All Chapters of Kingdom of Ash and Blood : Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

Before a throne is stolen, it’s studied. Before a queen is broken, she’s watched. Scene One – A Hollow Sound It started with a knock. Not from the door. From inside the wall. Amara froze in her bedroom as the sound echoed — once, then twice. Hollow. Deliberate. Jasmina barged in, gun drawn. “Did you hear—?” “I heard.” The sound came again. Then silence. Amara pressed her palm against the marble between the bookshelf and the fireplace. It was warm. Alive. And then… It clicked. Scene Two – The Passage Behind the false wall was a door. Old. Mechanical. Hidden under layers of concrete and history. Mateo found the latch. Dante picked the lock. The passage opened to reveal a narrow tunnel, winding like a vein through the palace. The air smelled of smoke, parchment, and something else — gun oil. “This wasn’t just for escape,” Amara murmured. “It’s a war path.” The walls were lined with old maps, surveillance photos, handwritten notes. All in Luca’s ha

All empires have scripture. The Vespers wrote theirs in blood. Scene One – The Monastery Below The steps were cold, uneven. Each one dipped with time, wear, and perhaps penance. Amara led the way, her boots echoing through the tunnels beneath the abandoned Roman monastery — a Vesper stronghold once converted into holy ground. Cassian carried the weapon bag. Mateo kept the map in hand — drawn decades ago by a priest who later vanished. “Left,” Mateo whispered. “Then down the spiral.” Jasmina muttered, “Nothing good lives this far underground.” “No,” Amara said, eyes ahead. “Only truth.” Scene Two – The Black Archive They found the vault behind a fresco of Saint Peter burning upside down — ironic, Amara thought, since the Vespers had turned every holy thing on its head. The door was a steel slab. DNA-locked. But Jasmina’s tech cracked it in minutes. Inside: an archive, lit by red emergency light, dry and cold like a tomb. But it wasn't empty. Books. Shelve

The sky over Palermo was the color of a dying ember. Smoke hung low where the villa once stood, a skeletal ruin clinging to the hillside. Amara stepped from the car without a word. The soldiers stayed back. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath as she walked the familiar path—the stones blackened, the air still smelling faintly of lilacs and gunpowder. Every ghost in Sicily lived here. Her boots crunched over glass as she crossed the threshold of what had been her mother’s home. The walls were gone, the ceilings collapsed, yet the bones of the house still remembered who had ruled it. The marble staircase remained, leading down into the dark belly of the earth where the crypt slept beneath. Amara lit a match. For a heartbeat the flame reflected in her eyes, then she dropped it onto the oil-soaked wick of a lantern. Shadows lunged across the walls as she descended the steps. Each level she passed told another story—Isabel’s portrait slashed down the center; a child’s toy half

The war room had never felt this quiet. Maps sprawled across the table like open veins, marked in red ink and bloodstains from older wars. The chandelier above flickered under the weight of the coming storm. Beyond the glass walls, the rain hammered against the cliffs, a relentless rhythm that mirrored the heartbeat of Palermo itself. Luca stood at the far end of the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shirt clinging to the muscle and tension beneath. His eyes were locked on the door, jaw ticking once every few seconds — the only betrayal of how hard he was fighting to stay composed. He hadn’t seen her since the crypt. Since she’d gone silent. Since Cassian’s voice on the line said the words he still couldn’t unhear — she’s wearing it. The door opened. Amara stepped in. No escort. No hesitation. Just a slow, deliberate walk that made the air shift around her. The crown wasn’t on her head — not tonight — but it didn’t need to be. The bone gleam lingered in her eyes, and tha

The silence after war is never peace. It’s just the sound of ghosts finding their way home. Amara stood in her mother’s ruined courtyard, the rain falling through broken stone columns. The fires had died out, leaving only smoke that crawled like breath through the night. Palermo slept beneath the weight of the dead. She could almost hear them whispering her name. Cassian’s betrayal hung in the air like rot. The bone crown, still flecked with Damien’s blood, sat heavy in her hand. She could feel its pulse. It wasn’t made for ruling anymore — it was made for vengeance. Luca’s footsteps echoed behind her. “You’ve been out here since dawn.” She didn’t turn. “You’ve been watching since dawn.” “I don’t trust what the night leaves behind.” She looked up at him then — eyes dark, lined with exhaustion. “You think I do?” He moved closer, the damp air thick between them. “He chose his family. You would’ve done the same.” “I am his family,” she snapped. “He just forgot who made h