Chapter 27
The chamber pulsed with shadow. The air carried the sharp tang of bloodwine, like a wound sealed too clean.
Avaristo sat unmoving. His golden gaze flickered beneath half-lowered lids. Fingers tapped against the glass while a holographic display hovered above the table, red text streaming across the dark.
PRINCE STEPHAN & PRINCESS ERIS DRAGOV NOMINATED – FIRSTBLOOD COUNCIL
THE DRAGOV LINE CONSOLIDATES
PRINCE & PRINCESS SIGHTED – PACK DEN. HONORED GUESTS OF KAREON DUSKBANE.
The goblet cracked. Wine leaked through his fingers like veins unraveling from a dying god.
This was not the future he had carved into bone and blood.
He had placed the pieces with precision. He had pulled old grudges from their graves and set them like snares. The war should have left their legacy brittle, ready to burn.
Instead, they were rising, fused, because of her. Eris Dragov. The girl meant to shatter. He had orchestrated collapse, shaped kingdoms from the wreckage, and she was unmaking him with grace instead of fire.
The goblet shattered in his hand. Wine sprayed across the projection, distorting the text into smears. He did not flinch.
Miloseva remained silent, her eyes tracing the crack forming in his control.
“Send word to the rogues,” Avaristo said. His voice was sharp. “The contract is live.”
“The royal family?” she asked.
A slow smile curved along his face. “Every. Last. One.” He rose. Glass splintered beneath his boots. The light followed each step, shadows trailing him like wounded specters across the polished floor. “The Dragovs will die. Their name drowned. Their kingdom leaderless and weeping.”
He could already see it. White marble veined with red. The crest shattered. The name Dragov spoken not with respect, but in dread.
He opened his arms. “A gift for the history books.” The rogue Lycans would answer.
Exiled and bitter, they were starving for blood.
“The Firstbloods will not forgive them, and when the people cry for justice, I will give them mine. I will burn what remains of the Lycans, and the Firstbloods, broken and alone, will have no choice but to kneel.”
Across the room, Rurik let out a humorless chuckle, fingers tapping slow against the glass table.
“Clever,” he said. “But I don’t want to just watch them fall. I want Stephan’s head on a pike.”
Avaristo glanced up, one brow lifting.
Rurik’s jaw tensed, eyes narrowing. “He’s interfering with my supply lines. Sabotaging routes. Choking the veins of my empire.” He leaned forward. “I want him dead. Not for the plan. For vengeance.”
Avaristo studied him in silence, then leaned in close, their reflections folding into the dark glass.
“Then we will bleed him slowly,” he said, voice quiet as ritual. “Until every vein of your empire runs clean.”
Far across the sea of schemes, the capital gleamed, unaware.
The immortal heart of the Dragov Empire rose in marble and steel, crowned in crimson and silver.
Rooftops shimmered beneath the sun as nobles in silk, warriors in scarred formation, and commoners surged toward the capital’s grand spectacle.
A kingdom at its peak. A dynasty unshaken, or so they believed.
This was the Day of the Blood Pact.
For the Firstbloods, it was no mere festival. It was a holy recurrence, an annual sanctification of Dragov’s dominion, reaching back through centuries to the reign of King Vharog the Hollow-Eyed, the first to bear the name and command the flame.
The palace square churned like a living tide.
Banners snapped. Torches burned. War horns echoed a song of power and permanence.
The capital gates stood open, their iron teeth casting shadows over the endless procession of tribute.
But beneath the grandeur, something waited.
Tension coiled silently like rot beneath polished steel.
The air in the royal chamber was not still. It was waiting. Something unseen pressed against the walls, watching, listening.
Eris stood at the arched window, fingertips grazing the cold glass. Her auburn curls caught the light as the city stretched before her, glorious and alive. Yet she felt nothing.
She drew in one breath, then another. Still, the unease clung to her skin.
Behind her, Stephan adjusted the collar of his ceremonial uniform. Silver embroidery shimmered in the overhead light. Midnight fabric, tailored with precision. A prince’s poise shaped into a commander’s form. Every thread carried a warrior’s restraint.
It suited him, but today, it felt like armor.
“I don’t like this,” she whispered.
Stephan turned. His steady presence offered no shelter from the storm building in her chest. “What is it?”
Eris closed her eyes. She reached, listened, and opened herself to the tide of emotion beyond the palace walls. She had always felt the hearts of others, their rhythms echoing against her own. But today, that rhythm had fractured.
