Page 55 of Haunted Crowns
“Out.”
A hand yanked her forward. She didn’t flinch. Her boots struck stone, sharp and echoing.
A breeze stirred, carrying the faint scent of cedar and ash. It slipped beneath her hair, brushed her cheek like the ghost of a hand. This was not mere wind. It was presence. And with it camea whisper, wordless and felt more than heard. For a breath, the ache in her chest eased. She wasn’t alone. Not entirely.
The blindfold came off, and light exploded behind her eyes. When her vision cleared, she saw the Obsidian Citadel—a fortress of black stone, its towering spires clawing at the sky. The walls were seamless and bannerless, power made into monolith. Two guards flanked the entrance, faceless beneath obsidian helmets, armor gleaming with disciplined menace. One shoved her forward.
She walked without fighting. Chin high, and spine unbending.
The corridor swallowed her. The walls narrowed with every step, black stone pressing in on either side. The air sharpened, cold with judgment.
Her steps rang like a verdict, each one counted, not in fear, but in defiance.
At the end of the corridor, a heavy steel door loomed. It groaned open.
Inside, gray stone walls enclosed a cold, metal floor with a single chair bolted at the center like a throne for the condemned. They shoved her into it, strapped her down, locked her still. Overhead, a single bulb flickered, casting long and fractured shadows.
Eris stared forward. Breath steady, face unreadable. She remained silent, unmoving, and unbroken.
Behind the one-way glass, a man watched her. Avaristo swirled the crimson in his glass, watching it cling to the crystal before sliding down in slow, deliberate legs. A drink for kings, for conquerors, for men who didn’t inherit the world but claimed it.
On the other side of the glass, Eris Dragov sat bound to a steel chair. No tears, no pleas. Just stillness, poise. Even in chains, she looked like a queen.
Avaristo took a slow sip, savoring the taste of control. “She practically opened the door,” he murmured.
Behind him, Miloseva Arxsen, Advisor to the High Inquisitor, stood with her hands folded, eyes locked on the girl beyond the glass. Her silence was her reputation. “You’ve just struck at the heart of Goznoth’s two oldest powers,” she said, her voice cool and clipped. “Some would call that war.”
Avaristo gave a soft laugh. “War? Not yet. War wastes pieces before the board’s set.” He set his glass down, watching the liquid still. “She was never the goal,” he said. “She’s the fracture.” He let it hang, deliberate. Then, “We’ll give her back, bruised, breathing. Just enough to ignite the fault lines.”
Miloseva didn’t reply. She knew better during warcraft in motion.
Avaristo stepped closer, gaze lingering on Eris’s silhouette through the glass. “The Dragovs will see her in chains and feel the insult. But they won’t retaliate. They know the truth.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Our armies outnumber theirs ten to one. They won’t declare war. They’ll retreat into politics, pretending diplomacy still matters.” He turned slightly, voice softening. “But the Lycans won’t wait. To them, she’s more than blood. She’s prophecy. The moment the Dragovs hesitate, the wolves will smell cowardice.” He flicked his hand toward the girl in the chair. “They’ll believe she was never safe among her own. That the Dragovs failed her.”
“And the Dragovs?”
“They’ll see a princess tainted. Marked by wolfkind. And they’ll blame the Lycans for drawing our gaze.” His voice cut sharper now. “Firstblood pride. Lycan fury. Neither side will yield.”
He leaned in, voice cooling. “They’ll rip into each other—faith against bloodline, prophecy against tradition. And when they’ve burned through what’s left of their legacies—”
He took a final sip, then raised his glass in quiet mockery.
“—we’ll clean the ruin. No heirs. No alliances. No survivors.”
His fingers flicked once. The guard moved without a word. Avaristo turned back to the glass, golden eyes catching the flicker of the light.
Two empires. One girl. And soon, they would unravel from within. When the dust cleared, Goznoth would be his. The old world would fall with them—its oaths, its pride, its dying gods.
The Lycans and Firstbloods still clung to myths, to faith, to blood. But only gold endured. Only power ruled. And the Obsidian Order was no longer asking for a place in history; it was taking the throne.
Beyond the glass, a door creaked open and figures entered. Eris’s skin went cold. Obsidian-armored guards, precise and mechanical, moved in. One unlocked her cuffs while another yanked her upright. The chair scraped across stone, discarded. She staggered but caught herself before they could drag her. Their grip bruised, but she didn’t flinch.
“On your feet, Princess,” the officer said, his voice smooth and controlled. “Someone’s been eager for your company.”
She didn’t respond. They marched her through a narrow hall, lights humming above, shadows pressed tight to the walls. Her pulse pounded but her breath held steady.
Another door loomed, wider and colder. Inside, a single chair waited. They shoved her down into it, offering no restraints this time—a calculated mercy, leaving her hands free.
She looked up.
