Page 49 of Haunted Crowns
This wasn’t over.
His lips curled, not in a smirk, but a vow. Stephan thought this was the end? It was not. It was only the beginning. He would bleed for this. And soon.
The crowd was roaring, but Eris barely heard it. She had seen matches before, dozens of them, but she had never seen Stephan play like this.
There had always been a precision to him, a careful, methodical elegance in every move. He had always relied on strategy, not aggression. But this wasn’t strategy—it was rage, sharpened into a weapon.
She had seen blood on the court before, but not like that, not from him. This wasn’t a match. It was punishment, ruthless and personal. A reckoning written in bruises. He’d stormed off the court without celebration. No triumph. Only fury, burning and alive.
She swallowed hard and couldn’t help but wonder if some of that rage was meant for her for not trusting him, for wearing the charm.
The thought sank its teeth in.
Once, he had looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Now she was the reason his hands were clenched into fists, because she had broken something in him, and gods, it felt awful.
They had been something once. Fragile. Fierce. Worth every scar. And now? Look what was left.
The weight in her chest tightened, unbearable. She needed air. She needed to get out.
She pushed up from her seat and slipped through the rows, her steps quick and unsteady. The crowd’s roar faded behind her, drowned by the pounding in her ears.
Cool air hit her as she stepped into the corridor, but it didn’t help. She pressed a hand to her chest, though the ache remained. Her vision blurred as she inhaled sharply, barely holding back a tear. She couldn’t break down here, not for him. Not for the man who once held her like she was his world, and now burned for her like she was his ruin. She exhaled and forced herself to keep moving, away from the match, away from him.
But no matter how far she went, she could still feel his fury. And worse, her own.
Somewhere beneath the arches of Astareth, that fury walked with him. Stephan’s footsteps echoed against the marble corridor, the sound of the crowd fading behind him.
He should’ve felt triumphant, but all he felt was rage. His pulse was still hammering, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He could still hear Rurik’s voice in his head—the vile words, the disgusting smirk, the way he spoke about Eris like she was something to be claimed, owned, used.
He slammed his fist against the nearest wall. Hard.
The impact sent a sharp pain up his knuckles, but he didn’t care. This wasn’t over.
Rurik wasn’t the real threat. He was the spark, the symptom—not the fire. And humiliating him in front of half the Summit… gods, Stephan knew exactly what that meant. The Order wouldn’t forgive this.
His breath hitched. A cold understanding slid beneath the rage. He’d handed them a weapon. The Obsidian Order was already circling for war, hungry for a pretext to destroy the monarchy. And now, he had served them one on a silver platter. Rurik wasn’t the kind of man to take defeat quietly. He’d carry this humiliation back to Avaristo and twist it. The Order would answer in blood, not honor.
And they wouldn’t strike at Stephan. They would strike where he was weak.
Eris.
They already knew about her rebellion—her alliance with the Lycans. They’d use her, make her the excuse to tear down the Dragov line for good.
Stephan dragged a hand through his hair, breath shuddering, the last of the victory bleeding out of him.
This wasn’t over.
No—this was the beginning.
Historical Report—Incident #0412: Ideological Deviation
They arrived before dawn. No banners. Only the iron rhythm of discipline.
By dusk, Kaiton Vaxt, ex-Dean of Ethics, was taken into custody. His body never recovered.
—Archivist Harlem Kos (Executed 48 hours after logging this entry)
Chapter 10
