Page 41 of Haunted Crowns
Fire roared through her, untamed. She opened her mouth, but no sound came.
Kareon exhaled bitterly. “I thought so.”
She slapped him, not hard and not soft, just enough for him to feel it. Not because he was wrong, but because he was right, and she hated that truth.
He did not flinch or blink. He only smiled, not cruel or smug, but knowing. Like a man who had seen her naked soul and chosen not to look away.
“You will come back,” he said quietly, “when you finally admit the truth.”
She turned and walked away. If she stayed, she might shatter, and Kareon would see every fractured piece. She did not know what frightened her more—his gaze, or how much of her he already saw. Like he had memorized her shadow before she ever stepped into the light.
Firelight caught in her eyes as she stormed back, wild, into the den. Kareon followed, silent and watchful, the tension still thick in the air between them.
Taric leaned against the cavern wall, arms crossed. “What do you think just happened?”
Varis smirked. “Either they finally kissed, or they’re about to kill each other.”
Taric let out a low whistle. “Or both. Think we should ask?”
Varis snorted. “Not if you value your life.”
Neither of them looked away as Kareon passed, his golden eyes burning with something raw and unreadable.
Eris did not stop. She did not turn. She went straight to Kaelioth, who was already watching her, unreadable as ever.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Her fingers curled. Her heart still pounded from Kareon’s words, from his touch, from the truth she refused to name.
She exhaled. “Yes.”
Kaelioth’s lips curved with quiet amusement, but he said nothing. He simply motioned for her to follow.
They climbed in silence, the hill rising before them. The air cooled with every step, steeped in ancient stillness.
Behind them, the den dissolved into shadow, swallowed by the forest.
At the crest, the grove unfolded.
Ancient oaks cradled the clearing, their limbs stretching skyward like hands reaching for the heavens. Towering stone monoliths ringed the space, carved with runes that glowed faintly. At the center, a spring bubbled from the earth, itscrystalline waters spilling into a slender stream that wound through the trees like a silver thread.
Kaelioth stepped forward, his presence steady and rooted, a part of this place. “This is the Heart of the Hollow,” he said, reverently. “The spiritual core of the Lycans. Here, the boundary between worlds is thin.”
Eris knelt by the spring and brushed her fingers through dew-drenched grass.
“It feels alive,” she murmured, her emerald gaze tracing the runes as they shifted beneath her touch, as if breathing.
Kaelioth lowered himself across from her, his dark robes woven with vines and roots, an extension of the earth itself. “It is.”
“The spirits are in all things: stone, water, sky, flame. They flow through us as they flow through the world. And through you, most of all, Eris. Your blood remembers. Your gift is their voice made flesh, shaping emotion as they shape the earth.”
Eris met his gaze, uncertain. “I do not understand.”
Kaelioth nodded calmly. “You do not need to. Not yet. Close your eyes. Listen. The spirits are speaking in the breath of the trees, in the pull beneath your skin. Let this place remind you of what your blood already knows. Feel them. Let them move through you.”
She closed her eyes. The world narrowed, growing quieter, sharper. The rustle of leaves carried more than sound; it breathed longing. The stream’s pulse hummed with patience. Beneath her fingers, the grass whispered calm.
Then the current shifted. The rhythm changed. What once felt like wind and water now beat with hearts. The pack stirred at the edge of her senses—a swell of pride, unease, and curiosity, tangled and consuming. Emotions surged, vast and unmoored.
