Page 171 of Haunted Crowns
Then he smiled slowly, dark and amused. "Arrogance is the marrow of Dragov blood. Yet thou wearest it ill, like a boy draped in a crown he cannot bear."
His smirk lingered, but his eyes remained cold. Then it was gone. His gaze swept over Stephan as his frown deepened. He had already seen Sanguine Oath, but now he saw the blood, soaking both blade and armor.
“What soul's end stains thee thus?”
But he did not wait for an answer. His will reached outward, slithering past the crypt, through the castle walls, and into the night beyond. He felt the battle raging outside, the Firstbloods locked against something unnatural: impure vampires.
Kriponius froze, rigid as marble. Then his black eyes widened with sudden disgust and fury.
"Thou hast let this abomination slither forth beneath mine ancient name?" He turned back to Stephan, feral. “Leeches adorned in counterfeit sovereignty, blood-cloaked pretenders to an inheritance they neither earned nor comprehend?”
The very walls shifted, as if the castle itself trembled.
Kriponius stepped forward. The stones beneath him cracked. The shadows deepened.
"Hath the House of Dragov sunk so low as to kneel before carrion?" His black gaze bore into Stephan, cold as a dying star. “In the days when thrones bled and gods wept, such filth was not endured. It was sundered. Scorched. Cast into ash.”
The crypt seemed to strain, reality bending beneath his fury.
Stephan stood his ground, grip tightening on Sanguine Oath. His voice cut through the dark. “You ruled in your age. You fed on the weak and called it dominion. But your time is over. You are the shadow of a god already forgotten. And shadows belong to the dark.” The torches trembled as the ground seemed to listen. Stephan stepped forward. “You should have remained buried.”
Kriponius went still. And then, the crypt shuddered from wrath itself awakening.
The ground groaned. The walls strained. Something vast stirred in the depths of his power.
Kriponius’s face twisted in contempt and disgust. His voice thundered. “Thou wearest that crown as though it were aught but a trinket, hollow and unearned.” He took another step, as the stones beneath him cracked and splintered. "The Dragov line is defiled by thy mercy. Thou hast unmade a dynasty of iron and fire, and I alone shall cleanse it. I will rip out the rot and restore what was lost. I shall see thee crawl—unworthy, broken—before the true throne, that which neither time nor death could dethrone."
Then his black eyes darkened with hunger, and a possessive claim that had never been relinquished.
His lips curled. His voice, softer now, was infinitely worse. “But ere I unmake thee…I must reclaim that which was forged in mine own flame.”
A name not spoken, but felt in the marrow of the world.
Seraphina.
Stephan didn’t hesitate. As Kriponius spoke, he moved. Sanguine Oath flashed free, its red steel gleaming like the world’s last light. Steady and unyielding, he raised it. It was not just a weapon; it was a declaration of war.
When he spoke, his voice was a death sentence. "You will not touch her."
Kriponius smiled with amusement, indulgent as a god humoring a mortal. He regarded Stephan Dragov like a man who mistook himself for an equal.
Almost charming.
The smile, carved from cruelty, widened. "Oh? And by what sorcery doth a whelp presume to slay the divine?"
Stephan’s grip tightened around Sanguine Oath. His eyes burned with defiance. "I swear on my blood, my father’s blood, and every soul you ever damned, that before this night ends, I will see you buried in the darkness where you belong."
Kriponius’s smile twisted. Then the storm came.
A wind exploded through the crypt. It was violent, invisible, and sounded like a howl torn from the marrow of the world. It surged from Kriponius alone. The walls shook, as the torches flared and screamed. Stephan braced against it. His boots dragged against stone, but he did not fall. He took one step. Then another.
Kriponius gave a low, entertained hum, then flicked his wrist. A sword tore from the wall and flew into his hand, shrieking like a beast returning to its master. But before the blade stilled, Stephan struck.
His body became a weapon. His blade moved as though it had been forged from his soul. Every strike came faster than breath, shaped by desperation, fury, and devotion. He advanced, pressing Kriponius back, demanding recognition, not as an heir but as a warrior born of blood and will.
His footwork was relentless, each movement a calculated act of war: a feint, a shift in weight, a perfectly placed strike.
Kriponius blocked it with ease. Steel met something older than flesh. The crypt trembled. Their eyes locked. Stephan burned, wild and unbroken, while Kriponius stood composed,entertained, and sovereign. Stephan fought like a man with everything to lose. Kriponius fought like a god who had all the time in the world.
