Booktok Crown Novels & Stories

It was due to a lack of optimism in living outside of societal conventions. Hannah can’t help but be astonished by his explanations. He had certainly read the book, understanding its connotation and digging deeper into its words. Now, she can truly see a prince. A prince who wasn’t afraid of reading a feminist romance book. It's not a full romance, but still a romance. Contrary to Astrrid’s claim that Hannah hadn’t read some romance novel, she had. But books should focus on societal or political issues rather than centering on romance itself.

With his attire and the way he stood with the crown and staff in his hand, one could tell it was their warlord in flesh and blood. He stood among them in his full glory. A crown on and a staff which looked like that of kings of the ancient times. "All hail the king of old!!". "All hail the king of old!!". The crowd chorused with their heads bowed onto the floor, hailing their warlord who stood with a hand folded into a ball at his back, and his face looking cold with no emotions in them. They bowed their heads and the king olor with his daughter, princess Lucy kneeled bowing as they sang praises hailing their warlord.

I ignored them completely and looked straight at Violet. "Ms. Neel, you still have time to admit you're wrong. Otherwise, when this blows up in your face, it's going to hurt." Violet clearly believed I was just like her, another fake trying to bluff her way through. She lazily pulled out a black card and flicked it onto the desk in front of me. "Name your price." A gasp rippled through the crowd. "That's the unlimited black card, right? If Violet's not the real heiress, I'll eat my own words."

OURS. The word echoed through his mind with the force of a command, and Kael felt his careful control begin to crack. He glanced back at the common room. The innkeeper was watching him with narrowed eyes, perhaps wondering if this particular buyer would be trouble after all. The other patrons had returned to their drinks, unaware that the Crown Prince of Virelion was standing ten feet away, struggling not to shift and tear the entire building apart to get to whatever—*whoever*—waited below.

Not yet. Before I can ask, Ronan's radio sounds. He steps outside. Returns in ninety seconds. Sets something on the table. A sealed envelope. The wolf-and-crown symbol stamped into the wax on the back. No address. No name. Just the symbol. Inside, one page. Clean handwriting. Unhurried. Eight words. The half-blood princess will not reach the crown.

"Why?" He tilted his head, a motion smooth and wolfish, as though the beast within him had never truly left. His damp hair fell across his brow, shadowing one crimson eye, but even concealed, his beauty was a thing to unmake the world. "Because I am a curse," he said softly through lips that looked carved for both cruelty and tenderness. He seemed too much: too regal, too dangerous, too unearthly for this small, lamplit room. "And those who hunt curses care little for what else burns in their wake."

“I visited the wolf kingdom in the human world once, in place of Princess Vivian. The king was very kind to me. He noticed my interest in all kinds of different subjects and gave me a large selection of books to read.” My brows lift. “Are you talking about Erik?” She nods. “You seem to like him.” She looks down at the botany book in her hands. “I like learning. The only books I was allowed to read in the castle all belonged to Princess Vivian. King Erik let me read about things that I actually found interesting.” A sudden wave of jealousy makes me scowl at the book. “Are you in touch with him?” She looks taken aback at my question. “Why would I be?”

The great doors close with a sound like breaking bones, leaving me alone with the ache of this cursed crown and the weight of a kingdom built on graves. The crown itself pulses against my temples, its once-brilliant gold now tarnished to the color of old blood. It used to shine like captured sunlight, a beacon of hope and righteous rule. Now it hums with an endless network of hairline cracks, each fracture a spider's thread of corruption spreading deeper into the metal and into me. Each break is a reminder that nothing in this world remains unbroken: not thrones built on noble intentions, not bloodlines stretching back to heroes of legend, not oaths sworn under starlight with hearts full of

Damon drifts toward center ice and stops at the logo. I follow. For a moment, we stand where the game began. Where so much between us almost ended. “Funny,” he says. “All that fighting over who gets the crown.” “And?” He looks at me fully. “There was only ever one.” The words hang there. Not competitive. Not sharp. Certain. Only one crown. And it doesn’t belong to one king. The arena lights dim slightly as the crew prepares to clean up. I feel his hand brush mine. Not by accident.