Chapter 23
Rich laughter thundered through the great hall.
Stephan had barely turned before Theon slung an arm around his shoulders.
“There he is—the man of the hour.” Theon grinned, eyes bright with pride.
Adrian lifted his goblet. “Our High Commander, cutting down enemies with a blade and his princess with a dance.”
Laughter erupted. The table shook.
“Drink, Commander! We honor your strength…and your madness!”
Stephan chuckled and raised his cup. “Madness?” He lifted a brow. “I call it strategy.”
Theon snorted. “So strategy now includes dragging your princess into a ring of fire?”
Stephan smirked over the rim. “She didn’t seem to mind.”
Cassiel exhaled, mock-dramatic. “If that is Dragov courtship, I chose the wrong profession.”
More laughter followed, but beneath it, something heavier. They had seen it, the way he chose to stand beside her, not above her.
In that moment, something changed. The legacy he came from had started to make room for who he was becoming.
They weren’t just celebrating their commander. They were honoring their future king.
Across the hall, Eris stood surrounded, noblewomen leaning in, eyes bright with disbelief.
“I have never seen anything like it,” Lady Helena whispered. “The fire. The power. You did not dance—you commanded.”
Another nodded, flushed. “And that gown. You made the gods jealous.”
Eris smiled, warmth rising to her neck. She had faced blades and death, but this, praise wrapped in silk and scrutiny, was its own battlefield.
“I doubt the gods care about my wardrobe,” she murmured.
Laughter rippled, warm and genuine, and for a moment, Eris let herself enjoy it.
They were no longer whispering about her. They were watching her.
Then the air shifted. A cold coil slid down her spine. Something was wrong. Flames shuddered, disturbed by nothing visible. A shadow stretched long and still across the stone wall.
Eris winced. Her lungs locked as if the air had betrayed her. She turned instinctively, and there he stood. Raphael Dragov, as if born from the shadows.
She froze, as memories slammed into her: his blade at her throat, his scorn. Her breath shallowed. Still, she stood tall and met his gaze.
“We need to talk.” His voice was ice.
Behind her, the hall pulsed with life, laughter, clinking goblets, but Raphael’s silent presence pressed cold against her skin, insistent.
Every instinct told her to refuse, but she remembered the vow.
He had bled for it—for Stephan, for her.
If this was about Stephan, she couldn’t turn away. So she followed.
Raphael moved like shadow, weaving through the revelry unnoticed. Candlelight clung to him faintly, as if even flame recoiled. Eris followed, unease tightening in her gut. “Where are we going?”
“You will see,” he said, not turning.
“What do you want to talk about?”
He paused. “Stephan.”
Her steps faltered, as cold crept through her veins. She had been right, but something in his voice, hollow and flat, turned her stomach.
The torches thinned as the air grew colder, heavier. The passage sloped downward. With each step, the dark closed in. Then she stopped.
Something was wrong. Not just how he moved—too smooth. Not just how he spoke—too even. It was the silence. The descent. The thinning light. The walls pressing in.
Her breath trembled as she set her jaw. “I am not going any farther.”
Raphael stilled. A beat passed. Then his fingers closed, unyielding, around her wrist.
Eris jerked back. “Let me go.”
He didn’t. When he turned, his eyes were hollow, like a grave staring back.
“I am not asking, Eris.” His voice was flat. “I am ordering you. As your king.”
Eris twisted, but it was useless. “Uncle, please. You are scaring me.”
He didn’t blink. “Do you love Stephan?”
The words hit like a slap.
“What?”
His grip tightened, silencing her before she could speak. “Do. You. Love. Him?”
Her breath shuddered. “Of course I do.”
He dragged her closer, face hovering inches from hers. “Then be quiet. And do as I say.”
A gasp escaped her lips. Then he shoved her through the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her, sealing her in.
Eris staggered, breath ragged, eyes wide. The room was small and ancient, stone walls heavy with cold. The air felt wrong, as if something waited.
Her voice shook. “What does this have to do with Stephan?”
Raphael didn’t answer. He moved to a small altar, arranging unseen items with chilling calm.
Eris watched, trembling. A flicker of silver revealed the blade, followed by the snap of shackles.
Cold iron clamped around her wrists, yanking her down.
A cry tore from her throat, frantic. She thrashed, but the chains held. Steel bit deep.
Raphael crouched before her, one hand on her jaw. He had told himself this was fate. That the throne demanded it. But when had cruelty ever been sacred? “Stop fighting. This will not hurt.”
