Page 30 of Haunted Crowns
Her breath shuddered, but she kept walking. And when the door closed behind her, it felt like losing something she wasn’t ready to let go.
Stephan stood frozen, his pulse a sharp drumbeat in his ears. The report lay abandoned on his desk. He should send it to the kings. That was his duty. The only choice. And yet, his fingers didn’t move. His heartbeat pounded violently. Because the moment he sent it, he would lose her.
He wanted to dismiss her words as lies. Delusions. But a crack had formed, a whisper of doubt he could not silence.
What if she wasn’t wrong?
The doubt festered, and he hated it. But he could not ignore it. So, he did the one thing he never thought he would do. He went looking for the truth.
Stephan told no one where he was going. Part of him knew he would be seen as a traitor. Another part didn’t care.
The ancient doors of the Dragov Library, deep within Dragov Castle, groaned under his push. Dust spiraled in the dim light from the tall windows. The scent of parchment and candle wax filled the cavernous space, where centuries of history loomed in endless rows.
He moved deeper into the labyrinth, boots striking hollow echoes across the stone. The weight of his family’s past, a legacy he once believed unshakable, pressed with every step. He would find what he was looking for or prove, once and for all, that Eris was chasing ghosts.
One by one, he tore through the archives: laws, rebellions, trials. Nothing. He rifled through bloodlines, ancient treaties, battle records. Still nothing. Seraphina Dragov didn’t exist.
He exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of a shelf. That was not possible. Every Dragov name, every ruler, every betrayal was documented in excruciating detail. So why was she missing? Someone had erased her.
Just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye, a book wedged between two dusty tomes, as if hidden. He reached for it, fingers brushing the worn binding. Its weight surprised him—heavy, as though something more than paper lay inside. His breath caught when he saw the cover.
A dagger, carved deep into the leather, marked it like a wound. It looked as if it had once housed a blade, long since removed. Faded gold filigree framed a title in spidery Latin: Veritas Sanguine Scripta.
His pulse pounded as he murmured the translation. “Truth Written in Blood.”
Something twisted in his gut. The phrase was both a promise and a warning. Carefully, he pried the book open, anticipation and dread tangling in his chest.
The pages were blank.
He flipped through them faster. Still blank. No ink. No words. Just silence. Was this a joke?
“This has to be it,” he muttered, voice hoarse with frustration. His fingers dragged over the parchment, as if the truth lay just beneath the surface.
Nothing.
His jaw locked. The book sat open on his lap, its empty pages mocking him.
Then a sudden gust of cold air swept through the library, wrong.
Stephan froze.
The room had been still, silent in the way libraries always were. But now the air had shifted, as if a presence had slipped inside. His pulse spiked. He turned, scanning the dim rows oftowering shelves. Nothing. Only the soft flicker of candlelight along the walls. Then the flames dimmed, not all of them, just enough to cast the far corners into deeper shadow. All except one corridor. There, the candles flickered to life, one by one, forming a path.
Stephan’s jaw tightened. His instincts screamed in protest. This wasn’t natural. Then the name came, surging through his mind before he could stop it.
Seraphina.
He stiffened. He had not thought of her. He had not even meant to. But the name pushed into his thoughts, as if whispered by something unseen.
A chill slid down his spine. He hesitated. Then, exhaling slowly, he followed.
The air grew colder with every step, thick with the scent of melted wax and something metallic. Iron and decay. The stone walls were rough and damp, carved with symbols so ancient they had nearly faded.
As Stephan moved, the candlelight stretched his shadow across the walls. For a moment, it looked like something else moved alongside him. His breath caught, but he didn’t stop.
At the end of the corridor, he halted. A massive wrought-iron gate stood before him. He pulled at it. Locked. His gaze swept the space and landed on a rusted iron rod leaning against the wall. It was not a weapon. It was a tool. Gripping it tightly, he swung.
The impact jolted through his arms and down his spine. He swung again. Harder. The lock shattered. Rusted fragments scattered across the floor as the gate groaned open on reluctanthinges. Beyond it, a narrow and steep staircase stretched downward, descending into the abyss. A whisper of cold air rose from the depths, curling around his skin.
