Page 159 of Haunted Crowns
A flicker passed between them. A heartbeat, held and sharpened.
The King turned slowly, each movement deliberate and controlled. His gaze burned like embers buried in frost.
"You’re late."
It wasn’t a reprimand, or a question. It was a warning.
Kareon met his eyes, unblinking and unrepentant. The smirk that followed was dark, edged with challenge. "Handled something important," he said.
His pause wasn’t empty. It was precise, calculated. A blade wrapped in silence.
Stephan’s hand closed around Sanguine Oath, and the steel groaned beneath his grip. He said nothing, but it burned, and they both knew exactly why.
Behind them, the Dragov army stood divided.
The Lycans prowled, restless and ravenous. They moved like war made flesh, hunger gleaming in their eyes, not only for blood, but for the violence itself. Snarls rippled through their ranks. Fangs flashed silver in the dying light. Some grinned, feral and starved.
The Dragov legions stood in contrast, still and disciplined. Shields were locked. Formations were honed. Obedience was etched into every limb.
Between them stood the Noble Firstbloods, raised to war and to hate the beasts beside them. Their blood turned volatile, tension winding through their bodies like drawn steel.
A Lycan snarled too close. His fangs were bared in warning. Lord Hadrian Valcairn watched, cold as frost. His fingers tapped his sword hilt with calm contempt.
His lip curled. "And here I thought Lycans knew restraint."
A growl followed, low and close to threat. Hadrian held still.
Lord Aedric Varynth said nothing. His eyes, sharp and precise, tracked every snarl. He saw no comrades, only assets: volatile, brutal, but necessary.
"Restraint does not win wars," he said. His voice was quiet and sure.
He looked not to the Lycans, but to the Firstblood nobles beside them—hands twitching at hilts, eyes heavy with disdain. This alliance betrayed centuries of blood and doctrine. But the king had commanded unity, and so they would obey.
Then a Lycan spat at a noble’s feet. Steel hissed in the silence. Muscles coiled with restraint until a laugh cracked the tension.
Lord Gavriel Morayne grinned, as if war were a vintage he had been saving. "Save it for them," he said.
In the silence that followed, a commander gave a sharp nod.
It passed through the ranks, silent, efficient. Warriors straightened, their bodies aligned in shared intent. They did not release the tension. They honed it, turned it to steel.
Dragov did not kneel.
And tonight, they would bleed as one.
At the edge of the storm, they stood.
Taric and Varis—Kareon’s beta and his blade-brothers.
Adrian, Theon, and Cassiel—Stephan’s chosen, his bond-forged kin.
They exchanged a flicker of gazes, a breath held in unison, because they knew this war would not merely mark a battlefield; it would carve their names into legend.
Taric cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. "Don’t slow me down, Varis."
Varis snorted. "Only corpse I’ll be dragging is yours."
"Bold talk," Taric muttered, grinning.
