Page 142 of Haunted Crowns
The nobles stood pale and stricken, fists clenched on obsidian and pendants of old gods. Some whispered prayers. Others stayed frozen, rigid with fear.
Her heart pounded as she turned to Stephan. He was already watching her, his hand still wrapped tight around hers, his knuckles bone-white. Their eyes met, filled with fear and confusion.
Then he exhaled. “What have you done?”
Eris parted her lips, but no answer came. She wasn’t sure.
Before she could speak, a chair scraped back. Lord Gavriel stood. His battle-worn face lit with fervor, silver eyes alight with something dangerous.
“Do you see?” he cried, his voice like a war horn. “This is an omen! The ancestors have spoken!”
Murmurs rippled as doubt and belief tangled in the air.
But Gavriel pressed forward. “The Dragov bloodline is chosen by fate! Our kings have never faltered. And now—” He pointed at Stephan, voice rising. “Our ancestors send their sign. They bless your rule. War is inevitable!”
Eris’s stomach turned. No. That wasn’t what happened.
She looked to Stephan, but he remained still, watching and calculating. No emotion showed. Not the doubt eating at him. Not the dread rising in his chest.
This was no blessing, and Stephan knew it. But he didn’t stop Gavriel. They needed this war. If the nobles chose to see divine will in what had happened within the castle walls, then so be it—if that belief secured their loyalty.
Stephan sat tall, shoulders squared, filling the space his father once commanded. The nobles turned toward him, waiting.
Then Gavriel dropped to one knee. “Long live our King!”
A heartbeat passed. Then one by one, the noble houses of Goznoth bent the knee. Their voices rose in unison.
“LONG LIVE OUR KING!”
The chamber shook with devotion and fire. Stephan let them roar. Let them believe. But Eris held his gaze. They needed no words. They both knew that something old had stirred, something that had been waiting.
And deep beneath Dragov Castle, a forgotten heart pulsed once more.
Above that ancient pulse, the world carried on, fractured and grieving.
Eris had been silent all day, mourning in stillness, blind to how much Stephan had carried alone. He didn’t know how to weep, only how to endure.
When he reached for her that night, it wasn’t for pleasure. It was to survive. She saw it in his eyes, in the way his touch trembled with restraint and need. So she gave him what he couldn’t voice. What he took from her was not soft, but desperate—body and breath, fury and sorrow poured into every thrust, until grief bled out in gasps and groans.
And when it was over, when the storm in him finally broke, he collapsed into her arms, breathless, undone. For the first time since the fire, he slept.
Eris lay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. Her fingers traced soft patterns along Stephan’s back, moving with the slow rise and fall of his breath. How long could they hold on?
They were alone now, sovereigns of a kingdom on the edge, barely holding themselves together. Why did everything keep slipping through their fingers?
He shifted in his sleep, pulling her closer. How much longer would they have this fragile peace?
Her eyelids grew heavy. Grief, doubt, and the weight of the future faded into the hush of night. At last, sleep took her silently.
Then she dreamed.
At first, there was only warmth. It felt familiar and safe.
Stephan.
Eris sighed softly, shifting in his embrace. The steady rise and fall of his chest behind her and the weight of his arms around her always made her feel safe. She drew a slow breath and began to relax. Then she heard it.
“You called for me, my love. And I have come.”
