CHAPTER 365: THE COLD CROWN

Everyone was preparing to return to Eira—everyone except the Asvaldur vampires, for they already belonged there. But with no emperor left to lead them, they petitioned to be absorbed into Eira.

The irony was striking.

Emperor Kaan had spent his life striving to unite the kingdoms under the Asvaldur Empire. Whatever motives lay beneath that ambition, he had pursued it with relentless determination. He’d even accepted the aid of the ancient evil—the dark ancestor Thessara—laying bare the depth of his desperation.

Yet despite everything, his dream slipped through his fingers. He never achieved the unification he craved.

And now, in a final twist of fate, it was not Asvaldur that ruled all, but Eira. The very kingdom he had once scorned had risen above all others, claiming the mantle of true power and assuming dominion over the vampire world.

"I beg you, Princess. We have nowhere else to go," said a knight, dropping to one knee. It was the same knight who had clashed with Lisbeth’s forces only hours earlier, fighting with fang and nail.

Lisbeth’s eyes were swollen, but she could still see. She rose slowly, pushing past the weight of her grief. Tears clung to her lashes, but she refused to let them fall. Her gaze locked onto the kneeling knight, unflinching and unreadable.

More Asvaldur knights followed suit, kneeling in solemn silence. The commoners scattered around the battlefield who were watching instinctively did the same. Somehow, they all understood: their fates now rested in the hands of this young woman.

"I am no princess," Lisbeth said, her voice hoarse from crying. "I am the Queen of Eira now."

She was still sniffling, her breath ragged and uneven, but her words rang with undeniable authority.

The knights bowed deeper, fists pressed to the ground in reverence—the highest show of respect. "My Queen," one intoned.

"My Queen!" others echoed, louder.

Soon, the chant swelled and swept through the square, two words carried by wind and will, rising above the ruins of what had come before.

These were the men who had killed her father.

Lady Maris furrowed her brow, her jaw clenched with restrained fury. The sheer audacity of the Asvaldur knights to kneel before Lisbeth and call her queen, after what they had done, was almost unbearable.

If the choice were hers, she would have executed every last one of them in the name of King Valentin.

But Lisbeth had stepped into the mantle of leadership. She was no longer just a grieving daughter or a sheltered princess—she was the Queen of Eira now. And a queen had to think beyond vengeance.

Lady Maris knew it made political sense to retain control over the remnants of the Imperial Army. Their strength could serve Eira well. But justice could not be ignored—not when the blood of their king still stained the earth.

Lisbeth’s eyes flicked toward the kneeling knights, then turned coldly away. She gave the order to the Nightwarden without hesitation.

"Lock them up."

Then, facing the knights once more, her voice cut like a blade: "We don’t need to burden our return with garbage."

She didn’t need to explain. The Nightwarden, specifically Sir Kai, understood her perfectly. He moved swiftly, seizing the nearest knight and binding his wrists with spell-forged cords. One by one, he subdued the rest, and the other Nightwatch followed his lead. Soon, not a single Imperial knight remained unshackled.

Lisbeth walked in slow circles around the group of Asvaldur knights, huddled together in front of the shattered remains of the Asvaldur castle. Her eyes scanned each face, searching for the one who had struck the final blow against her father. But the face wasn’t there.

She clenched her fists, her jaw tightening. That knight must have already died—probably in some meaningless way, unremembered and unremarked.

She took a bitter kind of comfort in that thought. The idea that her father’s killer had perished without glory eased her rage, if only slightly. And yet, she couldn’t deny it—she would have preferred to take his life herself.

Lisbeth shook her head, pushing the thought aside. This wasn’t the time for personal vengeance. She had crowned herself queen. That meant putting Eira above all else. Emotions could not be allowed to cloud judgment. With a weary sigh, she looked toward the ruins.

Father... I understand now.

She understood the burden her father had carried—how heavy a kingdom could weigh on a single pair of shoulders. Before he had been her father, he had been a king. And now she, too, had to lead as a ruler before all else.

***

Lisbeth’s first act as Queen of Eira was to strike a careful balance: to make an example of the former enemies and potential future citizens without becoming a tyrant.

She couldn’t kill them all. That would be unjust and cruel. But she also couldn’t overlook their role in her father’s death, no matter how much of it was due to Emperor Kaan’s manipulation.

If the Imperial Army was to serve her now, she needed to be certain of their loyalty, and she needed them to know exactly who was in charge.

She was young. She was a woman. And some would see those things as weaknesses. But she would teach them otherwise.

After the Nightwarden secured the surviving knights within the remnants of Asvaldur, Lisbeth gave her final command regarding the prisoners.

"Return to them in thirty days," she ordered. "Test their loyalty again. Then report back to me."

Her long-term vision was to station these former Imperial knights across the territories now united under the Eira Empire. But first, she would test their resolve, their obedience, their endurance.

And, though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, she wanted them to suffer. Not out of cruelty, but because they had taken her father from her. And some debts, even a queen could not ignore.

***

The elders of the Nightshade Coven had lived for centuries, but war had never been part of their daily lives. Now, in the aftermath of a conflict so vast and devastating, it was only natural that some of them longed for the quiet idleness of the days they’d left behind.

A few began to question their choices—whether joining the war had been a mistake. Yet, deep down, they all knew the truth: the world had been on the brink of collapse. Standing by and waiting it out had never been an option.

Griswold, for all his sharp tongue and combative nature, was quietly unraveling. The sight of so many dead—some reduced to ash, their numbers impossible to count—had taken its toll. His gruffness had always been a shield, a way to survive in a world too cruel for those who felt too deeply.

Sandor, caught in guilt, blamed himself for the lives he couldn’t save, even though he had been helpless, trapped in the poisonous mist. Elijah sat in a trance-like daze, mentally distancing himself from the reality he couldn’t bear to face.

Perseus and Orien said nothing, sitting side by side, finding comfort in silence and shared presence. Elwin groaned in anguish, tugging at his hair, while the youngest, Isaac, wept on his knees, clawing at the dirt as if sheer will and grief might summon back the fallen.

Then Lennix stood, his voice steady but fierce. "We need to stop living in the shadows. This happened because we kept to ourselves, thinking only of our own survival. If our presence had been known—if we had stood openly—monsters like Emperor Kaan would never have dared to act."