Chapter 34 #2
Kriponius’s face twisted in contempt and disgust. His voice thundered.
“Thou wearest that crown as though it were aught but a trinket, hollow and unearned.” He took another step, as the stones beneath him cracked and splintered.
"The Dragov line is defiled by thy mercy.
Thou hast unmade a dynasty of iron and fire, and I alone shall cleanse it.
I will rip out the rot and restore what was lost. I shall see thee crawl—unworthy, broken—before the true throne, that which neither time nor death could dethrone. "
Then his black eyes darkened with hunger, and a possessive claim that had never been relinquished.
His lips curled. His voice, softer now, was infinitely worse. “But ere I unmake thee…I must reclaim that which was forged in mine own flame.”
A name not spoken, but felt in the marrow of the world.
Seraphina.
Stephan didn’t hesitate. As Kriponius spoke, he moved. Sanguine Oath flashed free, its red steel gleaming like the world’s last light. Steady and unyielding, he raised it. It was not just a weapon; it was a declaration of war.
When he spoke, his voice was a death sentence. "You will not touch her."
Kriponius smiled with amusement, indulgent as a god humoring a mortal. He regarded Stephan Dragov like a man who mistook himself for an equal.
Almost charming.
The smile, carved from cruelty, widened. "Oh? And by what sorcery doth a whelp presume to slay the divine?"
Stephan’s grip tightened around Sanguine Oath. His eyes burned with defiance. "I swear on my blood, my father’s blood, and every soul you ever damned, that before this night ends, I will see you buried in the darkness where you belong."
Kriponius’s smile twisted. Then the storm came.
A wind exploded through the crypt. It was violent, invisible, and sounded like a howl torn from the marrow of the world.
It surged from Kriponius alone. The walls shook, as the torches flared and screamed.
Stephan braced against it. His boots dragged against stone, but he did not fall. He took one step. Then another.
Kriponius gave a low, entertained hum, then flicked his wrist. A sword tore from the wall and flew into his hand, shrieking like a beast returning to its master. But before the blade stilled, Stephan struck.
His body became a weapon. His blade moved as though it had been forged from his soul. Every strike came faster than breath, shaped by desperation, fury, and devotion. He advanced, pressing Kriponius back, demanding recognition, not as an heir but as a warrior born of blood and will.
His footwork was relentless, each movement a calculated act of war: a feint, a shift in weight, a perfectly placed strike.
Kriponius blocked it with ease. Steel met something older than flesh.
The crypt trembled. Their eyes locked. Stephan burned, wild and unbroken, while Kriponius stood composed, entertained, and sovereign.
Stephan fought like a man with everything to lose.
Kriponius fought like a god who had all the time in the world.
"Speak, whelp," Kriponius said, parrying without effort. "What madness compels thee to die for a flame that was, and shall ever be, mine?"
Stephan snarled, defying both wind and god. "You called her your queen, then cast her into the grave." He struck again, harder. "And I will die before I let you lay a finger on mine."
Kriponius paused. Then he understood.
Ah, this is love. Brave. Honorable. Utterly futile.
Even if Seraphina lived again in the woman this boy now defended, it changed nothing. He would take her back regardless.
His lips curled. "I see."
Stephan swung harder and faster. Kriponius deflected easily, his eyes studying every move.
"Hast thou read the blood-soaked scrolls, boy?" His voice was smooth, almost kind. "Have the scrolls and songs forgotten me so soon? Know this: in all my centuries, naught hath stood between my will and my desires and endured."
Their blades collided again. The stone beneath them cracked.
"Thy beloved shall prove no exception to my will." He smiled with cruelty. "She wields Seraphina’s power, and that power calls to me. I will reclaim her. Flesh and flame, as fate decreed."
Stephan roared. His blade slammed against Kriponius’s, the force shivering up the Dread King’s arm.
Kriponius’s smirk sharpened. "Such devotion," he said, tilting his head. "She must be made of starlight and sacrament if thou wouldst trade thy soul for her breath." His eyes darkened as a hunger surfaced. "I think I shall savor reclaiming every sacred inch she forgot was mine."
Stephan saw red. Rage tore through the wind, through restraint, through reason. His blade came down like wrath made flesh. "You will not live to see the sun touch her face again."
Kriponius met him with savage glee. Then his rhythm shifted. He was no longer testing. He struck to break. His attacks grew faster, more brutal, as he drank from Stephan’s fury and fed on his desperation.
