Chapter 27 #2
His uniform was war woven into silk, silver insignias gleaming against black, a crimson sash crossing his shoulder. The crest on his chest had brought kingdoms to their knees. His cloak flowed behind him like shadow. Each step commanded. Each glance ruled.
He rode a midnight warhorse, hooves pounding like thunder. The Dragov Standard flew high—symbol of bloodline and dominion.
But today, no one watched the banners. They watched him.
Stephan moved with the weight of fate, his gaze sweeping the legions, silent orders falling into place without a word.
From the balcony, Eris watched, her fingers gripping the marble. Her breath caught. He was magnificent, and he was hers.
Power moved through him—the kind that made kings kneel and gods grow jealous.
And the gods were cruel.
Stephan… Come back to me.
She watched as he led the legions forward. The crowd chanted his name, worshipping him, and she prayed they would not mourn him by nightfall.
High above, Raphael Dragov stood still. Scarred hands rested on his sword. His uniform was immaculate, his chest heavy with breath.
Storm-gray eyes stayed fixed on the man below—his son, his heir—leading the legions like one born to rule. Sunlight lit the silver on Stephan’s uniform. Black fabric cut a silhouette of power and flame. He looked carved from legend.
Raphael said nothing. He did not have to.
Eris saw it in the set of his mouth, in the weight behind his eyes. It was not pride or duty, but something deeper. She turned to Yori, who watched with a quiet chuckle.
“Just like our father,” he said. “A Dragov through and through.”
Raphael’s grip tightened.
“He is ready.”
The echoes of the parade still thundered beyond the balcony, a fading hymn to the strength of the Dragov line.
Yori gestured toward the chamber doors. “Come now. We have seen enough,” he said with a half-smile. “Stephan can handle the rest.”
With one last glance at the legion below, Raphael, Elara, Lysenna, and Eris stepped inside, into the palace’s cool, silent heart. The doors closed behind them for the last time.
They walked through the grand chamber, golden sconces casting their reflections over polished obsidian floors. A dynasty at its height. A family undivided. For once, there was no war to plan, no council to call, only the quiet weight of legacy.
“We have done well, Raphael,” Yori said, voice full of pride. “The Dragovs have never stood stronger.”
Raphael nodded. “Stephan and Eris will carry that strength forward.”
His gaze lingered on Eris. Not as a niece, or as a child, but as heir.
Yori noticed and grinned. “Do not look so grim, brother.” He bumped Raphael’s shoulder. “You are staring at Goznoth’s future. And for once, it does not look bleak.”
Eris smirked. “Thank you for the trust, Papa.”
“You two will make fine sovereigns,” Yori said. “That much is clear.”
Elara smiled. Lysenna nodded.
Eris lifted her chin. “You have set a high bar. We will rise to it.”
Yori’s smirk turned sly. “Shall we start planning the wedding?” He winked. “I would not mind being a grandfather.”
Eris flushed. “Papa—”
“What?” Yori raised a brow, feigning innocence. “It is only a matter of time. Stephan could conquer a city at dawn and marry by dusk.”
Even Raphael, ever solemn, allowed the faintest flicker of amusement. Then his gaze softened. He stepped closer, resting his hand on Eris’s shoulder. “You and Stephan must protect each other.”
She met his eyes. “We will.”
He nodded. A rare warmth from a king of iron.
Yori turned toward the corridor, leading them deeper into the palace. They did not know they were walking toward death.
They had taken barely five steps when the doors opened. A dozen royal guards entered, boots striking the obsidian floor in unison.
Then the doors shut behind them. The sound was final. A death knell.
Eris’s breath caught. There were too many guards, too much silence, and only one way out.
Raphael’s gaze darkened. Elara tensed. Lysenna’s fingers drifted toward her skirt, where a dagger waited.
A drawn-out pause settled over the room, the stillness holding too long.
Then Raphael’s voice broke the silence. “What is the meaning of this? Open the doors. Now.”
The guards did not move. They did not speak. Then the scent hit. It was not steel or sweat. It was Lycan.
A slow, coiling horror swept through the chamber. Raphael reached for his sword. Eris felt it rise within her, the shift, the inevitability. The guards reached for their blades. Steel slid free, hissing through the air, and their disguises fell.
One by one, the Lycans raised their weapons. Torchlight shimmered along jagged metal—a mockery of the honor these halls once held. Then they smiled.
“The blood of kings spills tonight.” The words slithered like prophecy.
Eris’s stomach turned to ice. She knew them. Two faces from her past: Vatryk and Leira. Once Kareon’s loyalists, now reveling in the ruin of his blood.
