Page 119 of Haunted Crowns
Both broken. Both bound. Both prepared to bleed for her.
“If you stare too long into the abyss,
it learns your name.”
—Lycan Saying
Chapter 25
The grove breathed with them.
Ancient oaks loomed overhead, their limbs twisted like the hands of forgotten gods. Stone monoliths encircled the clearing, their runes pulsing faintly, as though watching, waiting.
At the edge of the sacred spring, Kaelioth turned. “Lay her here.”
Stephan paused before lowering Eris into the grass. The earth was cold beneath her. Firelight traced the stillness of her face.
Kareon stood nearby, his stance rigid, silence clenched between his teeth.
Kaelioth knelt beside them. He touched the spring with two fingers and whispered to something unseen, something that did not answer. Then he spoke.
“Her soul drifts between the living and the dead,” he said quietly. “Unmoored. Unknowing.”
A breath, then: “Calling her name will not bring her back,” Kaelioth said. “She cannot be forced. The truth, if revealed too soon, may fracture her. If she sees through the illusion before she is ready, she may recoil, and be lost forever.” The fire cracked as the spring exhaled a slow breath. “One of you mustgo after her. But understand this: You will not find the Eris you know. Time does not follow law within the Hollow. She may be a child, a girl—or a stranger. You are not there to convince her. You are there to remind her of what anchors her. If she chooses to return, she will wake. If she does not, neither will you.”
The words settled into the silence. A breath followed, then a heartbeat.
“I will go.” Two voices spoke in unison, colliding like drawn blades.
Stephan’s eyes narrowed.
Kareon stepped forward, his jaw tight. “You think I’ll letyougo?” His voice carried edge and heat. “She doesn’t need a Dragov prince. She needs me.”
Stephan’s voice turned cold, edged with fury. “Over my dead body. We grew up together. I know her better than anyone ever will.”
Kaelioth exhaled, low and exhausted. “You are both insufferable.” He gestured toward the monoliths, his voice worn thin by old wars and older men. “Go together, then. Let fate decide whom she returns to.”
Neither moved. The silence became a blade suspended between them.
Kaelioth rose. His shoulders lifted, like he was carrying a burden handed down through generations. He turned to the stone basin and placed his hand on the obsidian jar. “Let it begin.”
Kaelioth uncorked the jar, and a scent slithered through the grove—not fragrance, but presence. It crept like fog into lungs and blood: blackthorn, myrrh, wolfsbane…and something sharper. Iron. Decay. Memory. He lifted a bundle of yew and wolfsbane, moving with ritual care, as if watched by something ancient. He lowered it into the flame. Smoke rose in black tendrils, twisting against the night.
The monoliths pulsed. Their runes flickered in resistance. Kaelioth exhaled and chanted in a tongue older than empires. The grove shuddered, and the runes dimmed. He dipped his fingers into the spring, and the water clung like oil. He marked Stephan’s brow, then Kareon’s. His touch burned cold.
“The veil is thin,” he said. “And the Hollow does not welcome strangers.” His voice no longer guided. It warned. He looked between them, weighing. “Drink, and remember this. If you carry fear into the Hollow, it will wear your face.”
The monoliths pulsed again, weaker now. Neither man moved. Neither looked at the other.
Stephan stepped forward first. He knelt and hesitated. Something old within him whispered:don’t. He drank anyway.
The liquid was thick and metallic, laced with soil and iron. The taste was wrong. His pulse faltered.
Kareon followed without pause. He grimaced instantly.
“Gods’own piss,” he muttered.
Smoke tightened around them as the scent of myrrh sharpened, thick with blood and the charge of an approaching storm. Kaelioth stood motionless and watched. Then the potion began to take hold.
