The Tyrant's Stolen Bride-Chapter 129: The Village

"Rowan..." Lyra breathed his name—the only hope she had left of escaping. She said it so softly it was barely a whisper, yet Dante caught it.

"You should forget about him... he’s dead by now," he scoffed, his voice dripping with derision.

Lyra ignored him, taking his words as nothing more than an attempt to hurt her. She knew Rowan well. Taking him down wouldn’t be easy, and she had no doubts about that.

It took more than an hour before the village appeared ahead of them. Small houses lined the road. Their walls were not cemented but formed from exposed brickwork, laid by hand in uneven squares.

Some homes were modest, others larger. Every window and door was wooden, adorned with careful hand-carved detail.

They crowded the doorways and windows, while others gathered along the roadside just to watch the jeeps rumble down the narrow lane.

Their skin ranged through warm shades of brown, their hair black and curly, and many bore striking yellow eyes.

Most were barefoot. Those wearing slippers were rare—perhaps one in every ten.

Despite that, the surroundings were clean and well kept.

They waved and smiled as the vehicles passed. Lyra didn’t wave back, her gaze drifting from one face to another.

"They’re the locals. They’ve been here for generations. I like coming here... I like this place."

Pride laced his voice, pleased that Lyra had shown even a hint of interest in the village. His sudden voice made Lyra turn her face, and their noses accidentally brushed.

She jerked back immediately, rubbing her nose with a look of disgust.

"I didn’t ask," she muttered.

Dante chuckled softly, making her tinge with annoyance. She wondered if he enjoyed the way she hated him.

Their vehicle pulled up to a house which larger than the others, right in the center of the village. A simple fence surrounded it—the home of the village chief.

An old man stepped out, a shirt slung over one shoulder, a hand-rolled leaf cigarette dangling from his lips.

He walked toward them and gave a slight bow as Dante climbed down from the jeep. "Welcome, Sir Volkhan," he said warmly, his words tinged with a slight accent.

Lyra’s brow knitted at the name. "Volkhan?" she blurted, her voice low, but Dante caught it. He turned his attention toward her.

"Well, I haven’t properly introduced myself yet. You’ll learn more about me after tonight."

"A scammer," she muttered, arms crossed, her gaze drifting away.

"Using a fake name to mislead people... and vanish after making empty promises."

Dante only chuckled and turned back to the chief.

He spoke in another language. Lyra didn’t understand a word, but the old man replied fluently in the same tongue—the village language.

Dante gestured toward her, and the chief glanced at her, brows lifting in surprise before he smiled warmly and nodded in understanding.

With another sweep of his hand, he indicated a large open structure nearby—roofed but without walls, clearly a gathering place for the villagers.

The chief nodded repeatedly, laughing as he patted Dante on the shoulder, expressing gratitude or congratulations.

Lyra, on the other hand, looked on in confusion, trying to grasp the meaning behind their conversation.

After a few more exchanges, the chief took his leave. He raised his voice, calling for the villagers to gather.

In the blink of an eye, a crowd formed in front of the house.

Dante returned to Lyra, who was still seated inside the jeep. He held out his hand, inviting her down. "Shall we? Want to take a look around?"

She ignored his hand and climbed out on her own.

He grabbed her arm and leaned close, his voice low. "Stay close if you want to be safe. Hold my hand and let them see you’re not alone."

Lyra yanked her hand free and stepped back. "You think I’m stupid? Liar."

Dante shook his head and strode ahead, deliberately leaving her behind.

After a few steps, she felt the weight of many stares, male eyes cutting through the crowd, sharp and unblinking.

Her skin prickled from head to toe.

Panic flared.

She hurried forward and grabbed the hem of Dante’s shirt, staying close to his side.

"I told you," he said, his hand sliding to her waist as they walked.

Lyra twisted, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened, drawing her closer.

"Don’t fight it... I won’t be able to help you if they do anything to you," he warned.

She shot him a sharp glare.

"Then why did you bring me here? What’s your intention?" Her voice was low, edged with anger.

He leaned close to her face. "You’ll see why," he said. Lyra jerked away from him.

They settled on a stone bench nearby.

"Sit here. Someone’s coming," he said.

Lyra didn’t reply, her attention already drifting to the villagers. They had dispersed, but she noticed groups working together, carrying bundles, all heading toward a wide open space nearby.

"What are they doing?" she asked, curiosity creeping into her voice.

"They’re preparing for a ceremony," Dante said.

"A ceremony? What kind of ceremony?" Her brows knit together.

"They’re celebrating something... for us," he said. "You’ve never experienced anything like this before, right? You should enjoy it."

He leaned back, draping an arm over her shoulders, drawing her close. His grip tightened, firm enough to silence any protest before it could form.

An elderly woman approached them, guided carefully by a younger woman. She leaned heavily on a walking stick as she moved toward them.

Lyra was about to stand, but Dante held her in place.

"No need. Just sit. Let them do what they need to do."

When the woman reached them, she spoke to Dante in the village language, and he answered with equal calm.

She then murmured something, her voice was low and rhythmic, unfamiliar.

Then another group approached. Two of them carried a flower garland, while the others held trays with two cups of water and bowls filled with flower petals.

They stopped a few steps behind the elder and waited.

Lyra wanted to ask what was being said, but Dante lifted a hand, signaling her to wait until the elderly woman finished.