Page 9 of Haunted Crowns
A noble speaker took the podium, his embroidered robes shimmering under the firelight, his voice deep and commanding.
"Look how far we have come," he proclaimed. "Under the Dragov kings, we have carved civilization from chaos."
He spoke of regulation, of honor, of the end of the old ways. No more feeding in the streets. No more unwilling turnings. A ripple of nods passed through the Firstblood Monarchists. But atthe edges of the room, mocking smirks appeared. The Obsidian Order lounged, detached and amused.
A boy in sleek black fabric, silver rings flashing, whispered just loud enough: “And yet, they still light their homes with candles, as if wax can hold back time. Still dress like ghosts of a world already dead. Pathetic.”
Soft laughter followed. A deliberate insult.
The speaker pressed on, ignoring them. "The Lycans and humans live among us as equals. They have been given a place, a voice. Their place in Goznoth is secure—"
"If that’s true," a voice cut in from the lowest tier, "then why do the Dragovs let the Obsidian Order steal our land, forcing us to live in cages?"
Silence struck like a blade. Every head turned. Firstbloods froze. The air sharpened, waiting to snap. At the Lycans’ table, a student had risen, his voice too calm, too even, as if he already knew the consequences and had accepted them.
Then, all at once, every gaze flickered to Kareon. He did not speak. He only watched. A flicker of command sharpened in his gaze.
The boy who had dared speak when no one else would sat back down, not out of fear, but out of obedience. Kareon Duskbane did not take control: He was control. His name was a curse against the crown. A reckoning promised.
The Lycans could not yet afford an open war, but under Kareon, the rebellion had become a phantom, silent and deadly. There was no evidence, no survivors, only strikes where it hurt most. Even the Obsidian Order had learned to be careful. And yet, here he sat, still a threat, still the reason the Lycans had teeth in this fight.
Tonight, for the first time, his gaze settled on her: Eris Dragov. She was a Firstblood princess, delicate in form yet burdened by the weight of an empire. A mystery to him, born of reformists,raised among relics of the old order. The whispers had always called her odd, too quiet, too wild, too attuned to things no one else could feel.
She sat among the Firstbloods, yet did not belong. The air bent around her, stitched with silent defiance. When she looked at Stephan, Kareon saw it—a fracture, a bond once unbreakable, now trembling.
She did not notice his gaze. But Stephan did, and he did not like it.
Kareon caught the tension in Stephan’s shoulders, the slow curl of his fingers around the goblet. Small shifts, but to Kareon, they roared.
Stephan Dragov was many things: a warrior, a prince, a ruler before his time. But above all, he was a man who did not take kindly to threats.
Eris had always been his: by blood, by story, by something older than either. And no one would take her from him.
Kareon smiled. Nothing thrilled him more than a challenge.
And then came laughter, slow and oily.
A figure stepped forward, arrogance radiating off him with suffocating heat: Rurik Rimashenko, nephew to Avaristo Rimashenko, leader of the Obsidian Order. A predator, protected by power. He took what he wanted—women, influence, lives—and left whispers and scandal in his wake. Among the Order, he was envied. To everyone else, he was a disgrace. He grinned, all sharp teeth and practiced dominance.
Of course he’s here, Eris thought, stomach tightening.The Summit always draws blood and spectacle. And men like Rurik feed on both.
“This Summit would be so dull without a little conflict,” he drawled, stretching like a bored cat. “Nothing like watching dogs try to act like lords.”
A growl stirred from the Lycan tables. Kareon Duskbane’s gaze sharpened. A ripple of tension moved across the hall.
Stephan’s hands curled into fists. He had to work hard to conceal his loathing for Rurik and his band of depraved pricks.
Eris felt it too—the way the air charged with barely-leashed violence. It pressed against her skin, needling.
Rurik embodied everything the Dragov bloodline had sworn to purge from Goznoth. Yet here he stood, unsanctioned, unchecked. A living mockery. The Obsidian Order rallied around him. And the Firstblood Court, for all its legacy and pride, looked away. Not because they were blind, but because the Order had grown too powerful to challenge. And diplomacy, even in the face of rot, was easier than war.
Eris’s chest clenched. The Lycans were chained by rules. The Order was rewarded with silence.
So much hypocrisy.
She tightened her grip around the goblet in anger. She was meant to toast, to kneel before ceremonies and crowns; instead, she felt fragile and enraged. What she wanted now wasn’t compliance, nor passivity. She wanted truth. She wanted to be more than her father's shadow. To prove that she could not just survive this Summit, but shape it.
She pushed herself to her feet abruptly.
