Page 136 of Haunted Crowns
He was out there, fighting or dying. She stepped toward the window, and a hand closed around her throat.
A Lycan.
He lifted her off the ground with ease, her feet kicking, her lungs clawing for air.
“Not so fast, little princess,” he snarled.
Through her blurring vision, she saw Yori move. With a roar, he drove his blade across the Lycan’s chest. But Vatryk struck from the side. Yori staggered. His sword clattered to the floor as blood bloomed across his tunic.
Eris hit the ground hard, gasping. “No!”
Yori dropped to one knee, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes found Raphael, then Eris. One final look, quiet and certain. He knew the end had come.
Vatryk raised his sword. Steel flashed. Eris lunged, but she was too late.
Yori’s head struck the floor. His body followed.
A raw sound tore from her chest, soul-wrenching. She crawled to him, reaching as if she could still pull him back.
But he was already gone.
A sob broke free from her throat as flames consumed the chamber. Banners curled inward, legacy burning in their folds. She collapsed beside him, clutching his blood-soaked tunic, and as the fire closed in, she held his body as if it could anchor her to the world.
She would never call him Papa again.
The capital burned.
One moment, the parade was Dragov might made manifest, the next, explosions shattered the air. Fire surged as screams echoed across the square. Hell had opened.
Flames split the sky. Debris rained down like divine wrath. The city’s foundations trembled beneath the force. Smoke thickened, black as storm clouds, and swallowed the sun.
Lycans burst from the chaos. They were shadows made flesh, death given purpose. They leapt from rooftops, fangs bared, claws tearing through throats. Blood sprayed, drowning the streets.
Stephan reined in his horse, pulse slamming. His mind snapped into command, reflexes forged by war. But this was not war. This was an ambush.
His voice cut through the chaos.
“Regroup! Close ranks—push them back!”
The Dragov legions obeyed. Spears braced. Shields locked, discipline surging like a tide.
But it felt too easy.
“Northern alleys!” he shouted to his captains. “Bottleneck them! Do not chase—hold position!”
Orders rippled down the line. The formation shifted. The Lycans faltered. They fought hard but pulled back too quickly.
Stephan’s gut twisted as a dark certainty spread across his thoughts.
Another tremor shook the ground, followed by a distant roar. It was not the sound of battle—it was fire. His head snapped up.
The palace was burning, its towers engulfed, banners consumed, and windows shattered. Smoke rose like a black wound in the sky.
Eris.
His thoughts emptied, only her name remained. He spurred his horse toward the palace, but he never made it.
A Lycan lunged from the crowd, a blur of claws and fury, and slammed into him.
