Chapter 23 #2
Then he thrust it forward. A roar split the chamber.
The torches snuffed in one violent flicker.
The phantom hand struck, consuming. Eris screamed as it plunged into her.
Pain tore through her, hollowing her out.
She clawed inward, her will striking back.
She would not be shackled. She would not break.
Raphael snarled through the storm, sweat streaking his brow. His hand trembled. "Stop resisting, foolish girl. You cannot stop this."
But she did not stop. Tears streaked her face, defiant.
The phantom arm convulsed, seizing. It could not hold her.
Power clashed with will. A monster with the girl who would not kneel.
Raphael’s eyes widened. This was wrong. The spell was not settling. It was breaking. Pressure surged, heavy and suffocating. A crescendo of chaos. Light and dark collided. Then the chamber ruptured.
A shriek tore through the air, not from Eris, but from the spell.
The phantom hand warped. Then, instead of binding, it tore through her chest, vengeful and precise, before it shattered.
This time Eris cried out, raw and fractured.
Her body dropped, chains snapping her arms taut.
She trembled, drained. The force inside her burned, wild and unstable.
Amid the ruins the spell left behind, a memory flickered. A soft, half-forgotten piano chord. Fingers brushing hers beneath a hedge. A laugh. A whisper.
"Come find me." Stephan’s voice, faint in the dark. "You were always the wild one."
Then the darkness shattered everything and swallowed her whole.
Raphael staggered, knees buckling. He caught the altar, breath ragged, skin damp with sweat.
Silence fell as the wind died. Even the flames flickered, as if fire itself had recoiled.
The spell had been cast, but it had not taken. For the first time in years, Raphael felt fear. It should have settled—clean, exact—but Eris had resisted. Now either she had broken the seal, or the seal had broken her.
His throat clenched. He had mastered darker spells, whispered forbidden names, wielded powers best forgotten. But now his heart raced. Something was wrong. Irrevocably wrong. He turned and saw her. Eris. Still shackled, still kneeling, far too still.
A sickness twisted in his gut.
No.
He stumbled forward, knees striking stone, fingers tearing at the shackles until iron clanged to the floor. She collapsed into his arms, her weight too light, too limp. She had defied him, burned with fire. Now there was nothing.
He rocked her, as if motion alone could wake her. “Eris.”
No answer.
His hand trembled against her cheek. Cold. He traced it, pleading, but she did not respond. His chest caved. Raphael Dragov, always unshaken, broke.
A tear slipped down his cheek, then another, and another—until a memory surged. Tiny fingers had gripped his. A pull. A laugh.
“Come, Uncle. You promised.”
A stormy night. A small girl beneath his cloak.
“Stay with me?”
And he had, without hesitation. Now he held her again, but there was no laughter. No storm. Only silence. His arms tightened. His breath shook.
“What have I done?” he whispered. The words barely rose above a prayer. “Why did you resist?”
She couldn’t answer because there was nothing left to answer.
A sob broke from him, fractured. For the first time, Raphael understood loss.
He had wanted Stephan to choose anyone but her, had seen Eris as a threat—to the throne, to his legacy, to everything Dragov stood for. But she was still blood. Still the wide-eyed girl who once ran the castle halls with Stephan, the one he had shielded without hesitation.
Now she was gone.
The way he ruled, the way he crushed weakness, had cost him everything—his son's respect, his brother’s trust, and the life of his niece. What was a throne worth, if bought with the blood of his own?
His grip tightened. With trembling fingers, he reached up and closed her eyes. His chest splintered beneath the weight, and he curled around her, trying to shield her from the ruin he had made. His lips pressed to her temple.
“Please… Forgive me.”
But the dead do not grant absolution.
And Eris Dragov was gone, even if her body still breathed.
Somewhere above, the oak table shook beneath pounding fists. Goblets sloshed. Laughter crashed like surf.
“To our High Commander!” Theon roared, voice thick with triumph and wine.
“To the reckless bastard who turned sacred combat into a love confession,” Adrian added, his grin sharp.
More goblets lifted.
Cassiel smirked. “Tell us, Commander—was tossing your weapons strategy, or did your lady just leave you defenseless?”
Stephan exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re all drunk. And dramatic.”
“Drunk? Yes. Dramatic? Never,” Theon shot back.
