All Chapters of Midnight Crown: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

🖋️ No More GodsOutside, alarms howled. Inside, the only noise was ragged breath and the pulse of blood against stone.Domenik tasted Eirwen’s mouth like a promise he intended to keep—bruising, demanding, his hands mapping her as if every inch was a battlefield and he refused to surrender an inch.She met him, teeth and nails, giving as good as she got. The strategist’s broken body between them was just another warning: this was not a house for mercy. This was survival, lust, and the violent intimacy of people who’d chosen ruin over safety.He pressed her back against the war table, maps scattering to the floor. The city’s future, smeared with blood and sweat.“You wanted the truth,” he growled against her ear, fingers slipping beneath the armor of her coat. “Now hold onto it.”She arched into him, her laugh edged with hunger. “Control is dead, Crown. All that’s left is appetite.”He pinned her wrists above her head, grip bruising. “You don’t get to walk away from this.”She bit his

The vault wasn’t a room. It was a tomb. Eirwen stepped inside first, gun up, the scent of scorched paper and ancient secrets clawing at her nerves. Domenik was a shadow at her back, his presence like a brand between her shoulder blades—familiar, dangerous, hers. The doors sealed with a hiss. For a moment, it was just silence. And then— A slow, deliberate clap echoed through the chamber. Marsel Dáinn leaned against the far wall, flanked by two wolves in bone-white armor, maskless, eyes hungry. Blood dripped from Marsel’s sleeve, but his smile was intact—feral and welcoming. “I knew you’d come, Crown. You never could let go of a secret.” Domenik aimed, but Eirwen caught his arm. “Don’t waste the bullet. He’s already dead.” Marsel’s gaze flicked to her. “You always were sharper than the rest, Eirwen.” He held up a data drive, silver and blood-streaked. “Looking for this? Or for absolution?” Domenik’s voice was smoke and violence. “I came to bury you.” Marsel laughed. “You

The Tower was a tomb of smoke and sirens. Eirwen pressed a hand to the wall, glass shards biting her palm, blood already drying on her skin. The alarms had faded into a low, pulsing heartbeat—warning, threat, promise. Down the corridor, the world burned in shades of orange and blue, reflecting off marble floors slick with gore. Somewhere, a body screamed and went quiet. All that was left was survival.Domenik’s shadow moved at her back, quiet as an executioner, gun drawn. He looked more beast than man, hair matted to his brow, his jaw flecked with someone else’s blood. His ring—lion black, still gleaming—was stained to the knuckle. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to.She didn’t wait for permission. She kicked the next door open, gun raised, clearing the room—empty. A city of ghosts. They kept moving, wordless. Every corridor was a history of betrayal; every mirror showed her a face she barely recognized, wild-eyed and hungry for vengeance.A metal door groaned behind them. Domen

The Tower’s bones still steamed in the rising sun, shadows crawling through the ruins like old sins. Eirwen’s boots crunched over glass and shell casings, her pistol drawn, nerves raw and electrified. The air inside was thick with the stench of cordite, sweat, and blood. Somewhere above, water sprayed uselessly from broken pipes, raining down on nothing.Talia led the way, one arm pressed to her side, blood seeping through her jacket. “We need the archive. If Marsel’s loyalists find it first, everything burns—including us.”Eirwen kept close, eyes flicking to every corner, every reflection. The Tower was haunted. Not just by memories—by the knowledge that every secret hidden here was a weapon, every broken promise another trap. She felt Domenik behind her, his presence a shadow she wanted and resented in equal measure.They moved through the service corridor, bypassing the main elevator. On the walls, the Covenant of Silence was barely visible under layers of grime and ash: Speak noth

The safehouse wasn’t safe, just hidden—a crumbling tenement outside the Crown District, lost behind flickering neon and alleys slick with last night’s rain. Eirwen pushed the rusted door open, the smell of mold and gun oil thick in the air. Her hand never left her pistol.Domenik followed, dragging Talia inside. Talia was barely upright, lips white with pain, but still stubborn enough to check every shadow before she limped to the couch. She collapsed, exhaling through clenched teeth.Eirwen scanned the place. Bare bulbs buzzed overhead, windows nailed shut. The walls were covered in ancient, peeling wallpaper and coded graffiti—the kind only Laev loyalists would recognize: “The Lion Sees All,” “Devotion Demands Debt.” A knife stuck in the kitchen table. A bottle of whiskey, half gone. It was better than nothing. Barely.Domenik bolted the door, his posture never relaxing. The gun holstered at his side was just for show; Eirwen knew he’d rather kill with his hands.Talia grunted, peel