Page 10 of Haunted Crowns
Kareon’s eyes followed her move, dark and calculating.
Stephan reacted before thought—posture protective, expression taut. He hadn’t meant to react. Not publicly. But seeing her rise, seeing every eye in the room pivot like vultures, lit something primal in him. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t interfere. That she deserved space, not shields. But the truth was uglier: he didn’t trust this place to let her breathe without cuttingher open. And maybe worse, he didn’t trust himself not to ruin it all trying to protect her.
Eris turned and slipped out of the grand hall. Her footsteps echoed behind her, soft but furious. Politics, alliances, and power pressed in from all sides. Every eye was a ledger; every whisper a verdict. She needed out. She needed quiet.
I won’t swallow their rules any more.
She needed a moment to remember who she was. Not a puppet in velvet, but her own self. She needed a spark of rebellion.
Inside, consequences waited. Whispers. Rumors. Political detention. But out here, under the cold night sky, she let the breath she held inside exhale.
I will not be collateral damage in their games or fade quietly into their history. I will find a place where my voice holds weight.
Behind her, the laughter faded. The weight of their crowns and secrets dimmed. But inside, a defiant spark glowed. And that spark was her own.
The corridors stretched ahead, dim and quiet: a refuge from the candlelit halls where power shifted with a glance. The library stood empty. Good. Eris sank into a chair in the farthest corner, the scent of parchment pressing in around her. Here, the world could not reach her, or so she thought.
Time passed, minutes maybe, before the assembly dissolved. Footsteps echoed, voices spilled through the archways. Then came soft, conspiratorial laughter.
"Did you see Stephan Dragov at the assembly? Gods, he looked gorgeous. If I were Bianca, I’d be counting the days."
"I still can’t believe it’s official—"
"Of course. Who else would Stephan marry if not her?"
Eris stilled.No.
"Bianca Lestrelle is perfect for him. Flawless. Elegant. Everything a Dragov heir should have at his side."
Eris had grown up alongside Bianca, trained with her, dined with her, smiled through gritted teeth beside her.
Her world tilted. She should walk away, but she stayed and listened.
"They’ll announce it soon, I’m sure."
Her fingers pressed against the stone wall, grounding herself, as if holding still might keep her from splintering.
That was the reason for the restraint. The reason he looked at her like she was fire and still turned away. The reason the letters never said what she wanted them to.
It explained everything. Bianca made sense. She was dignified, untouchable, everything Eris was not: wild, too much, never enough. Her throat burned. How could she have been so foolish, to read so much into a half-held gaze, a hand that lingered too long, a name written in ink but never in certainty?
If he had made his choice, she would not stand in the way. A year of waiting, a year of hope, ended now.
I never know how to say what I mean, so I just write instead.
When you run toward the wind, I want to follow.
I always have.
—Stephan Dragov, unsent letter
Chapter 3
The whispers began the moment Eris slipped into her silk chemise. They were insistent and commanding.
The language was ancient, older than the stones of Astareth itself: a chorus of voices layered and overlapping, weaving syllables she couldn’t decipher, yet felt deep in her bones. She didn’t understand it, but it understood her. And tonight, it was calling with the promise of something inevitable.
The robe slipped from her fingers. Silence followed. A tremor rippled down her spine. Her breath hitched, not in fear, not entirely, but in that strange, gut-deep pull, as if something unseen had hooked into her ribs and was drawing her forward. Her pupils dilated. Her heartbeat slowed, syncing to a rhythm that wasn’t her own.
