Chapter 28
The world was soft and warm. The delicate scent of roses clung to the air, weaving through silken sheets that cocooned her. The fabric brushed her skin like a whisper of comfort. A cruel illusion. Her breath came steady. Too steady. Sleep clung to her mind like mist.
And then it returned: the flames, the screams, the severed heads.
The eyes, vacant and staring through smoke.
Eris’ lungs seized. A sharp, broken gasp tore through her throat, shattering the illusion of peace. It was not a nightmare. It was reality.
She bolted upright.
A gentle hand pressed to her shoulder, grounding her. “Shh…” The voice was low, scraped raw by exhaustion, and unmistakably familiar.
Stephan. Her vision swam, then settled on him.
He leaned close, fingers threading through her hair, sweeping damp curls from her brow. His palms cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones like he needed proof she was still breathing, still here.
Their foreheads met, and a breath shuddered from his chest. “I’m here,” he whispered. His voice sounded as though it had bled to reach her. “We’re safe.”
Safe.
The word rang hollow. A sob cracked through her.
“Stephan—” she flung herself into him, arms wrapped tight around his frame, clinging like the world might split in half if she let go.
His body jolted, drawing a strangled inhale, as tension flashed.
She stilled. Her gaze dropped to his chest.
His uniform hung open at the collar, half-peeled from his shoulders. Beneath it were white bandages, darkened at the center.
Her fingers trembled as her stomach twisted. “You’re hurt.”
He exhaled slowly, fingers threading through her hair to tuck loose strands behind her ear. “It’s nothing—”
But she wasn’t listening. Her hands hovered, frantic, desperate to help, afraid to hurt. Panic tightened its grip until he caught her wrists, grounding her in sudden stillness. Their eyes met.
His lips curved, tired but soft. “It’s nothing,” he said again—quieter this time, not quite a lie, but close.
Her breath hitched. “Nothing?”
The word scraped. He tightened his grip, then leaned in until their brows met. Silence bloomed, heavy with all that remained unspoken. Stephan closed his eyes and drew her in, pressing her to the ache in his chest, as if she could quiet it.
“I should have listened to you,” he whispered. “I should have stayed. If I had…” His voice broke. “Maybe they would still be alive.”
The weight of it sank into her, crushing. She felt the gift stir beneath her ribs—a hum in her blood, a thread pulled taut between them. She reached for it, for the pain unraveling inside him, and took it. She drew it into herself, reshaped it, and made it bearable.
Her fingers traced his jaw, tilting his face toward hers until their noses brushed. “No,” she whispered. The word lingered, sinking into the fragile hush between heartbeats. “No, Stephan. You couldn’t have stopped this. None of us could.”
Her breath grazed his lips, carrying a balm and a truth she needed him to feel. His eyes opened. The storm still raged, but its sharpest edges were gone.
He exhaled, stepping back toward the window. His shadow stretched long across the marble as his fists clenched.
“Avaristo.” His voice hardened as rage surged through him. He gripped the sill, firelight painting vengeance across his reflection. “I swear on my blood,” he said, eyes distant, “I will raze his empire to dust.”
Eris stepped between him and the fury. Her arms wrapped around him like an anchor in a rising tide. They had survived. He was hers, and she was his. Her voice was steady. “Together. Always.”
Stephan met her gaze, emerald and unflinching, bright with promise. His jaw tightened before he exhaled and drew her closer. His lips brushed her hair, breath trembling. “Together,” he murmured. “No matter what comes.”
It was both vow and war cry, a truth that would outlast the fire. Not even Avaristo could take that from them. But vows demanded consequence, and the night was not yet done.
Council Chamber of Dragov Castle—Urgent War Council
Night had not yet broken, but Dragov was already at war.
The council chamber, once a place of ceremony and command, now pulsed with the raw urgency of survival. Tonight, it bore witness to an empire without its kings.
The obsidian table stretched the length of the room. Behind each seat, the banners of Dragov and its noble houses hung in solemn silence. Torchlight flickered, casting long shadows across the gathered lords. The air thickened with grief and vengeance.
Stephan sat at the head. His father’s seat.
Its weight already pressed into his shoulders, inescapable.
Once, they had followed him as a commander.
Now they faced him as the new king. Beside him, Eris sat silent and still.
An anchor in the storm rising inside him.
His fist curled atop the table. He would not fail. Not now.
Then the chamber fell silent. The council had begun.
Lord Gavriel Morayne stood first, grief carved deep into his face, rage burning behind his eyes.
