All Chapters of Kingdom of Ash and Blood : Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

Two Graves Before you seek revenge, dig two graves — one for your enemy, and one for what it will cost you. Sicily – Varela Stronghold Three weeks after Luca’s disappearance Amara stood alone on the edge of the villa’s northern wall, staring down at the sea. It looked endless — the same way grief did when it went unanswered. The wind howled like ghosts through the stone. She welcomed the sound. Better than silence. Cassian approached behind her, slow, cautious. “There’s word from Marseille,” he said. “A summit. The old families are circling again.” Amara didn’t turn. “They can circle. They’ll still die screaming if they touch what’s mine.” Cassian hesitated. “Are you sure you’re ready to go back into the field? Without—” “I don’t need Luca.” The lie tasted like rust. That night – Marseille The summit took place in an abandoned opera house. Grand, echoing, thick with history and danger. Amara walked in first — flanked by Cassian and Dante, all dre

The Ruin War Every empire burns. But not every queen survives the ash. Zurich – Midnight The first bomb wasn’t heard. It was felt. Deep underground, inside a Varela-run crypto vault, the walls shook as fire swallowed millions in blood-soaked currency. Within hours, three more targets were hit: Barcelona — her Catalan shipping routes, gone. Palermo — her intelligence headquarters leveled. Marseille — five women from her inner circle found dead in a wine cellar, throats cut. It wasn’t just an attack. It was a declaration of war. And the sender made sure she received it: To the Widow Queen — You built your empire from bones. Let’s see how well it bleeds. Signed, The European Syndicate Council Flashback: Two Weeks Earlier Seven surviving families — old, blood-soaked, forgotten — met in a Belgian cathedral. The Lorenzis. The Von Draks. The Rossi. The Arnaud Circle. The Tsarins. The Dublin Kings. The Nero Remnants. Together, they forged a pact: "Amar

It was never just about power. It was about who deserved to hold it. And who was willing to kill for it. Scene One – Sicily: Amara’s Private War Room The map was complete. Every territory reclaimed. Every syndicate silenced. The war was over. Or so she thought. Amara stood before the glass table, her fingers tracing the lines between Palermo, Zurich, Barcelona. The bloodshed had bought her silence, obedience… control. Behind her, Dante entered — silent as always. But there was something in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Pity. “What is it?” she asked, not turning. He placed a folder on the table. “You need to see this.” She flipped it open — encrypted Vesper communiqués decoded by Jasmina, stamped with an unusual crest: a phoenix ringed in thorns. One name repeated in nearly every dispatch. Isabel. Her mother. Still alive. Still in play. Still… pulling strings. Scene Two – Flashback: Geneva, Years Ago A younger Isabel Nero, cloaked in widow's blac

Peace is the most dangerous lie ever sold. Especially to a woman born of war. Sicily — The Winter Palace, Six Months Later Silence stretched across the marble halls like a wound that refused to close. No gunfire. No flames. No threats waiting behind drawn velvet curtains. Just… peace. And Amara hated it. She stood alone on the terrace of the Winter Palace, the sea breathing slowly beneath her. Palermo had turned cold, the kind of cold that seeped into bones once trained to flinch at heat. But she didn’t flinch now. She didn’t feel anything. Cassian entered behind her without knocking. He never knocked anymore. “There’s a shipment delayed in Marseille,” he said. “Shall I handle it?” She didn’t turn. “Do I look like I care about Marseille?” “No,” he said. “You look like a ghost who forgot to die.” Her lips curved, barely. “That’s poetic. Did Dante teach you that?” Cassian didn’t respond. He simply placed a velvet box on the stone balustrade beside her. “A

Two thrones. One empire. And no mercy. Scene One – Vienna, The Broken Chapel It was raining black in Vienna. The skies wept soot, thick and bitter, as if the heavens themselves resented the coronation taking place beneath them. Inside the ruins of a once-sacred chapel, fifty men and women knelt before a single figure. He was tall, elegant, clothed in obsidian silk stitched with ancient Sicilian fire symbols. Atop his head: a black iron crown, thorns curved like fangs. He smiled as thunder cracked above. “Rise,” he said. “Your king is watching.” Lorenzo Nero had returned. And he had come to claim what he believed was stolen. Scene Two – Palermo, Winter Palace Amara stood before the obsidian map of Europe, glass of wine untouched, pulse unblinking. The photograph lay beside her — her, Lorenzo, and the past she couldn’t remember. Jasmina entered with a folder. “It’s real,” she said. Amara didn’t move. “The coronation happened last night in Vienna. Und