The King Of War Returns (Jaden Rift) novel Chapter 163

At The Thornfells

The Thornfell estate stood eerily silent. It has never been this silent before, after the news hit them everything seems to have sunk to the ground.

Inside, on the highest floor of the east wing, Agatha Thornfell's scream shattered the silence.

"No! No, no, NO!"

Glass shattered. A lamp hit the wall, exploded in sparks. Pillows tore, frames smashed, perfume bottles burst like tiny grenades of desperation. Agatha rampaged through the suite like a possessed hurricane, her silk robe flailing around her thin frame, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.

"I can’t lose! I’m a Thornfell, goddamn it!" she shrieked.

Her voice cracked under the weight of disbelief. Reality had become a waking nightmare. Her empire—gone. Her legacy—reduced to ash.

Three sons, dead.

Her fourth, bedridden and brain-dead. A once-promising general, now drooling into a pillow.

And her husband. The great Lucian Thornfell. Feared. Respected. The so-called lion of Ravenmoor.

Dead. Killed by a ghost they should’ve buried long ago.

"All because of him," she growled, pacing like a rabid animal. "That bitch's bastard."

She kicked over a chair. Her hands trembled as she pulled drawers open, flinging their contents across the room.

"I should've had him strangled as a boy. Him and his gutter-trash mother."

Her knees gave way. She collapsed onto the floor, gasping, sobbing, shaking.

"You don’t destroy a Thornfell. We bury others. We don’t get buried. We don’t get buried!"

But the truth towered over her, a monument of failure too massive to ignore.

Then her eyes locked onto something. A small object on the table, wrapped neatly in white cloth.

She froze.

It had been sitting there for weeks. A gift from Jaden, delivered to her when he first visited the Thornfell Hotel.

She had ignored it. Too confident. Too arrogant to think it mattered.

Now something pulled at her gut.

Slowly, she stood. Walked over. Fingers shaking, she peeled back the cloth.

A golden urn. No label. No note. Nothing flashy.

Just cold, gleaming death.

She stared at it, confused.

“What… the hell is this? Ashes? Whose?”

The answer punched her in the chest.

Her breath caught.

“No…”

She staggered back, horror dawning like sunlight over a graveyard.

He hadn’t brought her a threat. He’d brought her a prophecy.

That urn wasn’t for anyone else.

It was for her.

"I'm next," she whispered, voice dry as paper. “He sent me my grave… in advance.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify