The drums had been going for hours. Deep, steady, thunderous beats that shook the ground beneath bare feet. The won swayed in unison, hips rolling, arms lifting toward the silver moon overhead. Their laughter rang out between the chanting of the n, low and rhythmic, voices blending into sothing primal. It wasn’t just a celebration—it was alive, pulsing, wild.
Smoke curled from fire pits, carrying the scent of roasted at and palm wine. Children ran between the adults, shrieking with joy until their mothers pulled them back into the circle, where the won stamped and spun with dazzling energy. Beads clinked, flowers spilled from their hair, bracelets rattled against their skin. It was chaos, but beautiful chaos.
And sowhere a little outside the crowd, Isabella was... bored.
She lounged on a low stone seat, one leg crossed over the other, a slice of bright red fruit in her hand. Glimora stretched lazily across her lap like the spoiled queen she was, tail flicking every so often at the sound of a drum. Isabella bit into the fruit without much enthusiasm, juice dribbling sweetly against her lips as her gaze drifted over the dancers.
"Hmm. Pretty," she muttered to herself, but her tone was half sarcastic. "But I swear I’ve seen better choreography on TikTok."
Cyrus, ever the calm shadow at her side, said nothing. He simply smiled faintly, eyes fixed on her instead of the spectacle.
Then ca the voice that cut through the noise.
"Now—now we reach the final call!"
It was an older woman, wrapped in soft animal hides, her hair braided through with feathers and bones that glimred faintly under the moonlight.
She clapped her hands together with surprising strength, silencing the nearest dancers and drawing every gaze. Her voice carried over the chanting and drums, commanding without effort.
The villagers stilled. Excitent rippled through them, whispers darting from one mouth to another.
Isabella barely glanced up, popping another bite of fruit into her mouth.
The woman continued, her tone rising with ceremony. "We have danced, we have sung, we have given thanks to the Moon Mother! And now, it is ti for what our ancestors called the choosing of the fla. The mont when beauty itself steps forward to honor our king!"
The crowd broke into claps and cheers. Won giggled nervously, fixing their hair. n stomped their feet in rhythm.
Isabella arched a brow. "Choosing of the fla?" she muttered, frowning at Cyrus. "That sounds like a bad YA novel title."
Before he could answer, the older woman lifted her arms high. "And now," she declared, "the rain will be called on!"
A hush fell.
Isabella blinked, her fruit halfway to her lips. "Excuse , what?" She turned sharply to Cyrus. "Did she just say the rain? As in actual rain?"
Cyrus finally allowed himself a small chuckle. His pink eyes softened as he leaned closer so only she could hear. "Every city, every tribe, every village—at this mont, the rain is called down. Always at the sa ti, no matter where you are. It is our bond with the Moon Mother. Her sign that we are one people."
Isabella’s eyes widened. She nearly dropped the fruit. "You an to tell you people have scheduled weather?"
"It is tradition," Cyrus replied smoothly, ignoring her sarcasm. His lips curved faintly, like he found her disbelief amusing. "And when the rain falls, the chosen woman must dance before the leader of her people. If that leader has no mate..."
He let the pause linger.
Isabella froze. Her stomach dropped, her teeth stopped chewing, and the sweet taste of the fruit turned to ash on her tongue.
"...then the dance becos an offering. An invitation," Cyrus finished.
The sound of the crowd blurred in her ears. The drums pounded like a second heartbeat she didn’t want.
Isabella’s hand automatically clutched Glimora to her chest, squeezing the cat-like creature as if she could disappear behind her soft fur. Her eyes flicked to the king’s seat, where Kian sat like carved stone—cold, watching, untouchable.
Her mind scread only one thought: Hell no.
Isabella’s fruit suddenly tasted sour in her mouth. Excuse ? A dance ant to seduce her lion king? Her lion king? The way her mind screeched at that, she almost choked on her own spit.
So basically, she thought bitterly, this whole tradition is just an excuse for so woman to shake her hips in front of Kian and see if he’ll drag her into his chambers? Absolutely not. Not today. Not ever.
Her eyes darted toward him instinctively, and of course, Kian sat there like an unmoved statue. White hair catching the firelight, blue eyes steady as the moon. He wasn’t even paying attention to the dancers anymore, but that didn’t stop every single woman in the crowd from staring at him like he was dessert.
Isabella’s grip on Glimora tightened. The poor feline squawked indignantly, flicking her tail, but Isabella barely noticed.
Beside her, Cyrus’s calm voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "The purpose of this dance," he said evenly, "is to see if the king will finally choose a woman to spend the night with."
Her head whipped toward him so fast she almost snapped her own neck. "I’m sorry, what?"
Cyrus didn’t flinch at her glare. He simply continued, though there was the faintest flicker of unease in his pink eyes. "It does not guarantee mating," he explained. "If the king decides not to mate, then nothing happens. And even if he does, the woman must give permission. Without it, nothing will still happen."
Isabella blinked. Her thoughts scrambled, then slowed as his words sank in. Right. She’d almost forgotten that about this world. No one could force a woman into mating. Not even a king. It was choice—always choice.
That should have comforted her.
It didn’t.
Because as she scanned the crowd again, she caught sight of the won. All of them. Even the mated ones, their partners chanting beside them, still sneaked hungry glances at Kian like they’d throw themselves at him if he so much as blinked in their direction.
Isabella’s lips parted in disbelief. "Oh my gosh," she muttered, clutching Glimora tighter. "I keep forgetting this beast world is so nasty."
Glimora purred as if in agreent.
Cyrus’s lips curved faintly, but he said nothing. His eyes, however, didn’t miss her sour expression, nor the way her jaw tightened as though she was seconds away from declaring war on every woman in the village.
Finally, Isabella tore her gaze from the spectacle and turned to him. "So... you’re telling no one has ever caught Kian’s attention before?"
Cyrus hesitated. Just for a second. His eyes flicked away, then back, unreadable.
Isabella let out a sharp laugh and wagged a finger at him.
"Oh, right. I forgot I brought you here before anyone else. You weren’t even around back then, so what would you know?" Isabella said with a chuckle.
Cyrus didn’t respond, which only made her chuckle harder. She popped another piece of fruit into her mouth, lounging back as if she hadn’t just been seconds from scratching every woman’s eyes out.
Her mind turned over the thought again. If no one had ever impressed him, if he’d dismissed every single dancer for years... then wasn’t that the reason he was still mate-less?
The realization made her laugh under her breath. The tension drained from her shoulders, replaced by her usual cocky confidence. If that was the case, then she wasn’t worried one bit anymore.
Let them dance. Let them twirl and sway and try to tempt him.
Kian wouldn’t look twice.
She leaned back, lips curling in smug amusent, and let out a little sigh of relief.
That was when the older woman raised her arms again, her voice ringing through the square like a drumbeat.
"And now," she declared, "we have already made our picks for tonight!"
The crowd erupted with cheers.
Isabella chewing automatically slowed down with intrest.
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