Page 164 of Haunted Crowns
Then, for the first time, Dragov faltered.
Victory had once felt inevitable. Stephan’s gambit had unfolded with the precision of prophecy—each move ruthless, exacting.
But war was never only strategy; it also demanded endurance. And the Obsidian Order had bodies to burn.
Dragov’s warriors pressed forward without pause, cutting down wave after relentless wave.
Yet for every enemy slain, two more surged to take their place. Exhaustion carved its way into their bones. Blades slowed. Shoulders sagged. The rhythm of war turned against them.
Exhaustion bred hesitation. Hesitation grew into doubt, and doubt gave way to fear.
The Order sensed it—and fed on it. They did not need to be stronger, only patient.
And as that patience paid off, the tide began to turn.
The first sign of danger was not the glint of steel, but the sudden chill in the wind.
A noble turned to shout a warning, but his voice died as his head struck the frost. Another spun, too late. Steel pierced his ribs, then rose to sever his head.
Dragov’s front line collapsed, not from weakness, but from fatigue.
The Lycans screamed. In pain, in death. The Obsidian Order had studied them and waited. Now they struck with precision.
One of Kareon’s wolves surged through the battlefield, a force of fang and muscle. He tore through enemies, relentless and roaring. But his breath slowed, his steps faltered, and his blood stained the ground. For every foe he felled, two more rose from smoke and silence.
A dagger struck his ribs. Another sliced his shoulder. He fought on, slower with each blow, until the swarm overwhelmed him, and his body gave way to darkness.
Another Lycan charged. He dodged two blades, but the third pierced his ribs. Still he fought, still he ran, but his strength faded. A slash to his back, a dagger to his gut, and he fell to one knee.
One by one, they fell, not from weakness, but from exhaustion. Their bodies had reached the limit. Even legends drown when the tide never ends.
The Lycans had never fled. But now, for the first time, they hesitated. And the Obsidian Order did not.
Stephan saw the line falter as officers fell, Lycans stumbled, and hesitation spread like rot through the ranks. He moved to reinforce, but a shadow closed in—too fast.
He turned, but the blade struck first. Pain lanced through his ribs as Sanguine Oath slipped from his grasp. His knees buckled, the battlefield blurring into heat and noise. If he fell now, he would not rise again. So he forced himself upright, as a figure emerged. It was neither a man nor a soldier, but something colder. It moved like a ghost, cloaked in silence.
A curved dagger, slick with blood, gleamed in the dim light. Two soulless eyes stared through him as if he no longer existed. Then it vanished into the storm.
Stephan gritted his teeth and drew breath.
The Obsidian Order had spilled his blood. But they had made a mistake. They had left him alive.
Hope was slipping from Dragov’s warriors and Lycans alike.
Kareon exhaled, golden eyes scanning the fallen, the faltering, the ones already pulling back. Beside him, Stephan stood firm, Sanguine Oath steady in his grip. His breath was calm, but his eyes burned.
“They are losing faith,” he said, his voice sharp against the noise.
Kareon’s claws flexed. His jaw tightened.
“They are breaking,” he replied.
Stephan’s gaze snapped upward to the ridge, to her. “If they could just feel her. Just once.”
Kareon followed his gaze to Eris, the wildfire poised to strike. None of them had felt her yet. That silence told them she was struggling to reach so many souls.
His expression twisted, jaw clenched with something between fear and fury. “We need her. Now.”
