Stolen by the Beastly Lycan King-Chapter 149: The Irony

"Daro..."

The name slipped from Rhaegar’s lips, leaving a bitter aftertaste that clung to his tongue. Just speaking it made his jaw tighten and his chest burn with resentment.

Rhaegar’s time among the nomads was a Chapter of his life etched with memories both soothing and searing. A period of refuge and revelation—but also of unhealed wounds and restless rage.

He had been found unconscious, wandering perilously close to Erelith’s border, teetering on the edge of life and death. The gypsies recognized him instantly. The honey-colored eyes, bronzed and flawless skin, unruly brown curls that framed his face, and, most notably, the seal—a mark that only one person could leave.

The Gypsy Witch. His mother.

When Rhaegar awoke, he found himself enveloped in the warmth of thick quilts and soft blankets, his aching body sinking into their comforting embrace.

Surrounding him was a circle of old shaman women, their expressions unreadable as they puffed on long, black pipes. The thick, pungent smoke hung in the air like an oppressive mist, forcing him into a fit of coughing every time he drew breath.

It wasn’t long before he learned the truth about the people who had saved him, and his heart, heavy with years of rejection and pain, dared to loosen its grip. For the first time, he felt as though he had found a place where he belonged—a family as vast as the sprawling nomadic population.

Yet even the solace of belonging could not extinguish the fire burning in his blood. Though he longed to savor the newfound peace, he knew there was no time for such indulgence.

He had barely escaped the shackles of slavery, but the scars it left behind festered like open wounds. His rage was a living thing, insatiable and wild, demanding vengeance. He could not rest, could not breathe freely, until the man who had subjected him to such torment was brought to justice.

And justice, in Rhaegar’s mind, meant only one thing: the man’s severed head nestled firmly in his hands, detached from the body that had brought him so much suffering.

His training began as soon as his body regained its strength.

The gypsies, ever resourceful due to their extensive travels, had observed warriors from across the continent, absorbing knowledge of countless combat styles and techniques.

Though they deliberately chose to forgo centralized leadership, their men prided themselves on their ability to defend their people. In times of danger, their strength and skill with a wide variety of weapons became a point of honor.

Determined to rise above his past and harness the rage simmering within him, Rhaegar threw himself into the tribe’s rigorous training. He joined the men in grueling exercises, fierce competitions, and relentless drills, mastering the art of swordsmanship and other martial disciplines. Paired with boys his age, he quickly made friends—but it wasn’t long before he met him.

Daro.

Rhaegar could still recall Daro as a teenage boy, slightly older, exuding untamed curiosity and unrelenting ambition. Intelligent and adept at intricate schemes,

Daro constantly pushed himself, chasing greatness. He earned the title of second-best in countless contests, but no matter how fiercely he tried, he could never surpass Rhaegar. The younger boy’s innate beastly strength and extraordinary talents left him unrivaled among the tribe’s warriors.

Their unspoken rivalry, a ceaseless struggle for dominance, became a game to them both. For years, it fueled their growth, testing their limits. But it finally ended when Rhaegar achieved what he sought and departed the tribe for the Beast Kingdom.

Yet even now, years later, Rhaegar could still remember the scent of that endless competition, the unmistakable tension Daro carried with him. It was so distinct, so uniquely his, that Rhaegar believed he could recognize it anywhere.

Or so he thought.

The queen must have tampered with his scent back then...

Rhaegar’s sharp gaze remained fixed on the man approaching from atop his horse. The occasional gust of wind carried more of his scent, and now the king felt as if he were drowning in it.

He was the same man Rhaegar had encountered at the gambling station—the one who had outcheated him and claimed the last gladiator slave.

And now, fate had brought them face to face once again, this time as rivals yet again.

"Something in your expression tells me you’re not exactly thrilled to see an old friend, King Rhaegar," Daro called out as he leaped gracefully from his galloping horse. He strode toward the king, his gilded sword trembling faintly at his side, reacting to another fragment of the "King’s Gold."

"I do not consider the queen’s puppets to be friends, Daro," Rhaegar replied coldly, gesturing for his men to lower their weapons and step aside.

Daro smirked, running a hand through his long black hair. "Big words, Beast King. Those ’animals’ you now command killed your mother, and yet here you stand, proud as their leader. The irony isn’t lost on me."

"The crown prince sent you to ambush our procession and retrieve the princess, didn’t he?" Rhaegar asked mockingly, his tone dripping with disdain. He loosened his grip on his sword, his confidence unwavering, as if to show Daro he felt no threat from him. "The sword won’t make you stronger than me, Daro. Turn your men around and leave. Lorelei is no longer his to take—she is now Queen of Beasts. She is my wife."

Now it was Daro’s turn to reveal just how little Rhaegar’s words meant to him. With a grin slicing across his face, he took another step toward the king, his tone disarmingly casual.

"Take Lorelai? Apologies, Your Majesty, but you seem to have misunderstood something. I’m not here to take her—I’m here to escort her back home."

"What...?"

Rhaegar’s expression contorted with confusion, but before Daro could elaborate, a piercing shriek tore through the air. It came from the carriage where Lorelai had been resting under Naveen’s watchful care.

"Lorelai?!"

Daro laughed, his shoulders trembling as if the sound of her distress brought him immense satisfaction. The glint in his eyes was almost predatory as he spoke again.

"Ah, right on time."