More laughter. More teasing. Then a cold gust of wind swept through, brushing Stephan’s ear like a whisper from the grave.
He froze as warmth drained from his skin. He had felt this before, on the day Eris was taken.
There was no sound, only presence.
His gut twisted as his mind locked on her. “I need to find Eris.” His voice was sharp, clipped.
The laughter died. Theon, Adrian, and Cassiel exchanged glances. But Stephan was already moving, pushing through revelry that now felt hollow.
Theon’s smirk vanished. Cassiel lowered his goblet. Adrian’s jaw tensed. They didn’t speak, but they felt it. Something was wrong.
Stephan’s pulse thundered as he forced a breath. “Control yourself. She’s safe. No one would dare touch her. Not after the Crimson Vow.”
But the unease clung to him. Not all threats bowed to vows. Not all monsters wore a rival’s sigil. Some carried his own. The realization struck.
Raphael.
The man who had never hidden his disdain for their love now had every reason to see Eris as a greater threat, especially after Stephan's public claim.
Stephan exhaled, sharply. He turned, eyes sweeping the crowd.
Eris was gone. So was Raphael.
A sick feeling clawed at his ribs. Then he spotted Yori near the far end of the hall, speaking lightly with nobles, unaware.
Stephan moved fast, cutting through the crowd. “Uncle.” His voice rang firm, commanding. Yori turned. “Where is Eris?” Stephan asked.
Yori blinked, glancing over his shoulder. “There.”
He pointed toward the noblewomen who had fawned over her. But she was not there.
Stephan’s stomach dropped. Yori frowned and looked again, slower now. Something in him shifted. His spine straightened.
Stephan’s voice dipped. “Where is my father?”
Yori turned to the place where Raphael had stood beside Lord Gavriel. But Raphael was also gone.
Gavriel remained, still deep in conversation with Lord Hadrian, as if nothing had changed. Yori stilled. His expression darkened, tension cutting through his posture as a memory struck. Raphael’s voice echoed in his mind:
"The Obedience Seal may be the only way to keep her from threatening the throne."
Dread pulsed through him.
No. He wouldn’t. Would he?
Yori’s throat clenched. Fear crept in. He turned to Stephan, voice like a blade. “Move.”
They ran—fast, hard—shoving through the crowd, tearing through celebration that no longer mattered. Stephan’s heart pounded, each step a prayer.
Please, let me not be too late.
They flew down the corridors, past flickering torches that warped in the air, as if a specter breathed at their neck. The air thinned, heavy and cold, as they spiraled into the underground chambers.
Stephan surged ahead, muscles burning. Something clawed at him, a wrongness he could not see but felt, a whisper of something already lost.
Yori kept pace, his face stone-set, his silence carved with dread. Then he stopped and threw out an arm, catching Stephan at the chest.
They both froze.
A voice seeped through the stone, faint and cracked like a dying breath.
Raphael.
Stephan’s pulse slammed against his ribs. He paused for a single beat, then rage surged and he moved fast, unthinking, straight to the door.
He yanked the handle, but it was locked. He snarled, feral.
Once. Twice.
His shoulder slammed into the wood. It groaned beneath the force but held. It was not fast enough. His vision tunneled, the world burning red. His father was behind that door, and so was Eris.
A roar tore from him, not rage, but war. He hurled his full weight forward.
The door exploded, wood shattering. They burst in together, Stephan and Yori, fire burning in their veins.
At the center of the chamber knelt Raphael. His head was bowed as he cradled her.
Eris.
She lay limp in his arms, her head fallen back, hair spilling like liquid gold. Stephan’s breath hitched, then vanished. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat—half gasp, half snarl as his knees buckled.
Then rage ignited. It rose inside him like a cathedral set ablaze, sacred, unstoppable. Damned.
“NO!” He lunged forward, reaching for her.
Gods, no. No.
He would rip her free if he had to.
But then Raphael looked up, and Stephan stopped. His father’s face was ruined. For the first time, Raphael Dragov—the Unrelenting, the Unshaken—was broken.
His eyes were vast and empty, like caverns where something sacred had died. His power was gone. His composure shattered.
Then he whispered, voice fractured by grief. “Niece…” He lowered his forehead to hers, shoulders trembling.
Stephan stood frozen. Rage still burned, but beneath it was something worse.
Raphael Dragov was grieving, and Stephan had never been more afraid in his life.
