Page 133 of Haunted Crowns
Beside her, Stephan remained still, unreadable.
Yori stepped forward. His silver eyes swept over the legions—commanders, nobles, and the people who had placed their faith in Dragov rule.
“Many have tried to tear us apart,” he said, his voice sharp as steel. “To divide us with lies. To turn us against each other. But again and again, we endure. So I ask you now: Will we endure again?”
A thousand voices thundered back. “Yes!”
The stones beneath their feet trembled with devotion as Yori’s gaze held the crowd. “Then let this day be carved into time. Not in ink. Not in stone. But in blood.”
The Dragov line stood unbroken, held by a king’s promise, a king’s command, and the belief it would endure.
But death had already entered the palace. It had not breached the gates or scaled the walls. It had come from within, moving like falling ash.
The assassins were not coming. They were already in place.
The roar of the crowd surged through the grand square. Stephan turned, drawn back to his legions. Eris caught his sleeve. It broke protocol, but she did not care. Not when every part of her begged him to stay.
Her grip trembled against his cloak. “Stephan,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the cheers.
He stopped and turned. Their eyes met, and in hers he saw the fear she could not speak. A lesser man might have promised safety. Stephan only smirked.
“Eris.” He leaned in, breath brushing her skin. “I march to war, love. Not a parade.”
She held his gaze, unsure if it was a joke, a lie, or a warning. Her fingers tightened, but his found hers first. A vow unspoken.
Then he was gone, and all Eris could do was watch.
The palace gates groaned open, and a storm of steel surged forward.
The Dragov Legions advanced—immortal warriors beneath banners of black and crimson, discipline forged into flesh.
At their head rode Stephan Dragov. Commander. Prince. Legend.
His uniform was war woven into silk, silver insignias gleaming against black, a crimson sash crossing his shoulder. The crest onhis chest had brought kingdoms to their knees. His cloak flowed behind him like shadow. Each step commanded. Each glance ruled.
He rode a midnight warhorse, hooves pounding like thunder. The Dragov Standard flew high—symbol of bloodline and dominion.
But today, no one watched the banners. They watched him.
Stephan moved with the weight of fate, his gaze sweeping the legions, silent orders falling into place without a word.
From the balcony, Eris watched, her fingers gripping the marble. Her breath caught. He was magnificent, and he was hers.
Power moved through him—the kind that made kings kneel and gods grow jealous.
And the gods were cruel.
Stephan… Come back to me.
She watched as he led the legions forward. The crowd chanted his name, worshipping him, and she prayed they would not mourn him by nightfall.
High above, Raphael Dragov stood still. Scarred hands rested on his sword. His uniform was immaculate, his chest heavy with breath.
Storm-gray eyes stayed fixed on the man below—his son, his heir—leading the legions like one born to rule. Sunlight lit the silver on Stephan’s uniform. Black fabric cut a silhouette of power and flame. He looked carved from legend.
Raphael said nothing. He did not have to.
Eris saw it in the set of his mouth, in the weight behind his eyes. It was not pride or duty, but something deeper. She turned to Yori, who watched with a quiet chuckle.
