The Tyrant's Stolen Bride-Chapter 130: The First Rite

Lyra blinked in surprise when flower petals were suddenly scattered over her head. For a brief moment, she froze.

She reasoned that it might just be their custom for receiving guests.

Small cups were handed to them next. The liquid inside was brown and unfamiliar.

"What is this?" Lyra whispered, afraid to drink, though she watched Dante sip it without a hint of suspicion. She sniffed the drink.

"Don’t sniff it—you’ll offend them," he reminded her.

Lyra took a cautious sip. It was overwhelmingly sweet, but she swallowed it. She coughed slightly by accident.

A woman gently took the empty cup from her hands.

Finally, they draped flower garlands around their necks.

The elderly woman smiled, placing her hands gently on them as she offered another blessing.

Then her eyes lifted toward the sky as if speaking directly to the god.

"Spirit who dwells in stone and soil. Accept this union made upon your ground. As the river returns to the sea and the roots cling to the mountain, so may these two remain bound. Guard their home, bless their labor, and let their bond endure beyond the turning of seasons."

She bowed three times, completing the prayer. Then they all left without another word.

Lyra’s gaze shifted to Dante. "What did she say just now?" she asked, rubbing her arms as goosebumps prickled her skin at the prayer’s solemn tone.

"Nothing important. It’s just their way of welcoming outsiders," he said calmly.

Dante rose from his seat and held out his hand. "Come on. Want to look around the village?"

Lyra agreed without hesitation. Anything was better than sitting in Dante’s embrace. She stood up, pointedly ignoring his outstretched hand.

Dante shook his head. She’d done it again. He caught her before she could step away, dragging her back to his side.

"Did you forget what I warned you about earlier?" he said, his voice low and displeased.

Lyra shot him a glare. She hadn’t forgotten, but that didn’t mean he had the right to touch her.

"You’re just taking advantage... move your hand."

She shoved his hand away from her waist and, instead, hooked her arm through his, forcing him to keep a proper distance as they walked.

"I’m letting it go this time," he said, but Lyra turned a deaf ear.

Dante showed her around the village. Even though she did not understand their language, he translated for her, explaining their words with ease.

He seemed to enjoy it far more than she did. His voice softer, his expression lighter, almost... delighted.

After an hour passed, exhaustion finally caught up with her. Her legs ached, her head felt heavy.

She walked to a nearby stone and sat down to rest.

Dante, who had been talking with the villagers, stopped when he noticed her moving away from them. He strode over to her.

"Tired?" he asked.

"We can rest at the chief’s house."

Lyra shook her head. "No. Let’s just go back. I want to stay with my father."

"That’s not possible," Dante said firmly.

He gestured around them. "Preparations are almost done. You expect us to leave now? No. We’re staying."

Lyra stood up immediately. "No. I’m not staying. I want to go back to my father."

Dante grabbed her arm. His grip was tight, his voice low and cold.

"You’re still stubborn, aren’t you? Or do you need a lesson?" he warned. He jerked his chin toward several village men watching them with unsettling interest.

Lyra glared at him, hatred burning in her eyes. She despised the fact that she had no power to refuse him.

With a sharp tug, she pulled her hand free and stormed toward the chief’s house. He followed close behind.

A middle aged woman approached them as soon as they reached the house.

"She’s the chief’s wife. Go with her, get some rest."

The woman led Lyra upstairs to a room freshly prepared, as if it had just been arranged.

Flowers decorated the space, their fragrance soft but heavy in the air. White fabrics were draped along the walls.

The bed was covered with a beautifully embroidered floral sheet. Everything was white.

Lyra turned to the woman and asked, "Whose room is this? It looks so carefully prepared. Is it really okay for me to rest here?"

The woman did not understand her.

She offered no reply.

Instead, she gestured toward a set of clothes neatly laid out on the table, then pointed toward the bathroom.

"Oh... okay," Lyra nodded, rubbing the back of her neck, momentarily forgetting that they could not understand her.

Left alone, she picked up the clean clothes and went to wash herself before changing.

The garment was loose and white, made of soft cotton. Its long sleeves and flowing hem fell all the way to her ankles, with delicate embroidery stitched along the fabric.

Once dressed, she sank onto the bed. A drowsy heaviness settled over her, her thoughts growing hazy, until sleep claimed her completely.

In the chief’s courtyard, Dante sat back in his chair, watching the preparations for the night unfold.

Villagers moved with purpose, setting up decorations, arranging offerings, preparing the space for the event. He had paid them well for their cooperation.

From a distance, Stott approached. He pulled out a chair, and sat down across from him, studying him in silence.

The look made Dante smirk.

Curiosity finally got the better of Stott. "When did you decide to marry her like this?" he asked.

Dante shrugged.

"I had another plan at first... but it changed the moment she reached the island."

"And you’re fine with that?" Stott asked, his brows raised. He was certain Dante was being reckless this time.

"You’re aware the customs here aren’t the same as in the city," Stott pressed.

"Of course," he said lightly, chuckling.

"Every place has its own ways—who cares? As long as my child comes from her womb."

Stott raised an eyebrow slightly. Dante had far too much time on his hands, reveling in the village’s ancient wedding customs.

From their seats, they saw another jeep approaching. Dust billowed into the air as the tires screeched to a halt.

The driver jumped out and hurried toward them.

"Don. Port just checked in. Old Volkhan’s already in the air, heading this way."

Dante raised one hand and the man froze, wiped the sweat from his face. He forced himself to steady his breathing.

Stott shifted uneasily in his chair. "What should we do now? He must already know you took care of Kiera."

Dante smirked. "Let him come."