Page 65 of Haunted Crowns
Another voice followed, firm. "Can you stand?"
The words made no sense. They hung foreign and wrong inside her mind, disconnected from the body she could not command. Her brows furrowed. She tried to speak, but syllables collapsed against her teeth.
That was all Saverius needed. His jaw tightened. Without a word, he lifted her into his arms.
Eris exhaled a broken sound but did not resist. Her fingers twitched weakly against the fabric of his uniform, clutching at him without strength.
Dr. Faelan stood, adjusting his bag, and cast one final, cold glance around the chamber—a place of humiliation and suffering he would not forget.
The heavy doors groaned open, revealing the dimly lit corridor beyond. The Obsidian Guard lined the walls, their facescarved into masks of cruelty. Mocking eyes followed the slow procession; some smirked, others exchanged murmured jokes. Saverius did not falter. His steps were sure, his grip unshakable.
Strength returned to her limbs slowly, but enough to lift her head, just barely. Her gaze drifted back toward the fortress, a monument to monsters, a place she would never forget.
From the highest tower, Avaristo watched and smiled.
Below, the broken princess was carried away, her rescuers moving with frantic urgency.
How predictable.
A single wounded girl, and the mighty Dragovs crumbled like sand.
He tapped a gloved finger against the windowsill, silver eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Run home, little princess,” he murmured. “Let them mend you. It will make shattering you so much sweeter.”
With a final glance, he turned away. The real game had yet to begin.
The car’s doors slammed shut, sealing them in tense silence.
Eris shifted, forcing herself upright though every movement hurt. Dr. Faelan, seated beside her, was already reaching for his medical bag.
“You need treatment. Tell me where it hurts.”
Eris shook her head. “I’m fine.”
A lie. Even she didn’t believe it.
Dr. Faelan studied her, his keen eyes assessing, patient but firm. “Princess—”
“I just need a cloth.” Her voice was quiet but unwavering.
Dr. Faelan hesitated, waiting for admission, for surrender, for anything. But she gave him nothing. Her mind was elsewhere, far from bruises or broken skin.
She was with Stephan.
She pictured him watching the recording. The moment he saw Rurik’s hands on her, the blood, the helplessness stamped across her face. What had it done to him?
Guilt coiled around her ribs. This was her fault, her choices, her mistakes. And now he bore the weight of them as well. No matter how strong Stephan was, no matter how disciplined or ruthless, she had always been his one weakness. She had seen it before, in the way he held her too tightly after danger, in the unspoken words behind his eyes. To the world, he was iron, but with her, he was vulnerable, and she could not be the reason he shattered.
She needed to see him, to steady him, because as much as she needed him now, he needed her more.
Dr. Faelan finally handed her a damp cloth. She took it with shaking hands and wiped at her skin, as if that could erase what had been done. To make herself clean enough to face them.
The car sped through the dark roads of Rimashenko territory, carrying her home. Eris Dragov sat in silence, the cloth limp in her lap, bracing for what came next.
Far across the hills of Goznoth, the imposing Dragov estate rose, unshaken. Pale marble veined with silver shimmered beneath moonlight. Its columns stood tall, its carvings silent with memory. It had weathered centuries of triumph and betrayal. Tonight, the estate braced for something far more fragile: a family fracturing beneath its own name.
Inside the grand hall, beneath the banners of House Dragov, three men stood. Three rulers. Three warriors. Three Dragovs. Waiting.
Stephan. Yori. Raphael.
