Page 161 of Haunted Crowns
The general’s spine straightened. "Yes, my lord. It will be done."
Avaristo’s jaw clenched once more. "See that it is."
Miloseva, watching from the shadows, stiffened.
Avaristo’s gaze snapped to her, golden and burning. "You disapprove?"
There was a pause, small, but noticeable. "I doubt you’ll get the chance."
His brow lifted, eyes sharp and demanding.
Her voice came low, threaded with wariness. "Stephan and Kareon will guard her like wolves at a kill. If you think she’ll stand idle while we hunt her, you’re underestimating her. Again."
Her gaze dropped to the field below. Something flickered in her eyes. It was not fear, but doubt.
Avaristo hated that flicker.
"Have you lost your taste for war?" His voice cut cold, each word deliberate.
"No," she said. Her voice was quiet and tight. "But I haven’t lost my sense either."
Avaristo’s lip curled with disdain. His patience had worn thin.
He had underestimated her once. He would not do it again.
A chuckle broke the tension.
Rurik sat at the war table with indulgent ease. He was a man born into power, not built for it. His hands had always been clean. Obsidian sovereigns did not wield swords. They wielded wealth.
While Lycans bled in packs and Firstbloods burned in armor, the Order sent others to die—blood bought by contract, not earned by honor.
His gaze fixed on the magnifier, where Stephan Dragov stood at the vanguard, wind-torn and blood-hardened, brought into crisp focus by the Obsidian lens.
Rurik’s lips curved in a cold smile. "If you want Eris dead," he said, savoring the words, "then let me have Stephan."
He straightened, eyes gleaming, jaw twitching with hunger.
"I want him gutted on the battlefield. His last breath should be a rattle. His final sight, his kingdom turning to dust."
Avaristo studied him in silence. Then he nodded once, quiet and final.
"Send a unit. Mercenaries, if you must."
Rurik’s grin sharpened. "I intend to."
Satisfied, Avaristo lifted a hand and flicked two fingers toward a commander waiting in the shadows.
"Bring the generals."
The air shifted as the order moved into motion. He turned back to the window, to the battlefield, to the monarch who dared survive. His stare burned with singular purpose.
"Stephan Dragov dies today. Burn their banners. Erase their names. Make the world forget they ever existed."
He could have leveled the valley. Obsidian firepower could have scorched sky and soil, reduced kings to ash. But ash could be sifted. Graves could be remembered. He wanted something deeper than destruction. Erasure left nothing—no ruins to honor, no martyrs to mourn.
That was power. That was silence. And silence lasted longer than fire.
He drew in a sharp, steady breath. His voice dropped, lethal. "You want war, boy?" He gritted his teeth. "Then I will give you annihilation."
