Page 172 of Haunted Crowns
"Speak, whelp," Kriponius said, parrying without effort. "What madness compels thee to die for a flame that was, and shall ever be, mine?"
Stephan snarled, defying both wind and god. "You called her your queen, then cast her into the grave." He struck again, harder. "And I will die before I let you lay a finger on mine."
Kriponius paused. Then he understood.
Ah, this is love.Brave. Honorable. Utterly futile.
Even if Seraphina lived again in the woman this boy now defended, it changed nothing. He would take her back regardless.
His lips curled. "I see."
Stephan swung harder and faster. Kriponius deflected easily, his eyes studying every move.
"Hast thou read the blood-soaked scrolls, boy?" His voice was smooth, almost kind. "Have the scrolls and songs forgotten me so soon? Know this: in all my centuries, naught hath stood between my will and my desires and endured."
Their blades collided again. The stone beneath them cracked.
"Thy beloved shall prove no exception to my will." He smiled with cruelty. "She wields Seraphina’s power, and that power calls to me. I will reclaim her. Flesh and flame, as fate decreed."
Stephan roared. His blade slammed against Kriponius’s, the force shivering up the Dread King’s arm.
Kriponius’s smirk sharpened. "Such devotion," he said, tilting his head. "She must be made of starlight and sacrament if thou wouldst trade thy soul for her breath." His eyes darkened as a hunger surfaced. "I think I shall savor reclaiming every sacred inch she forgot was mine."
Stephan saw red. Rage tore through the wind, through restraint, through reason. His blade came down like wrath made flesh. "You will not live to see the sun touch her face again."
Kriponius met him with savage glee. Then his rhythm shifted. He was no longer testing. He struck to break. His attacks grew faster, more brutal, as he drank from Stephan’s fury and fed on his desperation.
He delivered a single, merciless slash. Blood sprayed as Stephan’s arm split open, crimson pouring across his armor. His breath caught, sharp and ragged, but he held his grip.
Another blow followed, a brutal arc carving across his chest. He staggered, teeth clenched and muscles burning, but he did not fall. He did not release Sanguine Oath.
Kriponius’s smirk deepened. This boy, this descendant, was remarkable, but not enough.
Stephan was fury and flame, unshaken even as the crypt trembled beneath the force of their clash. His lungs fought for breath. His limbs screamed with pain, but he did not yield. Not until he saw the opening.
He moved in a blur, stepping onto the coffin with a pivot and a twist. He seized the spear from the wall, and in one perfect motion, he threw it.
The weapon cut the air like lightning, its tip flying straight and true, aimed directly for Kriponius’s chest. The impact should have dropped a vampire to his knees, but Kriponius did not flinch. He looked down at the embedded shaft, unmoved. Then he pulled it free and let it fall to the ground with a quiet, amused breath.
"Dost thou truly believe thy lesser flame can contest my eternity, child?"
Stephan’s heart pounded. He had struck a clean, crippling blow. Or so he had believed. Yet Kriponius stood untouched.Stephan’s thoughts raced. There was only one way to destroy a monster like this.
He had to sever the head.
His body moved before thought. He ran fast, too fast for even Kriponius to track. He blurred along the crypt walls, passed the ancient one, and struck from above in a flash of steel.
Kriponius turned, just in time. Their swords clashed.
This time, Kriponius felt it—a force behind Stephan’s blade that nearly drove him back.
Kriponius grinned. “Truly remarkable, boy…” He paused, a flicker of cruelty passing through his gaze. “’Tis nigh a sorrow to extinguish thee, for thou art the finest the rot hath birthed.”
Then he thrust. Steel punched through flesh too fast, too deep, too close to the heart.
Stephan choked on blood as he collapsed to his knees, Sanguine Oath still clutched in his hand.
Kriponius curled his fingers around the sacred blade and tore it free. Both swords rose in a single, fluid arc, poised to sever flesh from bone, when a howl split the air—raw, untamed, echoing like a war cry across the crypt.
