Page 79 of Haunted Crowns
He shook his head. "Too lenient."
Yori’s smile was tired. "Too controlling."
Raphael turned away, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. They had planned for everything—except this. Except fate slipping from their grip. And for the first time in decades, Raphael Dragov felt something close to fear, not of Seraphina, or of war, but of the way his son looked at Eris. As if she was worth breaking everything he had built. And that terrified him most of all.
Death to the fanged bastards. We bite back.
Graffiti—Scrawled Across Astareth’s Stone Gates in ash and blood
Chapter 16
Morning light spilled through the stained-glass windows of the Dragov Council Chamber, casting fractured gold and crimson across the obsidian floor. Stephan sat at the Firstblood council table, his shoulders squared and his eyes distant. Nobles filtered in with rustling silks and clipped murmurs, but he barely noticed, because all he could think about was her. Her fingers had traced his scars with reverence. Her lips, gods, her lips, had turned ruin into something holy. Each touch had unmade him completely. Leaving her asleep in bed had nearly undone him.
He had written the letter in silence and left it on her pillow like an apology he couldn’t stay to whisper. Now duty anchored him. The council would gather within the hour, blades polished and mouths thirsty. Today they would call for war against Avaristo and invoke the Crimson Vow, binding him and Eris to the realm. And beneath all of it, a single truth burned:
Rurik would pay for every drop of her blood.
His fists curled against the arms of the chair, silent proof of the violence simmering beneath his calm. Before his rage could spiral, a voice cut through it.
"Let the council begin," Yori said, firmly.
The chamber stilled as the warmth vanished, and all heads turned to the kings. War had returned.
Yori stood at the head of the long obsidian table, commanding silence with presence alone. His silver gaze swept the room: faces carved in calculation, simmering fury, and unspoken demands. "Before we discuss our next move, I must acknowledge the one responsible for my daughter’s return." He turned to Commander Toren Saverius and gave a solemn nod. "Your swift action saved the Princess. My family is in your debt."
Saverius dipped his head. "My loyalty is to House Dragov, Your Grace."
Yori’s tone shifted. "The Obsidian Order has not only defied us. They have humiliated our bloodline. The abduction of a Dragov royal is an act of war. What say you?"
A heavy pause followed. Then furious murmurs rippled through the chamber.
Lord Gavriel Morayne rose first, slamming his palm against the table. "This is war!" he roared. "Avaristo has shattered every treaty, disgraced our honor, and reduced our princess to a pawn. There is only one answer now: blood."
Murmurs thickened into growls, fists clenched, eyes burned. The chamber no longer simmered. It seethed.
Across the table, Lord Valcairn leaned forward, his voice slicing through the tension.
"War is inevitable," he said. "But it should not be our first move. Strike in rage, and we squander the chance to weaken them before a sword is drawn. The Obsidian Order thrives on wealth and shadow. Collapse their foundation, and they will fall before we march."
Gavriel scoffed. "And what do you suggest? Sanctions? Diplomatic reprimands? They kidnapped our princess, not overcharged us for trade routes."
Valcairn’s smile was thin. "You mistake me. The Order cannot be crushed by brute force. Their strength is leverage, trade, secrets, rulers on strings. Cut their supply lines. Isolate their allies. Turn their own against them. Then strike when they have nothing left."
A heavy silence followed. Lord Hadrian adjusted his rings, his voice dry. "If we wait too long, we will look weak. The Order will regroup, or worse, find allies."
Lord Rhyse cut in, sharp. "And the Lycans? One misstep, and they will strike first."
The murmurs returned, stretched thin with unease.
Rhyse continued. "They are opportunists, brutes waiting to sink their fangs into whichever kingdom stumbles first. They care nothing for the Order’s politics, only for the power they can take. If we march now, we may face two fronts."
The chamber fractured, some thirsting for blood, others urging restraint. Then silence, as every gaze shifted to Stephan.
Yori, unreadable but heavy with expectation, inclined his head. "High Commander. You know our strength. Our readiness. Speak. What is your counsel?"
Stephan rose, effortless and commanding. Torchlight caught the dark steel of his uniform, armor forged for war and ceremony. At his side, Sanguine Oath rested in its scabbard, its bloodstone pommel glinting like a beating heart.
He exhaled slowly, voice steady. "Our scouts confirm it. The Obsidian Guard is mobilizing. Warlords speak of conquest. Forces gather in the western strongholds. This is no bluff. This is war, waiting to be named."
