All Chapters of Kingdom of Ash and Blood : Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

The world moved on without her. At least, that’s what they believed. The morning after the explosion, Palermo wore mourning black. Every church bell rang for the queen who’d ruled both sin and blood. Streets flooded with candles, roses, and rumors — the Varela queen is dead. And yet, somewhere far from the chaos, on a nameless island off the coast of Greece, Amara Varela stood barefoot on stone cliffs, alive. The sea below roared like applause. Wind tore through her hair, salt and smoke mixing on her tongue. The air carried no scent of Sicily, no echo of the life she’d ruled. Only silence — raw, clean, dangerous. For the first time in years, she wasn’t a name. She wasn’t a queen. She wasn’t anyone. But ghosts, she knew, were only powerful when they learned how to haunt. The cabin she lived in was a ruin — one she’d chosen deliberately. Broken walls. No mirrors. No phones. Only a small fire and the quiet company of a scarred man named Ilya — a former assassin who owed Luca

The world didn’t sleep after Amara Varela came back from the dead. Her name spread like wildfire — whispered in gunmetal corridors, shouted in the back alleys of Naples, prayed in the brothels of Marseille. They called her a ghost queen, a revenant bride, a woman kissed by death itself. But to Luca Moretti, she was something worse. She was temptation, resurrected. The morning after their reunion, she came to him — uninvited — walking straight through the guarded gates of the Moretti villa like she still owned the air. Luca was in the war room when the guards froze, and then she appeared in the doorway, sunlight cutting across her face like a blade. He didn’t rise. He only watched her. “You could have called,” he said quietly. “You could have answered,” she replied. Mateo shifted uneasily by the wall. No one else in the room dared breathe. Amara’s gaze swept across the maps, the weapons, the half-burned empire he’d tried to keep alive without her. “You’ve been busy

Rome didn’t sleep — it watched. The marble city glowed beneath a low-hanging moon, its ancient domes and bell towers alive with whispers of the divine and the damned. Tonight, those whispers were all for her. Amara Varela stood on the balcony of a high-rise overlooking the Vatican walls. Her gown was crimson, her hair pinned with gold. Every inch of her screamed royalty — not of the church, but of blood and fire. Beside her, Luca Moretti adjusted his cufflinks, the faint gleam of his gun holster visible only when he turned. He’d traded his usual black suit for a cardinal’s tailored attire, the ring of a Roman prelate gleaming on his hand. It was a masquerade worthy of their sins. Their mission: infiltrate the Archivio Nero — the Vatican’s forbidden vault — where records of the genetic resurrection project were kept. The same project that had created Leon… and dozens like him. “Cardinal Moretti,” she murmured, a smirk on her lips. “Has a nice ring to it.” Luca glanced at h

The world mourned Rome for three days. Every screen in Europe showed the Vatican collapsing in on itself, fire swallowing the holy city as if God Himself had turned His face away. But to Amara, it wasn’t divine wrath. It was a mirror — her empire devouring itself in holy fire. She stood on the balcony of the Naples estate, the sea below restless and black. Her reflection in the window looked nothing like the woman who once begged the underworld to kneel. This one didn’t need to beg. She ruled by silence. Luca stood behind her, shirt open, rosary wound around his scarred wrist. He hadn’t spoken since dawn. Not since the footage leaked — the clone’s face appearing across news feeds like an omen. It wasn’t labeled as Amara Varela, but the world thought it was her anyway. “The Queen has risen from the ashes,” the headlines read. But this version of her — the machine-born echo — spoke to the world like a prophet. “The old bloodlines have failed. The world must be reborn unde

The world woke up to fire. Cities that had bowed to the Syndicate only days ago now lay in chaos — Rome, Palermo, Zurich, Athens. Overnight, The Veil had struck from everywhere and nowhere. Power grids failed. Communication lines went dark. Banks froze. And across every major capital, one image broadcasted through hijacked satellites: A crowned silhouette — Amara’s face — carved in smoke. The message beneath read: “THE BLOOD QUEEN HAS RISEN. KNEEL OR VANISH.” Amara watched the footage from the war room aboard the Phantom Jet, her reflection caught between the screens. Cassian paced behind her, muttering. “They’re using your image to destabilize governments. To make you the symbol of fear.” Dante slammed his fist against the console. “It’s psychological warfare.” “No,” Amara murmured. “It’s prophecy.” Luca looked at her, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?” Amara turned, her voice low, almost reverent. “In the archives of the Varela blood pact, there was a line — wr