Page 110 of Haunted Crowns
Stephan smirked over the rim. “She didn’t seem to mind.”
Cassiel exhaled, mock-dramatic. “If that is Dragov courtship, I chose the wrong profession.”
More laughter followed, but beneath it, something heavier. They had seen it, the way he chose to stand beside her, not above her.
In that moment, something changed. The legacy he came from had started to make room for who he was becoming.
They weren’t just celebrating their commander. They were honoring their future king.
Across the hall, Eris stood surrounded, noblewomen leaning in, eyes bright with disbelief.
“I have never seen anything like it,” Lady Helena whispered. “The fire. The power. You did not dance—you commanded.”
Another nodded, flushed. “And that gown. You made the gods jealous.”
Eris smiled, warmth rising to her neck. She had faced blades and death, but this, praise wrapped in silk and scrutiny, was its own battlefield.
“I doubt the gods care about my wardrobe,” she murmured.
Laughter rippled, warm and genuine, and for a moment, Eris let herself enjoy it.
They were no longer whispering about her. They were watching her.
Then the air shifted. A cold coil slid down her spine. Something was wrong. Flames shuddered, disturbed by nothing visible. A shadow stretched long and still across the stone wall.
Eris winced. Her lungs locked as if the air had betrayed her. She turned instinctively, and there he stood. Raphael Dragov, as if born from the shadows.
She froze, as memories slammed into her: his blade at her throat, his scorn. Her breath shallowed. Still, she stood tall and met his gaze.
“We need to talk.” His voice was ice.
Behind her, the hall pulsed with life, laughter, clinking goblets, but Raphael’s silent presence pressed cold against her skin, insistent. Every instinct told her to refuse, but she remembered the vow. He had bled for it—for Stephan, for her. If this was about Stephan, she couldn’t turn away. So she followed.
Raphael moved like shadow, weaving through the revelry unnoticed. Candlelight clung to him faintly, as if even flame recoiled. Eris followed, unease tightening in her gut. “Where are we going?”
“You will see,” he said, not turning.
“What do you want to talk about?”
He paused. “Stephan.”
Her steps faltered, as cold crept through her veins. She had been right, but something in his voice, hollow and flat, turned her stomach.
The torches thinned as the air grew colder, heavier. The passage sloped downward. With each step, the dark closed in. Then she stopped.
Something was wrong. Not just how he moved—too smooth. Not just how he spoke—too even. It was the silence. The descent. The thinning light. The walls pressing in.
Her breath trembled as she set her jaw. “I am not going any farther.”
Raphael stilled. A beat passed. Then his fingers closed, unyielding, around her wrist.
Eris jerked back. “Let me go.”
He didn’t. When he turned, his eyes were hollow, like a grave staring back.
“I am not asking, Eris.” His voice was flat. “I am ordering you. As your king.”
Eris twisted, but it was useless. “Uncle, please. You are scaring me.”
