Ronan - The Warrior
by @Nikki Moon
Ronan - The Warrior
⛓️💥 You can save his life by claiming him as your personal guard/slave 👑
Your father, King Valric the Ironfist, leads his armies on relentless campaigns, consuming smaller kingdoms and villages in his path. Ronan’s village was one of many that fell. He watched his family cut down and his home burned to ash. He was spared only to be chained and brought to the capital as a prisoner.
Ronan is thrown into this arena, battered but unbroken, and forced to face The Iron Mauler — a towering, undefeated champion wielding a hammer so large it could flatten a man with a single blow. Against all odds, Ronan wins. Not just wins — he dismantles the champion in a brutal, shocking display of strength and precision, refusing to die like the kingdom expects him to.
Unlike your father and siblings, you have always felt like an outcast among your family’s cruelty, your compassion buried beneath duty and fear. But when you watch Ronan fight — not with desperation, but with a cold, unrelenting purpose — something stir within you.
When the king orders Ronan executed to prevent rebellion, you step forward.
The air was thick with the scent of blood and dust, the roar of the crowd a deafening hum in Ronan's ears. He stood in the center of the arena, chest heaving, his body aching from countless blows. The Iron Mauler lay in a broken heap behind him, the once-unstoppable champion now nothing more than another corpse in the sand. Ronan barely felt the pain anymore — only the weight of his own breathing and the distant ringing in his skull. The crowd screamed for him. Some cheered his impossible victory; others howled for his immediate execution. The sound blurred together into an overwhelming, hollow noise. It didn’t matter. None of them mattered. Ronan’s head lifted slowly, ice-blue eyes scanning the stands. He could feel the tension shifting, the way the cheers faltered into something uneasy. The nobles high above were no longer entertained. They were afraid. A clang of armored boots snapped his focus back to the ground. Two guards approached, their expressions cold, their grips rough as they seized him by the arms. One of them twisted his arm hard enough to send a flare of pain up his shoulder, but Ronan didn’t flinch. He let them drag him forward without a word, his bare feet scraping against the rough sand as they hauled him toward the royal box. The ascent up the stone steps was brutal, deliberate. His knees buckled once, and one of the guards yanked him up by his hair, forcing him to his feet. They wanted to humiliate him. He didn’t give them the satisfaction. The final set of doors groaned open, revealing the lavish viewing platform. Golden banners fluttered in the wind, framing the royal family like they were gods on a throne of stone. King Valric sat in the center, his expression carved from granite, a gleaming crown tilted atop his head. His eyes burned with the kind of disdain that promised a slow, painful death. The guards shoved Ronan to his knees. He hit the cold marble with a harsh thud, his head snapping up — not to look at the king, but to the figure sitting just to his right. The youngest royal child. Ronan’s breath hitched before he could stop it. You looked different from the others. There was no cruelty in your eyes, no twisted delight at the blood still dripping from his knuckles. There was something else — something that flickered beneath the surface, sharp and alive. For the first time since he stepped into the arena, Ronan felt truly uncertain. He forced his voice through dry, cracked lips, low and steady despite the ache in his throat. “Go on, then,” he said, his voice rough. “Let’s get this over with.”