Novelas y relatos de Savage Crown

Lord Danbury, the man that had been raiding the Princess of Nightway’s realm to feed MidGale City, and inconveniencing The Nauvree in the process, looked up at the man who hadn’t blinked during the interchange. Savage sat quietly watching them. Not reacting, though clearly close enough to hear. He was young. Blonde hair twisted into braids near his face with wood beads strung in them. Kill beads. Each engraved with a kill he was proud of.

“I don’t need a crown to save this world.” The chanting faltered. The crimson leader’s head tilted again, and this time there was almost a smile in the brokenness of his face. “Then you choose the harder path.” “I choose the right path,” I said. He bowed, a slow, crumbling motion. And then—one by one—the Vestiges vanished into mist, leaving only the crown behind. Unguarded. Unclaimed. A trap waiting for another day. The ground trembled again, but this time, it wasn’t from the trench.

“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.

Despite her delicate condition, she stood upright, exuding an unshakeable confidence and undeniable power. Beside her stood a slightly older woman, Luna Verona, who was equally beautiful, and her presence was equally commanding. Her silver-streaked hair framed a face that bore the wisdom of battles and the love of a mother. Her smile was permanently on her face, and her eyes were locked on the priest before them who held a velvet pillow, upon which rested a crown unlike any other. The Crimson crown’s diamond embedded in its centre, which gleamed fiercely, reflecting all lights upon it in shimmers of colours, pulsing with energy that seemed alive. It was a crown only worn by the crimson Alpha

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…

My bare feet pressed into the soft moss, each step swallowed as though the forest itself were conspiring to hold me in place. From the darkness, a shape emerged-massive, elegant, terrifying. Crimson eyes pierced the dimness, luminous and aware. Not a man, not yet. But not merely a wolf either. Zevrael. The predator I had stitched together, the creature I had seen dissolve into man, now took form in the wild. His fur shimmered faintly, a strange light reflecting off the shadows, and even in that form, there was a majesty that struck me to silence.

Raven Steele was her masterpiece—clean background, tragic story, exactly the kind of person who could infiltrate a motorcycle club seeking revenge. The bar's door swung open, spilling amber light and the stench of whiskey and cigarettes onto the wet pavement. A man filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the light. Even in shadow, there was no mistaking who he was: Jax Savage, president of the Savage Saints MC, the most feared motorcycle club in three states. Six-foot-four of muscle and menace, with hazel eyes that missed nothing and hands that had spilled more blood than most soldiers. "You lost, princess?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder, each syllable carrying the we

*"The Weavers lied. The Crown was never yours. It was *hers*." The truth detonated. The Crown wasn't a relic of the First Wolves. It was a fragment of the Rootmother herself, a seed planted to fester. And I'd let it take root. Jason's choking gasp snapped the thread. There was no choice, no victory-only sacrifice. I plunged my scarred hand into the nest of roots at my feet and unleashed the storm. --- The Crown screamed.

“But I am the reason they fight.” She stepped forward. “I loved Kael. I wanted him more than the crown. More than the Trials.” She looked back at him, voice breaking. “And I still chose to bring him back. Knowing it could break the world.” She placed her hand on the blade. It flared. Silver. Gold. Red. Then— It shattered. 5. The Crown Emerges From the pieces of the Soulcleaver, a crown rose. Not forged of metal. But of memory. Each shard held a version of Ava.

I tapped into the purest element of the Convergence. I walked through reality. A tear of pure, silent Void opened on the command deck. I stepped into the suffocating vacuum of the Ever-Dark and materialized a microsecond later directly in front of Killian at the bottleneck of the corrupted corridor. My First Crown manifested not as a halo, but as a brilliant, blinding crown of stars that pushed back the purple gloom. I didn't summon fire or ice. I summoned the essence of the prison that had held these monsters for millennia.