Page 63 of Haunted Crowns
Theon exhaled. “Check it.”
He didn’t want to. Not now. But their eyes held something tense, expectant, so he tapped the device, and a low chime sounded as the screen activated. A projection flickered to life, and a memory began to play.
The kings stood a few paces behind Stephan, mid-conversation, their grief shaped in low, measured tones. As the image stabilized, they turned in unison, drawn by the flicker.The moment the memory played in full, the world began to shatter.
A smirk formed on the screen, sharp as a blade.
“Greetings, Stephan.” Rurik Rimashenko’s voice oozed silk-wrapped malice as his face shimmered into view, light catching the cruel twist of his mouth and the predator’s gleam in his eye.
“Remember yesterday,” he drawled, “when you said I’d never touch what wasn’t mine?” He paused, then tilted his head slowly, dragging the moment out like a blade across skin. “Well, check this out.”
The projection widened and twisted, blooming like a wound. A noose tightening around their throats.
And there she was: Eris. Pinned to the wall, her body bent at a grotesque angle, back arched in protest, arm trapped in Rurik’s brutal grip. Her breath came in shallow bursts, fractured by pain. Her lip was split, blood smearing her mouth like a curse. Her hair hung tangled and wild, falling in loose waves over a face streaked with tears. But her eyes, gods, her eyes, were fire and fear, rage and resistance burning behind glassy desperation.
She trembled.
“Isn’t she gorgeous?” he murmured, mockingly.
Eris jerked her face away. “Don’t do this. Please.”
Her voice shook.
Rurik laughed, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Stephan. Gotta put this away now. You understand.”
With that final taunt, the projection faded.
Across Goznoth, behind war tables and thrones, the Dragovs watched, powerless. Stephan’s vision tunneled. His mind raced into the black space after the recording. He didn’t know what came next, but his imagination filled the silence, and it hollowed him.
For a breathless moment, no one moved.
Stephan, his lieutenants, the kings behind him, all remained locked in place, stunned. They were caught in the stillness that followed unspeakable violence.
Then Stephan moved.
His chair scraped hard against stone as he rose, fists braced on the table and breath torn from his lungs. He stood shaking, barely breathing.
“I’ll kill him.”
He lunged. No thought. No restraint. Just rage, grief, instinct. The kind that comes when everything you love is touched and torn. Adrian caught him first, arms locking across his chest. Theon stepped in fast, blocking his path with the full weight of his body. Cassiel flanked his other side, anchoring him.
“Let me go—” Stephan’s voice cracked, the edges raw, splintered. “LET ME GO!”
He was not shouting at them. He was shouting at the failure, at the memory now seared into him.
“He touched her,” he choked. “He touched her. And we watched.”
Adrian’s grip tightened. “You’re not wrong. But this… This isn’t how we win.”
“This isn’t justice,” Theon snapped. “This is vengeance. And it’s exactly what he wants.”
Cassiel’s voice was rough and low. “Eris wouldn’t want to lose you to this.”
It took all three to hold him. Not just his body, but his breaking. And when he finally stilled, it wasn’t calm. It was collapse. He slumped forward, fists shaking, eyes burning into the ghost of the projection.
Behind him, Yori Dragov sank into his throne as if the centuries had finally caught him. This was desperation rendered in flesh and bone. His fingers clenched the armrests, white-knuckled, while the rest of him sagged beneath the weight ofabsence and failure. Raphael had never seen his brother like this, not as a king, but as a father, undone.
When he spoke, his voice was more breath than sound. “My Eris… I never thought I would live to see this.”
