Novelas y relatos de The Crown

On yearbook photo day, I went over and stood next to my boyfriend, Blake Whitmore. Madison Vance, the cheer captain and sorority president, showed up late, and the crowd parted for her without being asked. A path opened straight to Blake, who stood dead center. "What took you so long? You just turned every head in the place." Blake smiled softly and pulled her into the spot beside him. I was pushed out of the frame. Tyler Brooks, my friend since childhood, caught my arm. "Claire, don't fight Madison for the spot. She's the main character today." Then he traded places with me and took the spot next to her. The crowd started whooping. The fraternity president stood on one side and the vice pre

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

Violet bit down on her lower lip so hard that it nearly broke the skin, but she still tried to hold her ground. "It's just a cheap ornament," she said stiffly. "I already looked it up. The online price is about five bucks. I'll give you ten. That's more than enough." I let out a quiet laugh. "Are you sure you searched for the right thing?" I said. "Try this. Look up the news. 'Neel Corporation's Chairman Wins Bidding War for Rare Antique, Gives It to Daughter.'" Someone in the crowd gasped. "It's real! It's the same piece I found online earlier. It's worth three million dollars!"

Damon drifts toward center ice and stops at the logo. I follow. For a moment, we stand where the game began. Where so much between us almost ended. “Funny,” he says. “All that fighting over who gets the crown.” “And?” He looks at me fully. “There was only ever one.” The words hang there. Not competitive. Not sharp. Certain. Only one crown. And it doesn’t belong to one king. The arena lights dim slightly as the crew prepares to clean up. I feel his hand brush mine. Not by accident.

one of the council members said behind them, voice tight with suspicion. King didn’t look back. “Neither did I.” Aria swallowed once, forcing her nerves down where they belonged. “Then who did?” No one answered. Because something in the center of the chamber already was. A crown. But calling it that felt like reducing it. It rested on a raised platform of black stone, suspended slightly above the surface as if gravity had chosen not to apply itself here. Thin threads of light circled it slowly, like orbiting thoughts. Not gold. Not metal. Something older than material classification.

And Irina Vasiliev concluded without taking her eyes from Carla: "Because she proves that she will protect our people even without belonging to them." Then they all said together: "We recognize her." The Crown was brought forward, but it was not called the Lunar Crown. That night, it received a new name: the Crown of the First Pack. Because she was the first human to receive it.

Morning light filtered through the curtains of Isabelle’s chambers at Cresthaven Palace, illuminating the small desk where she sat motionless, quill suspended above parchment. A letter to Amelia lay half-written before her, the ink long dried. How did one tell a dear friend that the crown prince had requested assistance in courting her? More importantly, how did one write such a letter with a heart splintered into fragments?

His voice carries through the square as he begins the ancient rites. “On this day, before the eyes of our people, under the sky that has watched our kingdom rise and fall for generations, we crown a ruler to guide us.” The words feel distant. My gaze flicks back to the crowd. Scanning. Searching. No Althea. My skin itches under the collar. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. The chancellor turns to me, holding the crown in both hands. It’s gold. Pure. Heavy with history. He lifts it, stepping forward—

The great doors close with a sound like breaking bones, leaving me alone with the ache of this cursed crown and the weight of a kingdom built on graves. The crown itself pulses against my temples, its once-brilliant gold now tarnished to the color of old blood. It used to shine like captured sunlight, a beacon of hope and righteous rule. Now it hums with an endless network of hairline cracks, each fracture a spider's thread of corruption spreading deeper into the metal and into me. Each break is a reminder that nothing in this world remains unbroken: not thrones built on noble intentions, not bloodlines stretching back to heroes of legend, not oaths sworn unde

Feeling inexplicably nervous, Charlotte approached the trays, took a deep breath, and opened the first box. Inside lay a beautiful crown. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the style contemporary and fashionable. If Charlotte recalled correctly, this crown was one of the showpieces from a recent foreign auction, the 'Treasure of the World.' "This is..." Charlotte murmured, a mixture of amazement and surprise evident in her voice, "This is the 'Treasure of the World' crown?" Kingsley nodded and delicately placed the crown atop Charlotte's head. He gazed at her, his eyes serious as though he were beholding his most precious treasure.