Page 173 of Haunted Crowns
Kriponius stiffened. He felt her…then them. The Lycans. His expression twisted, contorted with something dark, something furious.
Seraphina. With Lycans. Again.
The thought burned through him like venom. His grip tightened on Sanguine Oath, the blade trembling in his grasp. Without a glance at the fallen king, Kriponius turned and walked toward her. Her call outweighed the king’s death.
Stephan spat blood as his vision fractured. Darkness fell, and cold swallowed him whole. The weight of oblivion pressed down, suffocating and endless. Yet within the void, a flicker stirred: a whisper of warmth, a memory.
Eris.
She ran ahead, wild and untouchable. The wind wrapped around her like a lover. Her auburn hair lifted like a crown of fire. That scent—roses. Always roses. Then she turned. She was charming, effortless. Perfect. That smirk, the one that had stolen his breath too many times to count. That laugh, light, intoxicating, the kind that had made him believe in things beyond blood and war. Those heart-shaped lips, meant for worship, meant for ruin. And those green eyes, sharp, teasing, hiding truths she only ever let him see. The way she evaded his gaze, playing with his sanity, only to steal glances when she thought he wasn’t looking. She was the dream he could never wake from.
Then she whispered his name—soft, intimate—as she had a thousand times before and would a thousand times more.
Warmth flooded his chest, aching and desperate, but it quickly gave way to ice as agony hit. Stephan gasped awake, her name slipping from his lips before he could stop it.
“Eris.”
Reality slammed into him and dragged him back into the wreckage of his body. Breath tore from his lungs, vision fractured, and pain detonated through every nerve. He was too weak to move, but she was out there, vulnerable, and he had to reach her.
He trembled as he rose inch by agonizing inch. His wounds screamed, and his limbs refused to obey, but pain meant he could still fight, and if he could fight, he could still protect her.
He tore cloth from a fallen servant and bound his wounds tightly. His fingers barely responded. He staggered, nearly collapsed, but he did not fall, because she was still waiting.
He saw the sword Kriponius had discarded and seized it from the stone floor. His grip held firm despite the blood. He took a breath and stepped forward, then another, then one more. Each movement was a battle.
When he reached the courtyard, his vision swam and his hands fumbled at the reins. With the final reserves of his strength, he mounted. His blood burned through his veins, but he had made a promise.
Together. Forever.
And Stephan Dragov never broke a promise. He struck the reins and rode like stormfire.
“I regret nothing.
The curse may damn us, but love will save us all.”
—Seraphina’s last words
Chapter 35
Power still rushed through Eris, divine and unrelenting, a storm that took as much as it gave. No queen, not even of Firstblood, summoned such fury without a price.
Her hands shook. Breath came fast, ripped from burning lungs. Still, she kept going. Her warriors needed her. Then, through the haze, through the pain, she saw it.
The Obsidian Order was breaking. The battlefield was shifting. Victory rose like vengeance reborn. The Dragov Legions advanced. Lycans tore through the enemy with the wrath of the old gods. The tide had turned, and it was because of her.
Eris exhaled, a jagged breath, and finally let go. Her knees struck the earth as a gasp escaped her lips. Then blood followed, spilling from her mouth, streaking the dirt crimson. The divine script across her skin flickered, dimmed, and then vanished. Her body had nothing left to give. She crawled forward. Every movement was agony. Fingers scraped the soil. She pulled herself to a jagged rock and slumped against it. Her head tilted back. Her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths. The world blurred, and the sound of war faded.
Still, she smiled, faint and flickering. They were safe. She had won. And now, at last, she could rest.
In the silence where Eris lay broken and breathless, the world remembered fear. The sky stilled and the battle hushed, as something older than war arrived. Smoke-thick silence settled, and the earth recoiled beneath its weight.
From the far edge of the battlefield, Kriponius Dragov emerged, a name that should have remained buried. He walked through the wreckage like a curse made flesh.
His long black cloak billowed behind him, a herald of ruin. Wind whipped his hair around a face carved from shadow, the face of a king who needed no throne.
The weight of his presence was suffocating.
Then his power unfurled. A slow wave of darkness swept forward. Every impure vampire in its path ceased to exist. Not slain. Not burned. Obliterated.
