*Seven years later*
The great hall of the royal palace was lighted with golden candlelight, casting a warm glow over the polished marble floors.
King Ronan sat on his throne, his posture was regal, his expression unreadable. Around him, women paraded in extravagant gowns, their eyes lingering on him with a hunger that made his blood boil.
The ball had been arranged by his council. "Find a wife, secure your rule." The same conversation he had endured for months.
"A strong kingdom needs a strong queen, Your Majesty."
"You must think of the future, my King."
"A woman of noble blood will cement your legacy."
Ronan resisted the urge to roll his eyes as the words echoed in his mind.
He had conquered seven kingdoms. He had rebuilt an empire from the ashes of war. He had done it alone. And now, they expected him to choose a wife like one chooses fine wine—sampling, assessing, selecting.
His golden eyes swept over the room, unimpressed.
The women were beautiful, yes, but they were all the same—They wore the same exact silk gowns just in different colours, their hair styled in identical curls and braids. Each one of them offered him the same, exact polished smile.
Head down, eyes up and revealed only their upper teeth, a trick likely taught in some finishing school where noble ladies learned the delicate art of looking desirable.
Their conversation was equally predictable. They all asked him the same questions, the kind that required a simple, flattering response.
"What books do you enjoy, Your Majesty?"
As if he had time to sit and read poetry.
"Do you prefer hunting or riding?"
He had led armies into battle; their idea of sport was laughable.
"What do you seek in a Queen?"
Certainly not one of them.
Ronan exhaled slowly through his nose, barely suppressing his boredom.
None of them dared to be original, to speak their minds or show any genuine spark.
He barely remembered their names, and none of them held his interest for longer than a second.
A yawn escaped his lips.
Travis, his most trusted friend and commander, seated beside him, leaned over with a barely concealed smirk. "A good King doesn't yawn in front of his subjects," he whispered, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Ronan turned to him with a lazy grin. "A good King doesn't subject himself to this." He gestured toward the sea of perfectly poised women. "Are all the ladies in my kingdom this daft?"
Travis snorted. "No, but these are the ones who want to marry you. Which tells me they're either mad, desperate, or both."
Ronan huffed a laugh. "Should I be flattered?"
"Absolutely not," Travis deadpanned. "The smart women are the ones who ran the moment they heard your name."
Ronan smirked. "Smart women, indeed."
Before Ronan could continue, the great doors of the ballroom swung open.
And hush silence fell over the hall.
Conversations died. Goblets paused mid-air. Even the musicians faltered before scrambling to recover.
The source of the disturbance?
A woman.
She didn't simply enter the room—she claimed it.
Dark raven hair flowing over her shoulders, a striking contrast against skin kissed by moonlight. Full lips, the color of ripe cherries.
But it was her eyes that stopped hearts. A piercing, hypnotic green, the color of emeralds set aflame.
She was breathtaking.
Dressed in deep emerald silk, her gown clung to her curves in a way that should have been sinful. And yet, it moved like liquid, a mesmerizing blend of grace and temptation. The neckline dipped just enough to be scandalous, but it wasn't just the dress that commanded attention.
It was her presence.
Confident. Unapologetic.
She walked as if she were royalty in her own right, as if she owned this room more than the man who ruled it.
The women whispered, jealousy flashing in their eyes. The men, even the most disciplined warriors, nobles, even the councilmen—stared.
Ronan's golden eyes locked onto her. Who was she?
Unlike the others, she didn't rush forward to curtsy, to bat her lashes, or to vie for his attention. She didn't even glance in his direction.
That alone made her the most interesting person in the room.
He waited for a moment.
If she wouldn't come to him, then he would go to her.
Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his throne. His movements were fluid, controlled, yet impossible to ignore. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as he descended the steps, the sea of guests parted stepping aside, watching with wide eyes as their king descended from his throne.
The woman stood near the edge of the ballroom, sipping wine with an air of nonchalance, as if all of this—all of them—were beneath her concern.
Ronan stopped in front of her.
"You didn't greet me," he said, his voice smooth, deep, filled with curiosity.
Finally, finally, she looked at him.
And gods—those eyes.
She tilted her head, her emerald-green eyes—eyes he felt he had seen before—meeting his without hesitation.
"I didn't realize I was required to." she replied, voice velvet-soft but edged with defiance.
The audacity.
A slow, rare smirk tugged at the corner of Ronan's lips.
"Your name?"
"Selene."
The name sent an odd prickle down his spine.
"Selene," he repeated, rolling it over his tongue. "Dance with me."
Most women would have fainted at the offer.
But Selene? She just took another lazy sip of her wine, completely unimpressed.
"No."
Ronan blinked.
"No?" he echoed, as if the word itself was foreign to him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had denied him anything, let alone a simple dance.
Selene smiled. Not the sweet, demure kind he was used to. No, this was a smile that hinted at secrets and danger, at things whispered in the dark.
"I'm conserving my energy," she said lightly. "The night is still young, after all."
Ronan studied her, intrigued in a way he hadn't been in years.
Who was this woman?
And why did it feel like she was a storm waiting to break?