He delivered a single, merciless slash. Blood sprayed as Stephan’s arm split open, crimson pouring across his armor. His breath caught, sharp and ragged, but he held his grip.
Another blow followed, a brutal arc carving across his chest. He staggered, teeth clenched and muscles burning, but he did not fall. He did not release Sanguine Oath.
Kriponius’s smirk deepened. This boy, this descendant, was remarkable, but not enough.
Stephan was fury and flame, unshaken even as the crypt trembled beneath the force of their clash. His lungs fought for breath. His limbs screamed with pain, but he did not yield. Not until he saw the opening.
He moved in a blur, stepping onto the coffin with a pivot and a twist. He seized the spear from the wall, and in one perfect motion, he threw it.
The weapon cut the air like lightning, its tip flying straight and true, aimed directly for Kriponius’s chest. The impact should have dropped a vampire to his knees, but Kriponius did not flinch.
He looked down at the embedded shaft, unmoved.
Then he pulled it free and let it fall to the ground with a quiet, amused breath.
"Dost thou truly believe thy lesser flame can contest my eternity, child?"
Stephan’s heart pounded. He had struck a clean, crippling blow. Or so he had believed. Yet Kriponius stood untouched. Stephan’s thoughts raced. There was only one way to destroy a monster like this.
He had to sever the head.
His body moved before thought. He ran fast, too fast for even Kriponius to track. He blurred along the crypt walls, passed the ancient one, and struck from above in a flash of steel.
Kriponius turned, just in time. Their swords clashed.
This time, Kriponius felt it—a force behind Stephan’s blade that nearly drove him back.
Kriponius grinned. “Truly remarkable, boy…” He paused, a flicker of cruelty passing through his gaze. “’Tis nigh a sorrow to extinguish thee, for thou art the finest the rot hath birthed.”
Then he thrust. Steel punched through flesh too fast, too deep, too close to the heart.
Stephan choked on blood as he collapsed to his knees, Sanguine Oath still clutched in his hand.
Kriponius curled his fingers around the sacred blade and tore it free. Both swords rose in a single, fluid arc, poised to sever flesh from bone, when a howl split the air—raw, untamed, echoing like a war cry across the crypt.
Kriponius stiffened. He felt her…then them. The Lycans. His expression twisted, contorted with something dark, something furious.
Seraphina. With Lycans. Again.
The thought burned through him like venom. His grip tightened on Sanguine Oath, the blade trembling in his grasp. Without a glance at the fallen king, Kriponius turned and walked toward her. Her call outweighed the king’s death.
Stephan spat blood as his vision fractured. Darkness fell, and cold swallowed him whole. The weight of oblivion pressed down, suffocating and endless. Yet within the void, a flicker stirred: a whisper of warmth, a memory.
Eris.
She ran ahead, wild and untouchable. The wind wrapped around her like a lover.
Her auburn hair lifted like a crown of fire.
That scent—roses. Always roses. Then she turned.
She was charming, effortless. Perfect. That smirk, the one that had stolen his breath too many times to count.
That laugh, light, intoxicating, the kind that had made him believe in things beyond blood and war.
Those heart-shaped lips, meant for worship, meant for ruin.
And those green eyes, sharp, teasing, hiding truths she only ever let him see.
The way she evaded his gaze, playing with his sanity, only to steal glances when she thought he wasn’t looking.
She was the dream he could never wake from.
Then she whispered his name—soft, intimate—as she had a thousand times before and would a thousand times more.
Warmth flooded his chest, aching and desperate, but it quickly gave way to ice as agony hit. Stephan gasped awake, her name slipping from his lips before he could stop it.
“Eris.”
Reality slammed into him and dragged him back into the wreckage of his body. Breath tore from his lungs, vision fractured, and pain detonated through every nerve. He was too weak to move, but she was out there, vulnerable, and he had to reach her.
He trembled as he rose inch by agonizing inch. His wounds screamed, and his limbs refused to obey, but pain meant he could still fight, and if he could fight, he could still protect her.
He tore cloth from a fallen servant and bound his wounds tightly. His fingers barely responded. He staggered, nearly collapsed, but he did not fall, because she was still waiting.
He saw the sword Kriponius had discarded and seized it from the stone floor. His grip held firm despite the blood. He took a breath and stepped forward, then another, then one more. Each movement was a battle.
When he reached the courtyard, his vision swam and his hands fumbled at the reins. With the final reserves of his strength, he mounted. His blood burned through his veins, but he had made a promise.
Together. Forever.
And Stephan Dragov never broke a promise. He struck the reins and rode like stormfire.