King Blood Book Novels & Stories

I thought of the world that was currently waking up to a silence it didn’t understand. But as I felt that tiny, second heartbeat pulse against my palm, I didn’t feel like a fugitive. I didn’t feel like a victim of a global conspiracy. I felt like an Architect. The first book was about the blood. It was about the betrayal and the breaking of the old world. It was about the trauma of the glass and the roar of the mountain. But the second book? The one we were starting right now, in this quiet French valley? That book was going to be about the Home.

My father thinks I spend my nights reading. That’s not entirely a lie. Just not books. This room is mine in a way no other room in this house is mine. The rest of the townhouse is my mother's taste — warm and beautiful and expensive, every surface chosen to project exactly the image the Conti family wants projected. My room looks like the inside of my head. Whiteboards on two walls, half of them network maps, the other half cipher keys I've already cracked. A punching bag in the corner worn to gray leather at center mass. Gun cabinet beside the closet — three weapons, combination lock. My father knows about two of them. I find the thread at 3:12 a.m. A routing number. Buried six layers deep,

Then he carefully drew the blood from the vein in her arm and poured it into a golden glass filled with his blood. The old man then dripped Vladimir’s blood and hers onto the stone heart in the middle of the book. It absorbed our blood, and suddenly the roots moved and broke the seal of the book. When the old man opened the book, Calista saw pictures of genealogical trees and names written in blood. The old man then took a quill and used the blood as ink and wrote her name next to Vladimir’s. The roots like human vein suddenly appeared and bind their names. The old man then took the ring box from the altar and gave it to Vladimir. “My prince, this is your ring,” he said politely.

The memory of Francesca’s dying words echoed faintly: “We are all bound, my darling. To blood. To power. To the things we love enough to destroy.” Bianca took up her pen. The ink bled dark and slow. BOUND TO THE BLOOD KING. She whispered the words aloud. They felt right, raw, terrible, true. The title was not about submission, but consequence. Not about worship, but survival. The testament of a woman who had stood before gods and chosen to remain mortal. For a moment, she simply stared at it. Then she smiled a quiet, tired smile. “So be it.” Night fell like silk. The estate slept. Bianca sat alone again, finishing the final page.

“Do you perhaps know who owned this?” “No, of course not.” She waved her hand dismissing what I said. She looked at the diary again and then sighed, lowering her voice. “But that, my dear, seems to be a blood book.” I blinked. “A… blood book?” “Yes.” She folded her hands behind her back, he tone grave and quiet. “It’s a very old kind of magical artifact. Dangerous to most, useless to many. A blood book is a record that only reveals its contents to its creator or to a direct descendant of the one who made it.”

Chapter 6: The Price of Power Karina stood at the center of the dimly lit chamber, the weight of the moment pressing on her chest. Her fingers tingled with the strange, foreign power that surged beneath her skin. The bloodline—her blood—was the key to something far darker than she had imagined. But the deeper she felt into it, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just a ritual. This was a war—one that would cost her everything, but one she could win.

, she said. "It's okay", I replied. She left leaving us in her living room. All the selves filled with books and glass bottles. It's the heritage of her ancestors. One book from self in blue hard cover caught my eye. I grabbed the book. The cover of the book fascinated me. 'The Cursed King' was written in golden cursive letters. Beautiful and ancient. I tossed the pages and started reading. 'Blood spilled all over the ground. Bodies lay lifeless. Houses burnt. Children crying.

It has an ornate metal clasp on the front which locks the pages giving the illusion of it being a box. I run my fingers over the clasp and it clicks open. I feel my wolf push to the front of my mind but I'm so engrossed in the book I hardly even notice. I open the cover carefully and look at it. On the inscription page is some writing and a hand drawn picture of a wolf in black ink. I read the inscription out loud. 'Journal of Lycius 1800AD' "Where does it say that?" Hunter says looking over my shoulder.

He spat the last word like it was poison. My blood ran cold. Did he know? No, he couldn’t. I’d been careful. “What are you talking about?” He puffed, exhaling slowly. “Don’t play dumb. You’re my heir. The Volkov name rests on you. But lately? You’re sloppy. Missing details in reports. Showing up late to meets. If it’s a whore distracting you, handle it. Cut them loose.” Anger flared hot in my chest. “It’s not—”

“This isn’t the original one.” “What do you mean?” “The original book disappeared decades ago.” “So... this is just a copy?” “One of the few remaining actually.” He opened the book slowly. Most of its pages had faded with time. Some had been torn away entirely. Others were covered with stains that looked disturbingly like dried blood. Serafina felt an odd ache in her chest. As though she had seen this book before. But still, it feels impossible for her. Darius turned several pages. “This kingdom was called Blood Moon.”