Page 47 of Haunted Crowns
Stephan’s head snapped up. Anger, panic, and something sharper flickered behind his eyes. “I will not let it spiral,” he said tightly, fastening his gauntlets. “But I meant what I said to her. I will not control her. I will not force her to walk a path that makes her feel caged.” His voice dropped, hoarse. “I lost her once trying to protect her my way. I will not make that mistake again.”
The locker room stilled. Not from discomfort, but respect—for a prince who dared defy power for love.
Silence hung for half a breath. Then the door slammed open. Boots thudded across the floor, carrying arrogance and the sharp scent of provocation.
Rurik strode in like a man who owned the ground he walked on, his Obsidian lapdogs trailing like shadows. Viktor Skovik leaned against a locker, arms crossed, dripping smug contempt.
“Well, well,” Rurik drawled, his gaze sliding over the room until it landed on Stephan. “If it isn’t the heartbroken prince. Heard your little Firstblood pet’s been running with wolves. Rough ones.”
Stephan’s spine stiffened, but he didn’t look up. Theon’s jaw flexed. Cassiel’s eyes narrowed. Adrian went still.
Rurik stepped closer, stretching lazily. “Must be hard,” he continued. “Seeing her fall for someone so…primal. I hear she doesn’t even bother pretending anymore.”
Viktor chuckled darkly. “Apparently, the Lycans know how to handle a woman. No silk gloves. Just claws.”
Stephan’s fingers curled into his shirt, fabric twisting under the pressure of his grip. Barely holding himself back.
Rurik smirked, satisfied. “Maybe that’s what she needed all along. You Dragovs are too refined. She needed someone who could ruin her properly.” He paused, his ensuing words cold and deliberate. “Tell you what, Stephan. When you’re done pretending she still matters to you, introduce us. I’d love a taste.”
CRACK.
Metal buckled. The locker door caved in beneath Stephan’s fist.
The room froze.
Theon moved first, blocking his path without touching him. Then Adrian stepped in, one hand gripping Stephan’s wrist. A silent order: not like this.
Cassiel watched, still and sharp, deciding if this was going to bleed.
Stephan’s breath thundered in his ears. He inhaled sharply. Fire roared beneath his ribs. Then he spoke, calm and razor-sharp. “Oh, Rurik.” He paused, a slow smirk forming. “Didn’tknow you begged for scraps like a starving mutt. Desperate for what you’ll never touch.”
Rurik’s grin faltered. Viktor’s posture shifted, uneasy now.
Stephan stepped in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “If you ever speak her name like that again, I won’t just defeat you on the court.”
He let it hang. Then turned, snatched up his Shadow Disc, and walked out, each step a vow of retribution.
Let the match begin, and gods help anyone who stood in his way.
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Shadow Court was no game. It was sanctioned warfare wrapped in spectacle. Held annually as one of the Summit’s centerpiece events, the Shadow Court match was a fixture of the Astareth program—its players chosen by draw, its outcomes remembered for years. A tradition born of old bloodlines, it fused precision, brute force, and ruthless strategy into a no-mercy contest. The rules were few. The stakes were everything. There were only two ways to win: strike the designated zones until triumph or strike the man until he broke. And today’s match at Astareth Arena was the most anticipated in recent memory. Two heirs of colliding empires. Stephan Dragov versus Rurik Rimashenko of the Obsidian Order. The Summit had filled to the rafters with nobles, generals, instructors, and spies, all of them hungry to witness what came next.
Kareon wasn’t among them. The Summit had barred him from attending—“Disciplinary review,” they called it—for striking an Obsidian envoy last week. But everyone knew what it really was: a leash. He would have loved to be there, to watch two vampireheirs tear each other apart with sanctioned violence. To see the court’s so-called honor crack beneath real blood.
But they kept him caged, close enough to use, never close enough to belong.
And watching from the gallery was Eris.
She sat beside Bellara, their presence quiet amidst the noise. Her posture was flawless, her expression unreadable, but her heart was anything but calm.
She hadn’t come to support him. Not really. Things between them remained raw and sharp around the edges, but she was here, because a fragile part of her needed to see what he would do now, with the whole court watching. And because, despite everything, she still cared.
The arena trembled beneath the weight of ritualized violence—heat and bloodlust cloaked in the guise of tradition.
On the right sat the nobles of the High Houses, gilded and glacial, watching from behind polished masks. On the left gathered the Obsidian Order, louder, hungrier, fangs bared in anticipation.
This wasn’t about points. This was about supremacy, and Stephan Dragov had just stepped onto the field. He moved like a commander claiming war. His black and crimson armor was a declaration. His gauntlets, etched with coiled sigils, were ancestral marks of bloodline and wrath.
