Page 59 of Haunted Crowns
With each second, her strength drained, her heartbeat slipping further away. The room swayed. Or maybe it was her.
A distant voice called out, urgent.
“Stop now, or there’ll be nothing left of her!”
Hands wrenched him away, and she slid down the wall, her body limp, breathless. No more fight. No more breath.
Stephan, forgive me.
And then the world went still.
Firstblood High Decree—Act 319: Legitimacy of Rule
“Avaristo Rimashenko is declared High Chancellor of the Obsidian Order.
The Order is recognized as a co-ruling authority of Goznoth, its dominion sanctioned by the Crown of Dragov.”
—Ratified by the Firstblood High Council
Chapter 12
The great hall of Dragov Castle stood as a monument to legacy. Power had been carved in stone and sealed by blood. Towering obsidian pillars veined with silver reflected the low gleam of antique sconces. Overhead, a vaulted ceiling bore a fresco of the first Firstblood rulers, crimson-stained, gold-shadowed. Eternally conquering.
At the hall’s center, beneath a cold iron chandelier, stretched a long ebony table. Around it sat the War Council. Firstbloods draped in gilded robes held ageless poise that masked the blades of inherited cunning. Every gaze was grave. Every silence was edged.
At the head of the chamber, upon twin thrones of blackened iron and gold, sat Yori and Raphael Dragov. They were brothers bound not only by blood but by the weight of a dying empire.
Yori Dragov bore the stillness of a ruler shaped by restraint. Silver streaked his dark hair. Fine lines softened his sharp features. Unlike those before him, he governed through reason instead of fear. He had learned to bend without breaking.
Beside him, Raphael Dragov sat as his darker echo. He shared the same bone structure, but his presence was forged in steel. His hair appeared tousled, not from carelessness, but through calculation. He had once stood beside Yori in hope of reform, but now he understood: Mercy cost too much.
Together, they presided over a kingdom unraveling. Lines had been drawn. Loyalties were spent. And Eris—daughter of one, niece to the other—had become the perfect spark to let it all burn.
To Yori’s left sat the purists, robed in the sigils of ancient houses. At their centre, Lord Gavriel Morayne sat rigid, his eyes glowing with the fanaticism of old blood. For them, this meeting was not about strategy but retribution. They had never accepted the legalization of vampirism, a policy Yori and Raphael had championed to modernize the monarchy and prevent its collapse. To the purists, immortality was a sacred inheritance, not a gift to be distributed. Turned vampires were abominations. And now, a Dragov princess had done worse than dilute her bloodline; she had consorted with Lycans.
To them, Eris was a stain. So, too, was the Obsidian Order, for daring to lay hands on a Dragov. Their fury burned in both directions.
To Raphael’s right, the reformists sat with brittle composure. They had once supported the legalization of vampirism, not as indulgence but as a means to preserve the monarchy in a modern age, advocating synthetic blood over slaughter, survival over conquest. But even they could feel the fracture spreading.
On that one point, the purists were right. The Obsidian Order was watching. They were dangerous because they had never been tame. No bloodline bound them. They possessed no magic-laced blood, no ancestral tie to the Dragov line. No compulsion to kneel, only the will to survive. And that made them deadly.While the Firstbloods fractured, the Order advanced, silent, lethal.
Now, with Eris Dragov in Avaristo’s grasp, they held their sharpest weapon. If the Firstbloods faltered, the world would not see rulers. It would see them broken.
The chamber had seen centuries of war councils and betrayals. Tonight, it prepared for another battle. Its weapons were words.
Stephan Dragov sat cloaked in silence. High Commander, uncrowned prince, powerless until sworn. Every heartbeat echoed with Eris’s pain. His jaw was clenched, and his fists were curled tight. Adrian, Theon, and Cassiel, his lieutenants, stood beside him with unmoving resolve. They watched and waited. Stephan was one breath away from breaking. Across from them, the council splintered.
A voice sliced through the charged silence. “Disgrace.”
The word landed like a blade. Lord Gavriel Morayne—skeletal, sharp in crimson robes—leaned forward, silver-ringed fingers coiled against the table’s polished edge. His eyes burned with the cold, righteous fury of the old blood.
“A Dragov consorting with Lycans.” He let the words hang, savoring their weight. “This council should not be debating how to rescue Princess Eris. We should be discussing how to strip her of her title for the shame she has brought upon us all.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the purists. Then came a sudden crack. Heads turned.
Stephan’s hand clenched the armrest; splintered wood crumbled beneath his grip. His breath came fast, fury etched into every line of his body.
“Stephan.” Cassiel whispered beside him.Don’t lose yourself here.