Her pulse thundered. “What will not?”
He rose, stepping onto the altar like a priest preparing sacrifice. “The Obedience Seal.”
Eris froze as the name coiled through her like a curse. “What?” She wanted to mishear it, but dread had already settled in her stomach. She swallowed and forced the words out. “What does it do?”
Raphael didn’t blink. “It settles in your blood.” He drew a breath. “When a Dragov ruler gives you an order, you will obey.”
The words fell, binding and unforgivable, like iron. Eris’s breath locked in her chest.
“No.” She yanked at the chains, frantic. They held fast.
Raphael remained still. “This way, Seraphina has no hold. No way to use you against the throne or Stephan.”
A weapon. A liability. That was all she had ever been. Not the woman Stephan loved. Not a daughter or a person. Just a problem to solve. The horror struck like ice.
“How can you do this to him?” Her voice trembled with fury. “How can you betray your own son?” Her wrists burned as she pulled harder, skin splitting under the strain. “Uncle, please. If you do this, Stephan will never forgive you. He will hate you. Forever.”
Raphael didn’t flinch. “Then he will never have to know.”
His voice was flat, distant, as if this was nothing but logic. A necessary cruelty.
He turned to the altar, stretching one hand over the silver basin. Eris jerked violently at the chains.
“How can you believe he will not notice?” Her voice cracked. “Stephan will look at me once, and he will know. He will know what you did.”
Raphael exhaled, measured, then smiled. A small, amused curve of his lips. “Or,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward her like she was nothing more than inconvenience, “he will find you…pleasantly more compliant with his desires.” He turned back to the altar. “And what man does not enjoy that?”
Silence fell like a blade. Eris stilled. He was gone, lost to madness. No reason would reach him.
Rage surged, violent, storming beneath her skin. Her fists clenched, nails biting deep. She looked up, gaze cold and burning. “You think you can bend me? You think you can break me? Then you understand nothing. Not about me. And certainly not about your son.”
She spoke it like a curse, but Raphael was no longer listening.
The ritual had begun.
He stood at the altar above her like a judge at a silent execution.
Before him lay the Veritas Sanguine Scripta, the forbidden tome of Dragov.
Its cracked leather breathed age and power.
Its pages, inked in runes, stirred only for Dragov blood.
Once, it whispered the past to Stephan. Now it would bind her future.
Beside it waited the obsidian dagger. A blade for sacrifice. For submission.
Raphael moved with practiced ease, steady hands, unwavering confidence.
This would work. Tonight, he would break the fire of Eris Dragov.
He lifted the dagger, torchlight catching the steel.
Then he sliced his palm. Dark crimson welled, sinking like ink into the book’s blank pages.
The book shuddered. Pages trembled, alive with sudden breath.
The sacrifice was accepted.
Black ink bled across the parchment as the letters carved themselves into place. The Obedience Seal had revealed itself. Raphael inhaled and spoke in a voice carved from command:
“Tenebrae vetustae, surgite. Animam hanc ligate. Voluntatem confringite.”
(Ancient darkness, rise. Bind this soul. Shatter her will.)
The chamber convulsed. A guttural shudder moved through the stone, as if the walls had drawn breath. The air grew heavy, suffocating. The torches erupted, flames twisting into clawed shapes that reached for the ceiling. Something entered, and it was hungry.
Eris stared, eyes wide, horror blooming.
Raphael did not falter. He rolled up his sleeve, veins pulsing with unnatural energy. One hand held the living book. The other, bleeding, offered his magic. The darkness responded. It thickened, coiled, then took form.
A limb surged into being—fingers jagged, cracking with force. Then wrist. Forearm. A twisted appendage made of pure abyss. It pulsed. It loomed. The more magic Raphael fed it, the stronger it grew.
Eris trembled.
This wasn’t spellwork. This was something never meant to wake.
Raphael’s voice rose, thunderous. “Dominium aeternum. Nullum refugium. Nulla resistentia.”
(Eternal dominion. No refuge. No resistance.)
The altar shook. The chamber groaned, stone rebelling under sacred violence. The phantom limb surged and pressed inward, seeping toward Eris like rot. Chains rattled. Iron bit deep, but she did not cower, even with no escape.
Her breath steadied, sharp, slow, like a blade drawn clean. “I will not make this easy for you.”
Raphael’s lips curled, amused. She was chained, cornered—and still, she dared. His grip tightened around the spell.
The phantom arm flexed, fingers twisting, reaching. It hovered before her, studying its prey. It pulsed, tasting resistance.