Page 163 of Haunted Crowns
The Obsidian line faltered.
Stephan saw it—the hesitation in their stance, the flicker behind their visors. They had come expecting a boy-king. What they faced instead was a warlord who had already chosen their fate.
Now the true war began.
The battlefield erupted with fire and frost, steel and blood, screams and howls. At its center, Stephan advanced, not as a man but as something more. A blade slashed toward him; he moved faster. Sanguine Oath sang, and a head fell before the body collapsed. A charging commander’s chest split open beneath his blade. An arrow missed its mark, but before the archer could draw again, Stephan’s sword had found his throat. His eyes, once black, now burned ember-red, fierce and feral.
The Obsidian warriors hesitated.
They had inadvertently awakened a god of war.
Stephan Dragov was not just fighting. He was carving legend into flesh and stone.
Amid the chaos, Kareon moved like a shadow through flame.
A soldier lunged, but Kareon didn’t flinch. Steel flashed past him, and he tore out the man’s throat in a single, fluid motion. His eyes narrowed, pupils molten gold, burning through the storm. Wolf and warlord had fused into something ancient, something monstrous.
He did not kill like a man. Each strike was a sacrament of fury, precise and relentless.
The enemy faltered. They understood too late that Kareon was not a soldier. He was the nightmare buried in their blood.
The battlefield roared as steel screamed and men died. But in the heart of it, a man laughed.
Lord Gavriel.
His blade danced like an artist at war, painting in blood. His armor ran red, but none of it was his. He didn’t fight for honor. He didn’t fight for victory.
He fought because he loved war. And war loved him back.
Elsewhere on the field, the storm raged. Steel crashed, flesh tore, and blood hissed on snow. They did not fight as two. They moved as one.
Taric struck first, claws severing a head before the scream rose. Varis followed, his blade cutting the second before the first body fell. A spear lunged, but Taric dodged it with ease. The attacker staggered, and Varis shattered his wrist, turned the weapon, and drove it through his ribs.
They did not speak. They did not need to.
This was not strategy. It was a hunt. And the wolves of Kareon did not miss.
Then came Adrian, Theon, and Cassiel. They had bled together as boys; now they fought as warlords.
Adrian spun, dagger flashing beneath a chin, slicing through bone.
Theon wove through blades, breaking wrists, severing tendons, always a breath ahead of death.
Cassiel stood like a war-titan, his longsword cleaving armor as if it were air.
They did not hesitate. They did not fall. With their brothers beside them, they were unstoppable.
But not everyone held.
A Firstblood fell, his sword lost in the chaos. Three Obsidian warriors turned on him, blades raised in a death sentence.
He lifted his hands, but it was too late. A blur crossed the battlefield. A Lycan ripped through them. One was crushed beneath claws, another torn apart, the third left choking on his own blood.
The Firstblood looked up at the beast who had saved him. The Lycan snarled but did not strike. The air between them pulsed, ancient and electric. They had been enemies for centuries. Now they were simply warriors.
They exchanged a nod. No words were needed, because trust was not spoken. It was forged in blood.
And tonight, war had reforged history.