“Rage,” she murmured. “Hatred. It’s everywhere.”
Stephan’s brow furrowed. “From whom?”
“I don’t know. That’s what terrifies me.” She swallowed. “There are too many minds. I cannot separate them.” Her hand found his wrist. Her fingers curled around him. “Promise me you’ll be careful during the parade.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “Nothing will happen to me.”
But she saw it—the flicker in his eyes. “There is more. Is there not?” she asked softly.
Stephan exhaled, his jaw tightening. “When I reached the eastern strongholds after the Obsidian attack last night…” His voice dropped, nearly a whisper. “Our men were not afraid of the enemy, or even the war. They said Mournshadow Lake was…” He paused. “Alive.”
Eris went still. “Alive?”
“It moved. It heaved. Like something sleeping beneath the surface. The water rippled without wind. The ice cracked without pressure, and the longer they watched…” He exhaled again. His gaze drifted. “They swore something watched back.”
The room turned colder. Silence followed, tight and suffocating.
They did not speak her name. They had no need. Seraphina lay buried beneath the lake, sealed in ice. She was no longer still. She was stirring, restless. What happens when something long dead begins to wake?
Eris’s breath caught in her throat. Stephan stood still. The dark thought settled between them like a shadow with reaching hands.
He stepped closer, their eyes meeting in a fragile stillness. Then the voice came.
“Stephan. Eris. It is time.” Raphael’s call echoed through the corridor.
Beyond the doors, thousands waited for their rulers.
Eris drew a breath. Stephan offered his hand, and she took it.
Together, they stepped through the towering palace doors into the light.
At the center stood Raphael and Yori, the Firstblood Kings.
Their presence alone silenced the crowd.
Scarred hands rested on ceremonial swords, emblems of an empire they had ruled and bled for.
They were the last of the old gods, now offering the world to the new.
Behind them, Lady Elara and Lady Lysenna stood like shadows of history, queens who had ruled through silence, through the shaping of kings.
Goznoth held its breath.
Raphael stepped forward. “For centuries, the blood of the Dragov kings has stood as a shield against chaos. We did not rule through greed or conquest, but by the will of our people. By a sacred pact sealed in blood. A vow never broken.”
The crowd erupted. Fists rose. A kingdom forged in legacy. A dynasty unshaken.
Raphael let the sound carry before his voice fell quiet. “But no kingdom is built by kings alone. It is built by warriors and families, by loyalty and the bonds between them. And today…” He turned to Stephan and Eris. “…we place the future in their hands.”
Stillness followed as the people of Goznoth witnessed the end of one era and the rise of another. Then applause erupted across the square.
Eris did not move. Her pulse thundered, the weight of the realm pressing into her bones.
Beside her, Stephan remained still, unreadable.
Yori stepped forward. His silver eyes swept over the legions—commanders, nobles, and the people who had placed their faith in Dragov rule.
“Many have tried to tear us apart,” he said, his voice sharp as steel. “To divide us with lies. To turn us against each other. But again and again, we endure. So I ask you now: Will we endure again?”
A thousand voices thundered back. “Yes!”
The stones beneath their feet trembled with devotion as Yori’s gaze held the crowd. “Then let this day be carved into time. Not in ink. Not in stone. But in blood.”
The Dragov line stood unbroken, held by a king’s promise, a king’s command, and the belief it would endure.
But death had already entered the palace. It had not breached the gates or scaled the walls. It had come from within, moving like falling ash.
The assassins were not coming. They were already in place.
The roar of the crowd surged through the grand square. Stephan turned, drawn back to his legions. Eris caught his sleeve. It broke protocol, but she did not care. Not when every part of her begged him to stay.
Her grip trembled against his cloak. “Stephan,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the cheers.
He stopped and turned. Their eyes met, and in hers he saw the fear she could not speak. A lesser man might have promised safety. Stephan only smirked.
“Eris.” He leaned in, breath brushing her skin. “I march to war, love. Not a parade.”
She held his gaze, unsure if it was a joke, a lie, or a warning. Her fingers tightened, but his found hers first. A vow unspoken.
Then he was gone, and all Eris could do was watch.
The palace gates groaned open, and a storm of steel surged forward.
The Dragov Legions advanced—immortal warriors beneath banners of black and crimson, discipline forged into flesh.
At their head rode Stephan Dragov. Commander. Prince. Legend.