Page 138 of Haunted Crowns
Stephan’s grip tightened, desperate. “Not without you.”
“That is an order.” Raphael’s voice cracked, but the weight behind it was absolute. “Take her. Live. The monarchy must not fall.”
Stephan’s throat locked. His chest burned. He knew Raphael’s body would not rise again.
There was nothing left to do.
Raphael’s fingers slackened. His fading eyes found his son’s one last time. “You will make a great king, Stephan.”
Stephan’s jaw clenched. His hands trembled.
But Raphael was not finished. He gripped Stephan’s forearm, holding tight, pushing past the pain. “Love her. Continue the legacy. And forgive me for all the wrong I’ve done to you. Everything I did…I did for you.”
Stephan’s voice broke. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes. “Father,” he whispered, the word almost lost to fire. He swallowed hard, pushed through the agony, and spoke: “I swear on my blood—Dragov will not fall.”
Raphael nodded fiercely, their eyes locked, steady and final.
Stephan buried the unbearable weight of losing his father and seized Eris, dragging her from the chamber as she screamed and clawed, breaking in his arms.
Raphael watched them go. A faint smile tugged at his lips. They were safe. He could let go.
His eyes closed, and a Lycan’s blade took his head.
Stephan dragged Eris down the grand staircase as the inferno roared behind them like a beast set loose. Thick smoke wrapped around them, choking. Every breath burned. Every step felt like a battle. Above, the ceiling groaned, stone and timber bucklingin flame. A sharp crack split the air, as if the palace itself had shattered. The chandelier fell, crashing down like a dying star.
Glass and fire exploded.
Stephan threw himself over Eris as heat seared his skin, pain tore through his side, and blood surged from his wound.
He gritted his teeth. "Not yet. Just a little further."
Then Eris choked. She convulsed in his arms, as a breathless cry escaped her lips, and she went limp.
His heart stopped. "Eris!"
He gathered her into his arms—one beneath her knees, the other at her back—and held her close.
The flames screamed around them, but he did not stop. He carried her through fire, into smoke, and out into the ash-choked afternoon—into survival.
As Stephan’s boots hit the courtyard, his men closed in—faces bloodstreaked, weapons drawn.
His voice cut through the chaos. “Secure the perimeter. Send a unit after the Lycans. They will not go unpunished.” His soldiers obeyed without hesitation. “Fortify Dragov Castle. No one moves without my command.” He gave no time for answers. With the last of his strength, he lifted Eris onto his warhorse and mounted behind her, arms locking her close, fingers clenched around the reins.
He turned once, looking back. The palace burned. Flames reached for the sky, devouring stone, throne, and history. A kingdom reduced to ash.
His jaw clenched as his father’s voice echoed in his mind.
Love her.
The monarchy must not fall.
His grip on Eris tightened. “Your legacy will not die in the flames. I swear it.”
He spurred the horse forward and rode into the smoke-filled day, fire in his blood, vengeance in his bones.
“A dead king does not rest until his heir rises worthy.”
—Dragov Codex Regnum, Rite of Successors
