Crown Of Blood Novels & Stories

“What exactly is the Bone Crown?” The elder’s eyes shifted to her—sharp, assessing. “The Crown of the Dark Oath. The twin to the Marrow Throne. One forged not from sacrifice but from betrayal.” The snow hissed as though offended. Malachai’s jaw tightened. “The Oath has two halves. Light and dark. Balance and blood. Magnus tried to twist the former. The latter… no one has controlled it for centuries.” Cassian flicked snow from his coat. “Great. So we’re up against something historical and homicidal.”

I didn’t want anyone to see me after what I was about to do, so carefully, I hold the crown and take it out of the box. What a mistake. The moment I grabbed it, that moment I dropped it. Covering my mouth in fear, I back away from the object. My body trembles, and my mind kept replaying what I just saw. Somehow, the moment I had the crown in my hands, flashbacks of a kingdom being destroyed appear in my mind. It was so bloody that it made me feel like I was the one being killed.

"The blood master was dying and didn't want to leave his people without any protection. So he blessed his most devout follower with his powers, and only those within his bloodline could awaken it. Maybe it was because he was weak and his reasoning wasn't clear, he couldn't make the powers awaken in a direct bloodline, but within a specific bloodline. So if someone has even a drop of his devout follower's Blood, that person has a chance to be the blood king." "How does the blood empress come in?" Calhoun asked. His father released a heavy sigh. "That is the worst part of the story because she was the bride of one of our past kings."

The darkness above us gathered together, forming an enormous black circle. Within it appeared an image of a crown. But it was not made of gold. It looked like bone and shadow, with a single pale stone in its center. “The Crown of the First Blood,” she said. “It was created before Silvermoon, before the packs, before the prophecy was written. Whoever wears it becomes the bridge between light and darkness.” I stared at the crown. “And you want me to wear it?” “I want you to survive what comes next.” “That isn't an answer.”

Althea fought her way back to Argos for Lysandros and helped him reclaim the throne, only to find herself trapped in the enemy kingdom of Thrace, wearing a slave's collar for three full years. Through three years of mortal danger, being dragged behind chariots, and bone-chilling winters, Althea survived on a single conviction: her betrothed, Lysandros, would come to rescue her. But when she finally set foot in the royal city again, what awaited her was not an embrace. It was a heavy golden laurel crown pressed against her brow, the Sacred Flame seal clutched in another woman's hand, and a royal heir growing in that woman's womb. She clung to one last hope: perhaps they had cast her aside onl

She was a colossal sea fortress, four hundred feet long, featuring three massive iron towers that glowed with a terrifying, pulsating crimson light. High upon the central tower of the Blood Crown stood Emperor Malakor himself. His armour was terrifying, crimson scaled plate armour that looked like it was made from crystallised blood. Black shadow-feathers draped in a shroud over his broad shoulders, his face concealed behind a silver mask carved like a screaming daemon. In his right hand, he held a massive six-foot staff topped with a glowing, blood-red orb that pulsed in rhythm with the oceanic tide.

Mission accepted. My jewellery is onyx and silver, dark and glossy against my skin. Finally, Mum places the black crown gently on my head. It’s made of delicate metal vines and onyx stones, shaped to look like it grew right out of the shadows. And it completes me. I don’t just look like a queen—I look like his queen. “You’re absolutely stunning,” Mum says, adjusting the crown like she’s placing it on actual royalty. “Caden’s going to pass out.” “Good,” I smirk. “Let the man suffer.”

His eyes met mine, storm and softness woven together. I turned back. “There will be no new crown. No new dynasty. No next generation of chained blood.” And then I pulled a velvet box from beneath the podium and opened it. Inside was a silver circlet. Wreathed in fire-shaped metal. Twisted. Scarred. Beautiful. “The Blackwood Crown,” I said. “Forged from the original heirloom. Melted. Recast. Not a symbol of rule. But of rebellion.” And I placed it on the podium—not my head.

Her crown fell to the marble floor with a clear clang, there seems also to be a clanging sound of someone's sword falling to the ground outside the palace gates. The deep red gem on the crown shattered and scattered. Warm blood down the steps on the cold ground, slowly spreading, reminiscent of the shallow creek she used to play in barefoot as a child. This golden hall of Avalon became her grave, swallowing her bones, burying her life. Outside, the sun shone on the snow, melting it bit by bit…

“The crown is mine.” I bent a little lower eyeing the way she held him, placing his head on her laps. I ignored their display for an instant, squatting down to grasp the blood coated crown. The piece was an original gold one, with ten slops around it and by the sides were transparent pearls forming a bridge at the start of each slops. “Could someone get a friggin’ fucking ambulance or do you want your new King to be marked as a murderer?!” I suddenly yelled, bringing out a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of my suit. Erasing the stains of blood from the part of the crown it touched, I positioned it on my head.