest of the army followed suit.
"What's ahead?" Ronan asked one of his men—Peter, a seasoned soldier with sharp eyes that knows the lands.
"It should be a small merchant village, Your Majesty," Peter said. "They trade silk across the kingdoms."
Ronan's eyes narrowed. Without another word, he kicked Bluelight forward, the wind slicing past his face as he charged down the trail, his men thundering behind him.
What they found made his blood freeze.
The village was gone—burned to cinders. Entire homes collapsed into ash. Carts lay overturned, their goods scattered and smoking. Not a single living soul in sight.
No screams.
No moans.
Only silence and death.
Ronan dismounted in silence, walking past blackened corpses and crumbling houses. his eyes scanning the devastation with a cold, burning rage. More innocent people were dieing at the hands of the rebellion.
The Rebellion were not just trying to dismantle his kingdom. They were provoking something far darker inside him. Something he had long buried beneath duty and peace.
"Your Majesty," one of his soldiers said behind him, trying to keep his voice steady. "They shouldn't be far now. If we keep heading east—"
"If we split up, we'll cover more ground," another interrupted. "Some of us should go south. Your Majesty?"
Ronan ignored them.
He crouched low, touching the ground.
It was still warm.
He glanced toward the trees, the breeze shifting oddly.
It was quiet....Too quiet.
His head snapped up in realization.
"It's an ambush—" he began.
But the warning came too late. The words barely left his mouth before the enemy struck.
A horde of riders burst from the trees on all sides their faces masked, blades gleaming. Arrows whistled through the air, cutting down the first line of Ronan's men. Screams erupted, metal clanged, horses reared.
Bluelight neighed violently and charged toward Ronan.
He grabbed the reins and vaulted into the saddle in one fluid motion, sword drawn.
His fury was unleashed.
He tore through the rebels like a storm—each strike fast, brutal, precise. His golden eyes blazed with something primal, something ancient. For every man they killed, Ronan returned the blow tenfold.
But his men were surrounded. They were outnumbered. The rebellion had planned this well.
They were ready for him.
If he and his soldiers didn't find a way to retreat, they would all be slaughtered.
Then, just as that thought settled in his mind a voice rang out.
"Enough!"
It was strong, commanding… and unmistakably feminine.
The moment it echoed across the battlefield, the attackers froze. Then, slowly, they began to retreat, stepping back and lowering their weapons in eerie unison.
Ronan frowned, his golden eyes scanning the crowd. The rebels were parting, making way for someone.
And then he saw her.
A woman emerged, cloaked in flowing black, her face still hidden beneath a shadowed hood.
"It seems you're outnumbered, Your Majesty," she said, her voice smooth and sultry like velvet laced with poison.
Ronan didn't flinch. "You lead this rebellion?" he asked, voice tight with fury.
She smiled, then slowly lowered her hood.
Her eyes were a deep, unnatural red—like rubies. Her hair darker than coal, her skin pale as untouched snow.
"Why do you ask?" she replied, tilting her head. "Were you expecting a man instead of a beautiful damsel?"
"I'll kill you either way."
Her smile widened. "Are you sure about that? You're surrounded… and very much at my mercy."
"Our mercy, my love," a male voice added, stepping beside her.
"Ah, yes, of course," she said, brushing his arm with affection. "Our mercy."
Ronan's eyes narrowed as recognition struck.
The man standing beside her—he knew him.
The prisoner his council had insisted he spare. The one who had somehow escaped the night Hannah died.
The man who should have been dead.
"We meet again, Your Majesty," the man said with a mocking bow and a cold, humorless laugh.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance. I told you… I was going to burn your kingdom to the ground."
Ronan's jaw tightened. His golden eyes narrowed into slits of pure fury.
"Your Majesty," the woman's voice cooed, dragging his attention back to her. "I'm afraid today will be your last. You and your men will die here. But…" she tilted her head, smiling like a viper, "I'm a just woman. And I believe every man deserves a chance to surrender before I take his head."
Ronan let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He raised his sword high, the metal gleaming under the gray sky. "We may be outnumbered," he growled, "but we'll still kill every last one of you before we fall."
He roared, and his men surged forward, blades drawn, war cries erupting into the air. They charged with wild, reckless fury, not caring for the odds stacked against them.
The woman—Melisse—sighed dramatically, turning to her companion. "I love it when they put up a fight. Don't you, darling?"
"Indeed I do, my love," he replied, stepping back with a lazy smile. "Do your thing."
Melisse's crimson eyes gleamed with delight. She raised both hands and whispered something in a tongue that didn't belong to mortals.
"Listen to the words of Melisse…"
A wave of unnatural silence swept over the battlefield.
Ronan's soldiers froze mid-charge.
Their blades trembled in their hands.
And then… one by one, their eyes turned blood-red.
The clash of swords died. The shouting ceased.
And the battlefield went deathly quiet.
"No…" Ronan whispered.
Then—
"Kill yourselves."
Her words were soft. Gentle even. Like a mother lulling her child to sleep.
But the result was chaos.
Ronan's men turned on one another. Without hesitation. Without mercy.
Brothers-in-arms drove steel into each other's hearts. Blood sprayed across the scorched earth. Screams of agony filled the air.
"STOP!" Ronan bellowed. "HOLD YOUR GROUND!"
But no one listened.
No one heard him.
They were lost.
Ronan spun to Melisse, still standing untouched at the edge of the battlefield, smiling like the devil himself. Her eyes glowed with eldritch power, far too red, far too wrong.
"Witch!" Ronan roared, fury surging through his veins as he turned Bluelight toward her.
The warhorse galloped at full speed, and Ronan raised his sword high. He would end her.
Melisse simply turned her head and watched him approach, utterly calm.
But then—*thwack*.
An arrow struck his chest.
Then another.
And another.
Pain exploded through his chest and ribs as more arrows slammed into him.
Bluelight reared in agony, letting out a shrill, pained cry as arrows pierced his flank. The mighty horse stumbled—
—and crashed to the ground.
Ronan fell with him, the weight of his steed slamming onto his leg and pinning him to the cold, bloody soil.
He gasped, the breath ripped from his lungs. Blood soaked his armor. Arrows jutted from his chest, each one pulsing with a hot, throbbing pain.
But he refused to die.
Not like this.
He gritted his teeth and reached for his sword, his vision flickering.
Through the haze, he saw Melisse still watching him, her cloak billowing in the wind, her expression serene.
Another figure stepped up beside her, glancing at Ronan with an uncertain frown.
"Why didn't your power work on him?" the man asked.
Melisse's smile faltered slightly.
"I have no idea," she whispered.
Then—blackness.