Page 113 of Haunted Crowns
The spell had been cast, but it had not taken. For the first time in years, Raphael felt fear. It should have settled—clean, exact—but Eris had resisted. Now either she had broken the seal, or the seal had broken her.
His throat clenched. He had mastered darker spells, whispered forbidden names, wielded powers best forgotten. But now his heart raced. Something was wrong. Irrevocably wrong. He turned and saw her. Eris. Still shackled, still kneeling, far too still.
A sickness twisted in his gut.
No.
He stumbled forward, knees striking stone, fingers tearing at the shackles until iron clanged to the floor. She collapsed into his arms, her weight too light, too limp. She had defied him, burned with fire. Now there was nothing.
He rocked her, as if motion alone could wake her. “Eris.”
No answer.
His hand trembled against her cheek. Cold. He traced it, pleading, but she did not respond. His chest caved. Raphael Dragov, always unshaken, broke.
A tear slipped down his cheek, then another, and another—until a memory surged. Tiny fingers had gripped his. A pull. A laugh.
“Come, Uncle. You promised.”
A stormy night. A small girl beneath his cloak.
“Stay with me?”
And he had, without hesitation. Now he held her again, but there was no laughter. No storm. Only silence. His arms tightened. His breath shook.
“What have I done?” he whispered. The words barely rose above a prayer. “Why did you resist?”
She couldn’t answer because there was nothing left to answer.
A sob broke from him, fractured. For the first time, Raphael understood loss.
He had wanted Stephan to choose anyone but her, had seen Eris as a threat—to the throne, to his legacy, to everything Dragov stood for. But she was still blood. Still the wide-eyedgirl who once ran the castle halls with Stephan, the one he had shielded without hesitation.
Now she was gone.
The way he ruled, the way he crushed weakness, had cost him everything—his son's respect, his brother’s trust, and the life of his niece. What was a throne worth, if bought with the blood of his own?
His grip tightened. With trembling fingers, he reached up and closed her eyes. His chest splintered beneath the weight, and he curled around her, trying to shield her from the ruin he had made. His lips pressed to her temple.
“Please… Forgive me.”
But the dead do not grant absolution.
And Eris Dragov was gone, even if her body still breathed.
Somewhere above, the oak table shook beneath pounding fists. Goblets sloshed. Laughter crashed like surf.
“To our High Commander!” Theon roared, voice thick with triumph and wine.
“To the reckless bastard who turned sacred combat into a love confession,” Adrian added, his grin sharp.
More goblets lifted.
Cassiel smirked. “Tell us, Commander—was tossing your weapons strategy, or did your lady just leave you defenseless?”
Stephan exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re all drunk. And dramatic.”
“Drunk? Yes. Dramatic? Never,” Theon shot back.