“No,” she whispered.
Vatryk smirked, canines gleaming. “Thought you’d be dead by now, princess. Guess fate has a sense of humor.”
Leira tilted her head, golden eyes gleaming with cruelty. “You’ve made such a mess, Eris. A filthy little Firstblood trying to stitch together what should have stayed broken. Pathetic.”
Eris’s fists clenched. She would not cower. But before she could speak, the Lycans attacked.
Steel crashed against steel. Sparks flew. Screams tore through the air. Flesh split. The Lycans moved like wolves among lambs.
The first Dragov knight did not draw his blade in time. A Lycan tore out his throat with its claws.
The second parried once, then twice, but it was not enough. One blade opened his stomach. A second took his head. Blood splattered across the marble.
Eris ripped a spear from the gilded wall and spun just as Leira lunged. The impact jolted up her arms, the force nearly throwing her back.
“Stop pretending you can fight,” Leira sneered. “Without Kareon shielding you, you are nothing but a trembling parasite, clinging to power that was never yours.”
Eris gritted her teeth. She twisted. The spear sliced through the air and grazed Leira’s throat.
But victory lasted only a breath.
Across the room, Vatryk moved like a ghost. His blade flashed, and Lady Elara’s head struck the floor.
Eris froze.
No.
A scream clawed at her throat but would not rise.
Then Vatryk turned toward Lady Lysenna. His blade dripped red. One clean stroke, and another body collapsed.
Two queens. Two mothers. Gone in a breath.
Eris staggered, her hands trembling. The world tilted sideways.
No. No. No.
Leira saw it and lunged, but Yori was faster.
His blade met hers in a shower of sparks. “You will not touch her.” His voice struck like steel. His blade struck harder.
Leira gasped and stumbled back.
Raphael carved through Lycans like a war god, his sword a blur of fire and blood. Yori fought beside him, unyielding. His steel slipped between ribs, too fast to track. They fought like kings who knew their crowns were already ash.
But the Lycans were many, and the room was burning. Flames climbed the walls as Dragov banners curled and blackened, legacy melting into ruin.
Then a tremor rolled through the floor. A distant boom followed.
Eris’s head snapped toward the balcony. Smoke rose, thick and black, into the sky. Another blast shook the horizon as fire bloomed far beyond the walls. Her stomach dropped.
Stephan.
He was out there, fighting or dying. She stepped toward the window, and a hand closed around her throat.
A Lycan.
He lifted her off the ground with ease, her feet kicking, her lungs clawing for air.
“Not so fast, little princess,” he snarled.
Through her blurring vision, she saw Yori move. With a roar, he drove his blade across the Lycan’s chest. But Vatryk struck from the side. Yori staggered. His sword clattered to the floor as blood bloomed across his tunic.
Eris hit the ground hard, gasping. “No!”
Yori dropped to one knee, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes found Raphael, then Eris. One final look, quiet and certain. He knew the end had come.
Vatryk raised his sword. Steel flashed. Eris lunged, but she was too late.
Yori’s head struck the floor. His body followed.
A raw sound tore from her chest, soul-wrenching. She crawled to him, reaching as if she could still pull him back.
But he was already gone.
A sob broke free from her throat as flames consumed the chamber. Banners curled inward, legacy burning in their folds. She collapsed beside him, clutching his blood-soaked tunic, and as the fire closed in, she held his body as if it could anchor her to the world.
She would never call him Papa again.
The capital burned.
One moment, the parade was Dragov might made manifest, the next, explosions shattered the air. Fire surged as screams echoed across the square. Hell had opened.
Flames split the sky. Debris rained down like divine wrath. The city’s foundations trembled beneath the force. Smoke thickened, black as storm clouds, and swallowed the sun.
Lycans burst from the chaos. They were shadows made flesh, death given purpose. They leapt from rooftops, fangs bared, claws tearing through throats. Blood sprayed, drowning the streets.
Stephan reined in his horse, pulse slamming. His mind snapped into command, reflexes forged by war. But this was not war. This was an ambush.
His voice cut through the chaos.
“Regroup! Close ranks—push them back!”
The Dragov legions obeyed. Spears braced. Shields locked, discipline surging like a tide.
But it felt too easy.
“Northern alleys!” he shouted to his captains. “Bottleneck them! Do not chase—hold position!”
Orders rippled down the line. The formation shifted. The Lycans faltered. They fought hard but pulled back too quickly.
Stephan’s gut twisted as a dark certainty spread across his thoughts.
Another tremor shook the ground, followed by a distant roar. It was not the sound of battle—it was fire. His head snapped up.