Page 60 of Haunted Crowns
Adrian reached across and subtly brushed his wrist with his fingers to ground him.“Do not let them bait you,” he murmured.
Then Theon: “Save your rage for the ones who deserve it.”
Stephan forced breath into his lungs. In. Out. In. Slowly, he released the shattered armrest and straightened. His gaze, locked on Gavriel, burned with restrained promise.
Gavriel shifted in his seat. His voice resumed, though something in his posture had changed.
Raphael Dragov exhaled, his gaze sliding from the ruined armrest to his son, then back to the chamber. When he spoke, his voice was calm but edged. “The matter of Eris’s actions will be investigated appropriately. But let us not forget: She is a Dragov. Her loyalty is not in question.”
Gavriel scoffed. “Not in question? She is rumored to have taken a Lycan as her—”
“Careful, Lord Morayne.” The words were not loud. They didn’t need to be. Yori Dragov’s voice, usually measured and mild, had shifted into something unmistakably dangerous.
The room fell still.
His gaze, once contemplative, now held iron.“Eris is my daughter,” Yori said. Each word was deliberate and unshakable. “And she is still a Dragov. I will not hear her name dragged through the dirt in this chamber.”
Gavriel, for all his bluster, did not respond. To insult Eris was one thing. To challenge Yori, a ruler bound by ancient blood-oaths, a man who had commanded respect long before he had ever demanded it, was something else entirely.
Raphael leaned forward, candlelight catching in the silver at his temples. “This council is not here to judge Eris,” he said. His voice was final. “We are here to answer Avaristo’s insult.”
Another murmur passed through the room, this time one of agreement.Yes.This was no longer just about Eris. This was about power.
A figure rose with sudden force. Lord Valcairn, broad-shouldered and still clad in armor despite the safety of Dragov Castle, stood tall at the edge of the chamber.“We should bediscussing nothing but war.” His palm struck the table with a thunderous crack, sending goblets rattling across its surface. “Avaristo has crossed a line that cannot be ignored. A Dragov princess, imprisoned. Humiliated. Treated like a criminal. We march. We make an example of him.”
A surge of voices followed, rising like a tide.
“Yes!”
“This is an act of war!”
“Bring him to his knees!”
But then, a single voice silenced them.
“We will not act recklessly.” Yori’s words cut through the uproar like tempered steel. “Every soldier we send is a life we weigh against our judgment. Our warriors are strong, but strength alone does not win wars.”
Raphael inclined his head. “This is a trap,” he said. “A provocation designed to draw us into a war on his terms. If we move without precision, we fall into his hands.”
Debate burned; some demanded retaliation, others urged restraint.
And then Raphael spoke again.“It is decided.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“We will open negotiations,” Yori confirmed. “But if Avaristo mistakes diplomacy for weakness…then he will learn that Firstbloods do not kneel.”
A slow ripple of nods passed through the council. The decision was political, meant to prevent bloodshed, but Stephan felt no peace. Every second of waiting was a second Eris endured. His nails dug into his palm.
Yori rose, and the air shifted. He turned to the attendants stationed along the chamber’s edge. “Prepare the line.”
A polished comm-orb was brought forward. Dark glass threaded with silver alloy, its surface vibrated faintly with storedsignal energy. It connected to a twin device buried deep within the Obsidian Order’s command network.
Yori inhaled once. Then the orb darkened, and the call was made.
The war council chamber of Dragov Castle was still, tension suspended like a blade, waiting to fall. Firstblood leaders watched the orb pulsing darkly at the table’s head. Kings Yori and Raphael Dragov stood side by side, composed, though seething beneath their stillness. Stephan sat rigid, fists clenched beneath the table.
Then, the orb flickered.
