Crowned Series Novels & Stories

The words fell into the room like a blade. For a moment— No one reacted. Then— “That’s impossible.” “That’s absurd.” “That’s—“ “Enough.” Aera’s voice cut through the noise instantly. And this time— No one spoke over her. She stood. Slowly. Deliberately. “The crown was not created for a single ruler,” she said. “It was created for balance.” Merrow shook his head. “That’s not what the records show.” Aera’s eyes sharpened. “The records have been rewritten,” the statement reverberated through the room, causing voices to rise, questions to fire, and denials to clash.

"More than we can bear? And just who do you think you are? Princess of the Lumin werewolf kingdom?" The whole arena erupted in laughter. Bart had already reached me, his sharp nails hooking into the fabric at my collar. The razor-like tips sliced across my collarbone, and blood began to seep out. He didn't hurry to tear the entire uniform. Instead, he deliberately traced his bloodied fingertip slowly down from the wound, leaving a glaring crimson streak along the side of my neck.

All I hear is, "By the power vested upon me, you will become the queen of Evergreen, from today until forever!" A maid removes my crown and my father stands up. He walks next to the high priest. The priest takes a few steps back and my father takes the queen's crown. Gently, he crowns me with it and says, "I am so proud of you!" I force a smile and curtsy as father nods and goes back into his place. I face the crowd once and for all. The high priest announces, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Children, world-- help me welcome the new Queen of Evergreen, Aurora Wintershade!"

I had only seen it once in a forbidden archive buried in the bone libraries of the Shadow Fangs. The Crownless Wolf. A bloodline long thought purged. A royal line that walked with spirit beasts and commanded ancient magic. And if he has returned, and if he is hers, then Zenith is no longer just a sweet artist with gentle eyes. She is standing in the middle of a war.

All of his hype comes from his brothers, how good-looking he is or horny people who like smut-filled books. His brothers are just as famous as him. His eldest brother, Christian Crown runs a few strands of clubs and hotels. The middle brother, Khalil Crown is the maker and designer of the Crown. A car luxury brand, which became as popular as BMWs, Teslas, Lamborghinis, Mercedes and other car brands in just its first year of being produced. Soon enough they became on the same level as Rolls Royce, Lambos and other luxury cars. I do have to admit Crown cars are sexy as fuck.

Curious, I tapped it open. The announcement immediately occupied the entire screen. [The World Designers Council has officially opened registration for the Crown Collection Challenge.] [Theme: Rebirth.] [Only one designer will receive the title of Crown Designer.] My gaze lingered on the title. The Crown Collection Challenge. The competition only appeared once every fifteen years. It wasn’t organized by Dreamers. Dreamers was merely one of the official qualification platforms. The true organizers were the most influential fashion councils and luxury houses in the world. The winner would earn something far more valuable than money.

The honor a knight earns in battle, defense for the weak, and even standing bravely where no one will and can. THE CROWN. A royal blooded title, pride, and the entirety of their lives deal, where their world revolves and is only known for. Taken as the highest in the towering pedestal of their lives, it is the throne where blood and sins were covered. With its brightness and fame as the ruler and ruling stance of their lives, it is the dark and menacing life that only cares for power and luxury, that even the purest one can be tainted with its darkness.

Moretti voted for removal and heavy penalties. DeLuca voted the same. Santoro voted for removal with life imprisonment instead of execution. When it reached Vincent, he refused to vote and rejected the commission’s authority. The final tally was clear. Vincent stood and warned them they were making a fatal mistake. He promised he would remember who stood against him. Then he left with his guards. Elena expected gunfire. It didn’t come. That scared her more. The Santoro boss announced the ruling. Vincent Cross was removed as head of the Cross family. Damien would assume leadership immediately. Vincent had seventy-two hours to surrender or be declared an outlaw.

I looked up and admired the Hall. The summit was being held in the Hall of Accord. The Hall of Accord stood like a crown upon the brow of the city, a towering bastion of stone and ancient craftsmanship. Its sheer size dwarfed the surrounding buildings, each of its walls forged from colossal slabs of granite veined with silver and obsidian, shimmering faintly in the sun. Spires pierced the sky like the spears of titans, while vast banners emblazoned with the sigils of long-forgotten kings and enduring alliances fluttered high above the battlements. Massive archways, wide enough for a war host to pass through, marked the hall’s entrances, their keystones carved with runes older than the city

“Downstairs—go!” Before Sienna could move, a shape burst through the archway—tall, hooded, ski mask swallowing everything but a flash of eyes. He swung a crowbar, smashing a vase into a spray of white shards. Sienna’s heart skipped, then she bolted for the stairs, Roman on her heels. Another figure loomed, blocking Vivienne—she let out a scream, raw and wrong, nothing like her usual ice. “Vivienne!” Sienna yelled, twisting back, but Roman’s hand clamped her wrist, dragging her up the steps.