All Chapters of Kingdom of Ash and Blood : Chapter 201 - Chapter 210

AMARA The silence in the war room tasted of smoke and metal. Maps of Europe, the Middle East, and Africa stretched across the screens — red lines marking the fall of their influence, white pins marking loyal sectors. And one name glowed in silver script at the heart of the chaos: ALMA VARELA MORIN. Amara’s name. Her blood. Her mistake. She stood at the edge of the table, fingers gripping the edge hard enough to whiten her knuckles. Around her, the captains of the southern syndicates waited for orders that didn’t come. “Two territories gone this week,” said Matteo quietly. “The Russians are consolidating. Whoever’s feeding The Veil has inside access.” “Inside access means betrayal,” muttered Valerio from the corner. “If the girl’s one of ours, she knows where to cut.” Amara didn’t respond. She watched the silver name flicker on the holographic map. “Call off the southern shipments,” she said finally. “No more exports. No more collections. We go quiet until I say ot

AMARA The storm had not stopped. It raged like the ocean inside her chest, furious and endless. Every thunderclap felt like her heartbeat breaking through bone. She had buried Damien once. Now he was back — and he had her. The words still echoed through her head: “Our daughter.” Her hand trembled as she poured herself a glass of whisky. The liquor burned down her throat, but it did nothing to stop the shaking. Matteo stood at the edge of the room, pale and quiet, waiting for orders. He knew better than to speak. “Say it,” she rasped finally, turning to him. “Say what, boss?” “That I created this. That I made her into what she is.” Matteo hesitated. “You didn’t create Alma, Amara. Damien did.” Her eyes lifted, sharp as knives. “I gave Damien the blood he needed to build his empire. I gave him the fear he worshipped. Every monster he made has my reflection somewhere in its skin.” Matteo opened his mouth, then closed it again. She paced toward the window, the r

LUCA He hadn’t seen the sun in forty-two days. The Veil’s prison was somewhere beneath the earth—he could tell by the constant hum of machinery and the damp smell of stone. Time didn’t move here; it dissolved. They kept him alive—barely. Enough to make sure he felt every breath he didn’t deserve. Every few hours, they brought the same question: Where is the Crown of Ash? Every few hours, he gave the same answer: With her. They beat him anyway. Pain had become an old friend. It dulled everything but the image of her—the look in Amara’s eyes before the flames, the shadow of her silhouette walking away through the smoke. She’d saved him. She’d traded something sacred for his life. That should have been enough. But mercy, when it came from her, always had teeth. Luca flexed his hands against the restraints, feeling the steel bite into his wrists. “You’re going to get tired of this,” he told the empty room. “And when you do—I’ll still be here.” The intercom crack

AMARA The dead didn’t stay buried in Sicily. They always found their way back — wearing familiar faces. The morning after the fire, Amara sat in what was left of the fortress’s war room. Maps were scattered, communications offline, and the Veil’s encrypted channels bled with whispers of betrayal. Alma stood near the broken window, her hair tied back, her face pale from sleeplessness. “You should rest,” she said quietly. Amara didn’t look up. “Rest is a luxury for people who still dream.” “Then dream of peace for once, Madre.” Peace. That word still cut like glass. Amara ran a hand through her hair and forced herself to read the intercepted message again — the one bearing Matteo’s insignia. The one that shattered every fragile thread of loyalty left between them. To the Council: The Queen is compromised. The Veil’s future cannot depend on two ghosts still in love with their own ruin. — M. Rossi. Matteo. Her second-in-command. Her oldest ally. The one she had tr

The room smelled like smoke and secrets. Shadows pooled in the corners as if afraid to touch the man sitting at the center of it all. Luca Moretti leaned against the marble counter, his gaze fixed on the flickering city lights outside the Sicilian cliffs. Every inch of him was quiet danger—the calm before something ruinous. Amara stood behind him, barefoot, wearing one of his shirts that brushed the top of her thighs. The wind from the balcony lifted her hair, and for a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t cold; it was heavy with the kind of truth neither wanted to say first. “You knew,” she said finally, her voice low. “You knew what Mateo was hiding.” Luca didn’t turn. “I suspected.” “Suspected?” Her tone sharpened. “You had him followed for months. You don’t ‘suspect,’ Luca. You know.” He exhaled slowly, turning toward her. The truth in his eyes was enough to silence her next breath. “Mateo betrayed me long before I made him my brother,” he said. “I needed