Page 16 of Haunted Crowns
"It’s you, Eris. The only one I will ever belong to."
The words lingered, raw, carved into her like an oath too sacred to speak aloud. She could still feel him: the ghost of hismouth on hers, the way he had held her, as if nothing else in the world existed. Stephan had always been careful, controlled, until last night.
Last night, he hadn’t been the prince or the future king. He had simply been hers, and she had been his. She still carried his scent, sandalwood and rain. Wild and aching. Her fingers tightened in her lap. Would she have stopped him, if they had not been interrupted? Would she have wanted to?
Gods, she already knew.
A shiver rippled down her spine, leaving heat in its wake.
A jarring sound rang out: silver striking porcelain. An intrigued murmur followed.
“Another one, I heard.” The words snapped her out of her reverie. “An Obsidian Order general.”
Eris blinked as the hall snapped back into focus.
“That makes three now,” someone said. “Blood everywhere.”
“The Lycans again,” another voice added. “Kareon Duskbane, no doubt.”
“Savage,” yet another muttered. “They should be leashed.”
Eris stilled.
Kareon.
They spoke of him like a beast, not a man. But she had seen the bruises. She had watched the Lycans vanish, hunted, erased. Why wouldn’t they strike back? Why would they ever trust vampires?
Her gaze shifted to the high table, where the nobility dined in careless luxury, gossiping over bloodshed they had never tasted. This was what Stephan would inherit: an empire of blood and silence. And she… gods, she didn’t want that for him.
Her breath slowed. She wasn’t sure what terrified her more: the rebellion rising in the shadows, or the fact that she understood it.
The Black Chalice hummed with low conversation and the heavy tang of wine. Whispers of assassination drifted among the noble tables, until a tray’s sharp clatter caught Eris’s attention. She turned. Across the hall, beneath the cold, artificial glow of the Turned's enclave, a Lycan girl stood frozen, her tray shattered at her feet. Food spilled across polished stone, metal dishes skittering as the Turned erupted in laughter.
Eris recognized her—Bellara, a young Lycan working as a server for the Summit. Bellara’s hands trembled as she knelt, head bowed, willing herself to disappear.
“I told you. Use both hands,” one of the Turned sneered.
Another chuckled. “Maybe she needs them free for something else.”
Something hot and bitter curdled in Eris’s stomach.
“Careful, sweetheart,” a red-haired Turned drawled, sipping from his goblet. “You wouldn’t want to spill on us again. Lycans already smell bad enough.”
Bellara flinched as laughter rippled through their section. No one moved to stop it. The nobles watched with faint amusement while the Lycans kept their heads down. This was expected.
Eris moved before she could think. She slid from her chair, knelt beside Bellara, and began collecting the fallen plates.
The hall stilled.
Bellara inhaled sharply and so did half the room. A Dragov kneeling? Helping a Lycan?
Eris ignored every stare as she reached for a goblet and set it back on the tray. Bellara froze.
“Princess,” she whispered. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Eris said gently. “But I want to.”
Bellara accepted the dish, hands still trembling. Eris offered a soft smile, the kind Bellara had never seen aimed at her before. The silence thickened.