Yori charged in behind Stephan. He was ready to spill his brother’s blood for touching his daughter.
Then he stopped, mid-step and mid-breath.
His fingers tightened on the hilt, but he did not draw.
Raphael was not holding Eris like a man who had won.
He held her like a man who had lost everything.
Yori saw it clearly. The truth. The tragedy. A man who had damned his own blood.
Stephan dropped to his knees beside them. He touched her. She was cold. Her skin felt wrong.
She was breathing, yet something in her was absent. Her body lived, but her soul no longer answered.
A sound escaped him—not a sob or a scream, but something torn from grief. “Eris.”
No response.
He cupped her face. “Eris…”
His voice cracked.
Raphael held on, whether from reflex or regret, but Stephan pulled her free and gathered her against him like a shield.
“Wake up.” He whispered the word, pleading, but she didn’t move.
A Dragov never weeps, but Stephan Dragov shattered.
Raphael moved first, his arms falling open as she slipped from him like the last thread of a dream unraveling into nightmare. He staggered back, breath faltering. His fist braced against the cold stone wall.
Slowly, he lowered his forehead to it as the weight of what he had done settled over him like judgment. Then a voice cut through the silence.
“Tell me this is not what I think it is.”
It was Yori’s voice, sharp as unsheathed steel. His fury stood caged, barely contained.
Raphael’s knuckles whitened as he gave a slow nod.
Stephan lifted his head, rage burning in his eyes. His voice cracked. “What is it?” The silence held for a moment, then Stephan shouted, “WHAT IS IT?!”
Yori’s snarl turned feral. “The Obedience Seal. It strips away will, leaves only obedience.”
Stephan’s stomach dropped.
Yori moved, fast and brutal. He crossed the chamber, seized Raphael by the collar, and slammed him into the wall. Stone cracked.
“I FORBADE YOU TO USE THAT ON MY DAUGHTER! LOOK AT HER! LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”
He slammed him again.
Stephan couldn’t breathe. His gaze dropped to her wrists, bruised and torn. She had been shackled.
They had tried to cage her all her life—to tame her, make her something palatable. Still, she endured. And now his father had chained her like an animal and carved the soul from her.
His voice fell, low and lethal. “You treated her like a beast.” His throat burned. “May the gods damn you. May you never know peace in this life or the next.”
Raphael did not defend himself. He took the full weight of their rage, because he knew he deserved it.
Yori’s hands trembled. "You have never failed a spell in your cursed life. Why is she gone?"
Raphael swallowed. His voice rasped, hollow. "It was meant to be clean. Painless. But she fought it. The spell turned and tore her apart."
Stephan stilled, crushed beneath the weight of it.
Of course she fought. Gods, the pain she must have endured. Dark magic clawing at her soul. His breath turned sharp and ragged. She had endured that agony, and she had done it alone.
The thought destroyed him. His fists curled. His vision blurred. Grief, horror, and rage spiraled through him, heavy and suffocating.
He lifted his head. His voice cracked as he spoke, part command, part plea. "Undo it." Silence stretched. Then he shouted, louder, harsher. "UNDO IT!"
Raphael answered, his voice low and stripped of life. "The spell ripped through her soul like wildfire." Stephan went still. "And once a soul is torn, there is nothing left to undo. Nothing left to save."
The words struck like earth sealing a grave.
Stephan shattered. He tried to speak, to breathe, but grief had reshaped his lungs.
Raphael’s answer was not enough. It could not be the end.
His pulse pounded, frantic and desperate.
He looked at Eris. She was still beautiful.
If he ignored the stillness, she could almost be sleeping.
He held her tighter, body trembling. Then something stirred behind his ribs.
It was not a voice or a sound. It was a memory striking without warning.
The shaman.
Eris had said he’d guided her through prophecy.
Stephan did not hesitate. He rose, lifting her like something sacred, something no god had the right to take.
His voice pressed against her hair like a vow. "Stay with me, my love. I am not letting you go."
Yori turned toward him. "Where are you taking her?"
Stephan’s grip tightened. “There is still one chance.” Then he looked at his father. His voice was sharp and final. “When I return, however this ends—stand ready to face my blade.”
Raphael went still, said nothing. He only closed his eyes and exhaled. He accepted the sentence.
Stephan turned and walked out.