“We should be marching into Kareon’s den and burning it to the ground.” He slammed a fist onto the table. “The Lycans assassinated our kings! To ignore it is cowardice.”
Murmurs echoed. Heads nodded. Eris flinched at Kareon’s name spoken like a sentence, fury and fear colliding in her chest.
Stephan’s voice cut through the noise. “No.”
The chamber stilled.
Lord Gavriel’s glare sharpened. “No?”
Stephan leaned forward, voice even, iron-bound. “We are not attacking Kareon and his pack.”
Gasps rose around the table, and shoulders stiffened in response.
Lord Valcairn, always the strategist, narrowed his gaze. “You would have us ignore this insult? Let Lycans spill royal blood without answer?”
Stephan inhaled, controlled. This was the test. His rule would rise or fall on this moment. “The Lycans who attacked were not Kareon’s,” he said.
Unease flickered through the chamber, and doubt rippled across the faces of the gathered lords.
Lord Hadrian spoke next, brow furrowed. “What proof do you offer?”
Stephan straightened. “Avaristo has been moving behind the scenes long before this. He kidnapped Eris to fracture our alliances. When that failed, he escalated. The attack was not just assassination. It was provocation. He wanted us to go to war with the pack.”
Lord Valcairn tapped his armrest, gaze sharp and calculating. “You are saying this was a trap designed to feed off our division while we tear each other apart.”
Stephan nodded once. “The attackers were rogues, banished from Kareon’s pack. They were his enemies too. Avaristo took their hatred and weaponized it.”
A heavy silence followed.
Lady Selene Caelora broke it, measured. “Then what do you propose?”
Stephan met her gaze. “We end the cycle Avaristo thrives on. We stop seeing the pack as the enemy and turn our wrath where it belongs.” His voice dropped, sharp. “The Obsidian Order.”
The table erupted into discord, voices clashing like steel.
“We are outnumbered,” Lord Sareth said darkly. “Avaristo commands the largest mercenary force in the realm.”
Stephan’s fingers curled. “Numbers do not win wars. Strategy does. And strength.” His voice was unwavering. “We may be fewer, but we are better trained. We fight not for coin, but for blood. For honor.”
Lord Gavriel scoffed. “A fine speech, boy. But when do you intend to strike?”
Stephan didn’t blink. “At first light. The day after tomorrow.”
Lord Hadrian frowned. “The day after tomorrow?”
“Yes.” Stephan leaned forward, voice carved from stone. “Avaristo thinks us broken. Leaderless. He is wrong. We strike before he can regroup. Before he expects it.”
Unease stirred across the room.
“That is madness—” someone began.
“No,” Stephan cut in. His voice cracked like thunder. “That is war. And war does not wait.”
The lords looked to one another. Doubt lingered, but so did something else. Fire.
Stephan’s tone dropped, deadly and sure. “If we wait, we play his game. If we move now, we end it before it begins.”
Lord Valcairn nodded slowly. “Then it must be decisive.”
Stephan met his gaze. “It won’t be a strike.” His voice turned blade-sharp. “It will be fire.”
Through it all, Eris didn’t move. She sat beside Stephan on Yori’s throne, its weight a quiet union of honor and burden. The council blurred. Voices dulled into static, a hum pressing against her skull. Her breath, her body barely registered because her mind was at war. Her gift had failed her.
During the attack, she’d felt everything—rage, venom, violence. But there had been too much: too many emotions, too many bodies, too much noise.
She hadn’t been able to trace it. She hadn’t been able to stop it, and now her family was dead.
She forced air into her lungs. Her fists clenched, nails biting into skin as she reached. Emotion slammed into her from the nobles around her—a wave of pride, suspicion, and fear, all of it too much, too fast.
Her vision dimmed. The feelings tangled, slipping like smoke through her grasp. Still, she pressed deeper. The pressure behind her eyes turned razor-sharp.
Stephan noticed. Even as voices argued over war and vengeance, his focus never left her. She was too still, too tight.
He leaned in. “Eris? Are you alright?”
She inhaled, fingertips pressing against her temple. “Almost,” she breathed. “I just need to—”
Stephan’s frown deepened. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer. She dove deeper as the flood thickened. Emotions clawed through her ribs, dragged at her spine. Her breath quickened. She was close.
Then she felt it, a thread, faint and hidden beneath the noise, a pulse of darkness woven through the council’s fury.
It was there.
She latched onto it, pulled, and traced its source. Pain erupted in her skull, slicing down her spine. She gasped, clutching the table as her vision tunneled. The castle felt it. The torches flickered, their flames curling inward. Shadows warped, as if the walls themselves had begun to recoil.