Page 103 of Haunted Crowns
The black flames roared as the chamber trembled. The Dragov ancestors had accepted them.
The priest raised the Chalice of Covenant and presented it to the Four Lords and Lady. One by one, the nobility stepped forward.
Lord Hadrian Valcairn of House Veleris, House of Wisdom, was first. His silver-threaded robes barely stirred as he drank, sharp eyes flicking to Eris. She saw it then—acceptance. Not out of loyalty, but because he saw something he couldn’t afford to reject.
Lord Gavriel Morayne of House Mordain, House of Strength, followed. A warrior. A traditionalist. He drank, but his jaw clenched, lips a hard line. He was still watching, still waiting.
Lady Selene Caelora of House Devotion came next. She drank deeply without hesitation and whispered, “Duty above all.”
Lord Aedric Varynth of House Legacy was last. Old. Wise. His eyes lingered on Stephan, then on Eris. He drank in silence, and then he smiled.
Eris felt the shift—the point of no return. The political seal had been set. She and Stephan were now undeniable.
The High Priest turned to them again, his voice heavy, a final decree, or a warning.
“Cruore sanctificamur.”
(By blood, we are sanctified.)
A deep groan echoed through the sanctum, as if the stone itself resisted.
“Vinculo aeterno, regnum firmamus.”
(By eternal bond, we fortify the realm.)
The spectral flames convulsed, clawing toward the vaulted ceiling.
Then Stephan moved subtly, but it thundered against destiny. His fingers brushed hers, light as breath.
Eris’s hand closed around his.
A silent challenge to fate:Try to unmake us.
Their gazes locked as something unseen stirred. Watching. Waiting. Then a spectral wind swept through the sanctum. A single flame died. The ritual wasn’t finished.
What had been bound in blood had to be witnessed.
A slow, creeping pressure sank into the bones of all who had drunk. Then the vision struck. Smoke. Ash. Blood. Fire.
The sky became a smothered void. Embers drifted like the last breath of the fallen. At the center stood Stephan, his armor drenched in blood, Sanguine Oath in his grip. Its hunger was sated. Victorious. Unyielding. And yet, he was not alone.
The battlefield stirred. The fallen, those he had struck down, rose. Their eyes were dark and hollow, fixed on him. They did not speak. Then they blinked, all at once.
The sound was a soft, sickening whisper of flesh on bone. It struck Stephan like a hammer.
The dead did not blink, not unless they were expecting something more.
Lord Hadrian stiffened, fingers white against his chair, awe flickering in his gaze.
Lord Gavriel’s jaw clenched. “A conqueror,” he muttered. “A king who cannot be denied.”
Lady Selene’s hand trembled at her temple. Some nobles were breathless. Others sat silent and shaken.
Then Raphael Dragov rose, and the chamber froze.
“A warrior beyond his time.” His gaze swept across the court—the doubters. Then he looked at Stephan. The conqueror. The king who would not yield. “A power unseen for centuries.”
His eyes gleamed with absolute pride. His son. The world had no choice but to bow.
