Page 160 of Haunted Crowns
Beside them, Kareon didn’t turn. But the corner of his mouth lifted.
"Enough." His voice was calm, his command absolute. Golden eyes remained fixed ahead. "Just don’t embarrass me."
Varis chuckled. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Alpha."
A few paces away, silence broke.
Theon sighed. “Someone remind the Lycans we’re fighting too.”
“Jealous?” Cassiel smirked, fingers on his hilt.
“Not even slightly. Just don’t want them stealing our glory.”
Adrian’s voice broke through, steady and firm. "Focus." He scanned the line. “Complain after we win.”
Cassiel quirked a brow. “If Theon survives.”
“Too pretty to die,” Theon shot back.
Adrian exhaled. “Then shut up and live.”
The glance they shared after held no jest. Only war.
Stephan tightened his grip on Sanguine Oath. He didn’t need to turn, because Kareon was already there, beside him.
They stood as two kings from two bloodlines, bound by war and divided by love. One woman lived between them in memory and in everything left unresolved.
Kareon’s smirk formed slowly, sharp with something feral. "Try to keep up, Dragov."
Stephan’s jaw flexed before he answered. "Worry about yourself, Lycan."
The moment held, thick with everything they refused to speak. The presence of Eris pressed between them, ghost-like and unyielding.
Then the first war horn shattered the silence. Its deep, thunderous cry did not signal action—it declared it. In the wake of that sound, motion erupted. A thousand blades unsheathed in unified response. A thousand warriors stepped forward with sacred purpose. Dragov banners surged in the wind. The Lycans bared their fangs, bodies tensed for the charge. The nobles stood silent but steady, shaped by duty and pride.
The air vibrated with power.
The war had begun.
Far above the battlefield, Avaristo heard the war horn split the sky. The sound was deep and thunderous, echoing like the drums of fate as it tore through the frozen wasteland.
His fingers clenched the tower's edge, knuckles white, veins taut. Golden eyes burned as they scanned the field below. Dragov had struck first. The battle should have been his to command, but it had been taken.
Stephan Dragov stood at the front. He was no longer a boy or a broken heir, but a king.
Avaristo’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding. His breath came sharp and metallic, edged with blood. This was no longer strategy or control. It was challenge made flesh.
Stephan was supposed to kneel, to falter beneath the weight of his dead. Instead, he brought war to Avaristo’s gate.
Avaristo’s fist fell, cracking the ledge with brutal finality. His breath hissed through clenched teeth. Now he saw it, the miscalculation: Eris Dragov. She was meant to fracture Dragov, to ignite civil war between Lycans and Firstbloods. Instead, she had become the inferno that reforged them.
Avaristo’s teeth clenched. She had become a threat, and he hated her for it.
His lips peeled into a snarl. "Kill her. First. Fast," he commanded, golden eyes burning, then added, "Quietly. Snuff her like an ember. No spectacle. No noise."
Martyrs speak louder dead than alive, and she was already becoming a myth. He needed her buried, not remembered.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping low. "If she is still breathing at sundown, you will not be."
