Chapter 37: Little Lion

Ronan, was barely breathing. His chest rose in shallow, uneven gasps, the pain becoming too much to bear. The moon hung low above him, watching his slow, bitter unraveling. Blood poured from in his chest. He could feel the edges of consciousness fraying, slipping through his fingers like sand.

Darkness threatened to pull him under, but before it could, memories came rushing in like a tidal wave.

He was ten again—smaller, scrappier, and panting as he stumbled across the sunlit courtyard, wooden sword gripped too tightly in both hands. His brothers circled him like wolves.

"Come now, little lion," Tai, his older brother jeered, his smirk gleaming beneath the sweat beading on his brow. "You'll never be a warrior if you keep tripping over your own feet."

"Maybe he'll make a better bard," Atticus, the eldest added with a grin, lifting his own practice blade and lightly tapping Ronan's shoulder. "Or a cook. A very brave cook."

Ronan's face flushed with humiliation. "I don't want to be a cook!!" He cried as he lunged forward—messy and predictable—and Tai sidestepped with ease, swinging the flat of his blade to knock Ronan onto the grass.

The wind whooshed from his lungs, and as he stared up at the blue sky, both brothers leaned over him laughing. Not cruelly—at least not Atticus—but with the kind of amused affection that came from knowing they'd always be stronger.

Still, Ronan loved them. Both of them.

Atticus, the eldest, was the crown prince. He carried himself with a quiet dignity that made even councilmen stand straighter in his presence. His eyes, warm and sharp, mirrored their father's. When he placed a gentle hand on Ronan's head and helped him to his feet, there was no mockery—only pride.

"You'll grow stronger," he said. "Just keep fighting, little brother."

"Yeah right." Tai laughed. "He'll be a weakling all his life."

Tai, despite his teasing, would still sneak him extra pastries from the kitchens when the cooks weren't looking. He'd drag Ronan out of bed before dawn for more sparring, insisting that he'd get stronger only by training everyday.

Their mother would scold Tai when he bruised Ronan too much. Her voice, soft like falling snow. She would always pull Ronan into her arms, her scent like lavender and sweet amber—wrapping around him like armor.

"Oh my little lion," she'd whisper into his hair. "They tease you because they love you. And one day, they will kneel before your strength."

And his father—the great King Hadrian—tall and strong and Wise. With a calm, steady gaze that saw through lies and fear alike. His voice was deep and firm, the kind that made even the angriest lords fall silent. He ruled with wisdom and strength, and to Ronan, he had always seemed unshakable—a true king, and a good man.

His people loved him. Ronan worshiped him.

But peace was a fragile thing. And it shattered the night the seven traitors rose.

Ronan hadn't been in the castle that night. He had begged to go hunting with Travis. It had taken days of pleading, but eventually, his father allowed it, only because Travis would accompany him, and they would be back before dawn.

But they'd barely reached the edge of the woods when they turned back.

The horizon glowed with orange and smoke choked the sky.

The castle—his home—was burning.

Ronan froze for a second, then bolted. Feet pounding, heart slamming against his ribs, he raced back the way they'd come. Travis was right behind him, breathless and pale, yelling for him to stop.

They slipped in through the servant's gate—quiet, unnoticed. The castle was aflame. Screams echoed through the halls. Blood smeared the marble floors like paint.

And then—he saw them.

Atticus's body was sprawled across the throne room steps, sword still in hand, chest pierced by three spears.

Tai lay not far, face down, his back sliced open.

Their mother was crumpled at the foot of the dais, a dagger through her heart. And their father—he was on his knees, head bowed as a man in a black cloak drove a blade through his spine.

Ronan's scream never made it past his lips.

Travis clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him back—through the kitchens, out the gardens, past the burning stables—until the castle disappeared behind them, nothing but smoke and death in the wind.

"Don't make a sound," Travis whispered. "They'll kill you. You're all that's left. You hear me? You're the last."

That night, the boy who had once cried when his sword broke in training… died.

