Page 158 of Haunted Crowns
Something inside him splintered, because he knew what she had done to make him so. Knew what Stephan took before marching to war, because it was exactly what he would have taken.
Had she been his the night before, he would’ve left her marked in every possible way that mattered, so that even if the world tore him apart, she’d still carry his name in her bones. He didn’t want to possess her. But gods, he had wanted to be the last name she whispered before fate came calling.
Rage coiled beneath his ribs, not because Stephan took, but because she gave. Willingly. Trust he’d fought to earn, handed to a man who’d never bled for it. The thought of Stephan claiming her was a trespass he could’ve torn a throat out for. His fingers curled, just once, then stilled. His smirk darkened. It wasn’t a grin—it was a shield. "Of course he is. You’ve always known how to make kings ready to die for you."
The words landed like both a test and a curse. Her breath caught, her body flinching before she could stop it. It struck deeper than steel, because it was true. Her gaze dropped, heavy with guilt, because she had done this to him. He had loved her freely, fiercely, without chains, and she had let him suffer.
He noticed, and gods, it killed him.
What point was there in unleashing his rage on her? She was already bleeding, already at war with herself, with fate, with love, and his duty had always been to protect her, not break her.
So he exhaled sharply. His voice came out smooth, unreadable, like fire buried beneath stone. "Well, let him beready to rewrite history." He fell silent for a moment as the tension between them sharpened, the storm no longer waiting at the edges but pressing in. "Because I’ll be right there, making damn sure he doesn’t get all the glory."
It was a challenge and a reminder that he would not be left behind. His golden eyes burned with a fire that was fierce and unforgiving. He reached for her, fingers brushing the back of her neck. His forehead pressed to hers, grounding them both in the storm.
His voice dropped low and rough, like an unbreakable vow.
“My men will guard you with their lives.” His breath ghosted over her lips. And then, softer, but just as deadly: “If the world dares touch you—I’ll burn it to ash and walk through the fire to find you.”
Her body went rigid as a violent pang bloomed beneath her ribs, sharp and sudden, like something inside her had torn. She clutched his pelt too hard, her grip too desperate, because letting go would mean stepping into everything waiting below. It would mean war, blood, fate. It would mean watching him ride away, not knowing if she would ever see him again.
She squeezed her eyes shut, breathed him in, and memorized everything she could, as if this would be the last time. One more breath. One more moment before the world tore them apart.
Then she smiled, forced, fragile, and wretched. "Go, great Alpha. Win this war. And come back to me."
Kareon exhaled sharply. His eyes blazed, fierce and unshaken. His smirk was the ghost of something softer. Something withheld. Then he spoke, his voice low but certain.
"Try and keep me away."
Without another word, he mounted his stallion and rode toward a fate already written in blood.
Eris remained where she was, watching him go. The wind howled around her. The battle waited. But all she felt was thesplintering in her chest, because she had let him go. And gods help her, it already felt like losing him.
“They move like wind. One breath, and you’re already dead.”
—Survivor's Account, Recovered from the Tashfields
Chapter 32
The frozen wasteland before the Obsidian Citadel stretched vast and merciless. A graveyard waiting to be filled.
The Dragov army had arrived first, silent and unyielding, a hammer poised to strike.
Steel and blood thickened the air. Every breath sharpened by waiting. Yet the Citadel remained sealed. Its gates shut like a beast in hiding, its warriors unseen behind ancient stone. Above, clouds swallowed the last of the light. The wind howled a dirge for the living. Frost laced the air. Silence coiled around every throat.
At the front, Stephan stood. He was monolithic, war given form. He did not speak or move. His gaze held, fixed and unyielding. He gripped Sanguine Oath. Cold, solid, and heavy with bloodlines. Once his father’s. Now it was his.
The blade remembered. It whispered of slaughtered kin, of screams etched into the halls of the fallen. And of his father’s final command:The Monarchy must not fall.
This war was not only for Dragov. It was for vengeance, for Eris, for a future free from war and from every chain that had tried to break them.
His breath steadied. His pulse quieted. The blade groaned beneath his grip.
To Stephan’s right, Kareon arrived. He was late. He moved like a storm surge, coiled in muscle, prowling with electric violence.
The scent of her still clung to him.
He stepped beside Stephan.
