Crown Of The Gods Novels & Stories

The fire in the divine lamp extinguished. Then comes the main part of the ritual. The crowning time. Servants came forward with the crowns. They were heavily decorated with white stones and pearls. Maybe this was the reason why the crowns are called Moon Crowns. Elphaba placed the crown on Maximus's head after offering the crown to the moon goddess and the deity. Lenora's neck hurt just by watching Maximus wearing the crown. She wondered how it would be to her. Soon, it's her turn to wear the crown.

The whispers of the wind, the fireflies, the bees sipping the nectars on the flowers. She heard footsteps approaching the greenhouse, she opened her eyes and then looked at the door where she saw the crown prince enter. "I'm sorry, did I disturb you?" The crown prince gently said, Katara shook her head. "No not at all your highness, why are you here? You should rest, you look tired." "You're calling me your highness huh? I told you just call me Deimos. I'm fine, I couldn't sleep even if I am tired after all…" The prince lay down with her and took a seat not so far from Katara.

It was the eve of their ancestors’ death anniversary, a solemn occasion that held deep significance for their family. As they approached the altar, Sevena took her place at the center, her presence commanding reverence. She was the matriarch of their family, a powerful werewolf with centuries of wisdom and strength coursing through her veins. Her eyes, a piercing shade of amber, held a quiet intensity as she prepared to lead the ritual. “Tonight, we gather to honor the spirits of our ancestors,” Sevena began, her voice carrying a solemn tone that echoed through the clearing. “They have guided us and watched over us, and tonight, we pay tribute to their memory.”

Having so many voices inside your head at once can be daunting, especially if you don’t know how to block them out. ‘Welcome to the pack, beautiful.’ ‘Thank you,’ She whispered into our mind-link. Once Anja was back with me, I turned and retrieved the crown of the Queen – one my mother wore once upon a time. The crown I wear is large, platinum, and engraved with wolves howling to the moon. Anja’s is smaller and encrusted with white and clear jewels, perfect for my mate. Goddess, it makes her lightly tanned skink glow! As I placed it upon Anja’s head, her eyes closed for a moment, allowing the crown’s power to fill her veins.

At the center, resting atop a stone pedestal, is a jagged crown—half bone, half scorched gold, smoldering with silent flame. Ceres (awestruck): "That's it…" Lady Ilven (reverently): "The Crown of Flame and Bone. Forged in dragonfire. Tempered with the blood of the first Umbra king. It can only be worn by a rightful heir." Guard (low voice): "It looks like it's… alive." Indeed, the crown pulses faintly as if breathing. Ceres: "Why bring me here?" I'm not here to rule. I want answers." Lady Ilven (approaching the pedestal):

Even the vampires, who bowed to no living thing, dipped their heads in acknowledgment. A crown was brought forth not the heavy gold circlet I had worn, not a symbol of dominion and divine right, but something entirely different. It was woven from moon-silver that seemed to glow with its own light and phoenix feathers that burned without consuming, a crown that represented unity rather than supremacy, service rather than rule, balance rather than power.

“It needs us.” Together, they placed the disk in the gate’s center. The stone flared. Magic roared through the room like wind, howling down the corridor. Then the gate opened. What lay beyond wasn’t a chamber. It was a sanctum — a temple lost to time. Starlight glowed from the ceiling, even though no sky pierced the stone above. At its center: a dais carved with twin wolves, one silver, one obsidian, facing each other with bared teeth and interlocked tails.

The ground rumbled with a deep roar, setting the stage for Jim as he led his crew of infant spirits into a clash with the Haunts that sliced through the wind. Those infant spirits were fierce, leaving the Haunts no chance to stand their ground. Under Jim's leadership, the enemy was slowly pushed back, inch by inch.

The locks were long just past his shoulders. And before I knew it my body had started moving on its own around the table as if examining an exquisite display at a gallery. And then my gaze traveled upward as he shifted under the blanket that covered him from under his waist. His face-gods, his face-was the kind poets would have broken their quills trying to describe. It was sharp, sculpted, as though the hand of some divine artisan had labored over every line.

Watching me give a speech on TV, my five-year-old asked, "Mommy, what's Ariadne?" "It's a special code I wrote, sweetheart. It's like a shield against the bad guys. It turns into butterflies that fly to girls who need help, whispering to them: 'No more tears, no more punishment, no more suffering.'" She nodded, half-getting it. I clasped her hand, and in a way, the hand of my eighteen-year-old self, and together we walked into a brighter world. The girl who once perished in a personal hell finally crafted her very own paradise.