The one who rose in his place—he was something else entirely.

Seven years passed. Seven winters of hiding. Seven years of rage simmering beneath skin and bone. He honed himself into a blade, sharp and unforgiving. He swore vengeance not in prayer, but in blood.

The day he found Valerius, the ancient sword of fire, was the day his retribution began. One by one, the traitors who had murdered his family fell to his hand—some in battle, others in their beds, their last breath stolen by the boy they thought had perished.

Elliot Wynter—father of Selene—had been among them.

Ronan's jaw clenched. Even half-dead, his anger burned like wildfire.

He would kill that bastard a hundred times if the gods let him. A thousand. He had no sympathy, no pity, no remorse.

And yet…

Her face appeared.

Selene.

His breathing grew more laboured. Isn't he suppose to hate her now that he knew the truth?

She was Elliot Wynter's daughter. The daughter of the man who helped slaughter his family, who carved the throne with blood, who laughed while Ronan's world burned.

But… why didn't he?

What evil spell had she cast on him?

It didn't matter now.

What mattered was getting out of here—before the darkness claimed him for good.

He clenched his fists around the biting chains and pulled.

A scream tore from his throat, hoarse and guttural, more beast than man. The spear through his chest scraped against his ribs, the searing agony nearly robbing him of consciousness. Blood poured faster, hot and unforgiving, and yet—

He pulled again.

His arms shook violently. Muscles strained, shoulders screamed in protest. The iron cuffs bit deeper, slicing into skin already raw, the scent of blood thick in the air.

But he didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

He would not die here.

Chains groaned above, metal straining under his fury. He leaned into the pain, letting it fuel him—letting the fire of his past blaze to the surface.

He saw Tai's teasing smirk, Atticus's warm smile. His mother's arms wrapping around him after yet another bruised defeat in the training yard. He heard her voice, soft and soothing:

"You are born of fire, my son. You will break, but you will never be broken."

He roared.

The sound echoed off the cavern walls like thunder, shaking loose flecks of rock from the ceiling. He pulled, his body trembling, veins pulsing gold beneath the bloodied skin.

The chains shuddered.

Crack.

The right shackle buckled slightly at the joint.

Ronan's eyes flew open—gleaming bright now.

Another surge of strength. Another growl ripped from his throat as he dragged against the chains again. His shoulders popped, dislocating. He didn't care.

He would tear the heavens apart if he had to.

Crack. Snap.

The first chain gave way, one arm dropping free, blood spraying as his wrist tore from the broken cuff.

Ronan swung his now-free arm with monstrous force, slamming his elbow into the second shackle, over and over until—

Boom.

The chain snapped from the ceiling.

Both arms fell. He collapsed forward, yanking on the shackles around his ankles.

His legs were too weak to support him, but he snarled and crawled upright, dragging the spear in his chest with every tortured breath.

He dragged himself towards the exit.

Then—

"Going somewhere?"

Melisse's voice rang out smooth and taunting. She towered in front of him.

He looked up at her, teeth clenched, muscles trembling.

"That was quite impressive," she said with a wicked smirk. "But you're not leaving here. Ever."

She knelt beside him calmly, her fingers wrapping around the iron spear protruding from his chest.

And then—with a vicious smile—she shoved it deeper.

Ronan roared in pain, his body arching, but she had made a fatal mistake.

She had come too close.

With a snarl, he lashed out, wrapping the length of broken chain still tethered to his wrist around her throat. Her eyes widened in shock as the links tightened. She clawed at the metal, gasping, choking, trying to wrench free.

But Ronan held on. His vision blurred, his body screaming, but his grip only tightened. He would kill her. Here and Now.

Melisse's face darkened, turning a violent shade of purple, her eyes bulging, fingers twitching uselessly.

And then just as her strength gave out—

She vanished.

Dissolved into ash and smoke, slipping through the chains like a shadow.

Gone.

Ronan collapsed, gasping, chains rattling beside him.

So close.

So damn close.