"Isn’t it obvious?" Gura hissed, her voice low but sharp as a blade. She darted a glance over her shoulder, as if the shadows themselves might be listening. "The pieces were the ones with rat poison inside of it! I intended to toss them away—only for me to no longer find them there again!"
The words dropped like stones in water—heavy, disturbing, and impossible to ignore.
Farra blinked, her brow furrowing as silence fell between them. But instead of reacting with alarm, she gave a quiet exhale, the kind born of long years and worn patience. She reached out, patting Gura’s back with a firm touch, like soothing a skittish child with a bad dream.
"Is that why you look so scared?" she said, her voice laced with disbelief, her eyes sharp. "It would have been a different case if the food was still fresh. Only a mad person would eat pieces of rotten foo—"
She cut herself off, correcting with a grim frown.
"...worse yet, one they have no clue where it came from."
Gura hesitated. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but as Farra’s calm words anchored her, her frantic breathing began to ease. She nodded slowly, though the flicker of dread remained, clinging to her expression like soot that refused to wash away.
"You’re right... There’s nothing to be worried about," she murmured, quieter now, but no less tense. Her fingers clutched at the hem of her apron, twisting the fabric. "I just found it a bit strange, considering how it disappeared." A pause. "Worse—I only just remembered just now..."
Farra huffed out a sigh, already turning back toward the pantry shelves, her hands moving with the seasoned rhythm of routine.
"That’s the least thing you should remember," she muttered under her breath. "What we should focus on is breakfast. Every day in this Castle is like a trial of death." Her eyes scanned the shelves with sharp precision, but her voice betrayed the exhaustion of a woman who’d seen too much, survived too long.
By the time Aira woke up, her body told her something was wrong.
Her stomach was swollen, heavy like a stone lodged beneath her ribs. A dull ache pulsed through her limbs. Her skin felt clammy. She should have panicked—but instead, a small breath of relief escaped her lips. It meant the poison was working. Something, at least, was happening.
But a second thought clawed up her throat: Was it enough?
She dressed slowly, movements unsteady, each step sluggish. The nausea coiled tighter with every breath, but she bore it. Rymora arrived just before she was ready to leave, scribbling frantically on a piece of parchment before holding it out to her.
Aira’s eyes skimmed the words through a blur of pain.
"I need to leave! Tomorrow morning I’ll find the healer and get the stomach potion just in case!"
She nodded mutely, unable to summon the strength to speak. Her mouth was dry. Her head throbbed. But the fear of being well—of not being sick enough—made her heart race faster than the pain in her gut.
Rymora left quickly, shutting the door like something was chasing her. Aira stared at it for a long while. She was alone.
By the time she reached the food hall, her footsteps were uneven, her breath shallow. The scent of roasted meats and spiced bread hit her like a fist in the gut, and she nearly gagged. The nausea surged with cruel delight.
She had to pause outside the doors, fighting back the urge to throw up before slipping inside.
Most of the seats were already filled—noble vampires draped in velvet and cold elegance. The low hum of voices died instantly as King Zyren entered. His presence was like ice poured down the spine.
He said nothing at first, but lifted a hand toward Aira in silent command. She obeyed, drawn as if by strings, and moved to his side. As always, he pulled her effortlessly into his lap like she was a prized pet.
The moment her weight settled against him, his voice brushed against her ear—silken and sharp.
"Your complexion doesn’t look so good."
Her heart dropped. She thought, He knows.
A flash of terror lit her veins like wildfire, but then—
"Are you terrified? Scared of dying?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting into a cruel, almost amused smile.
His tone was low, intimate. But every vampire in the room would hear it. Every word, every beat of her silence was on display.
Across the hall, a presence burned at the edge of her awareness. She didn’t need to look to know.
The woman’s gaze was fixed on her like a hawk preparing for the final strike. Hatred radiated from her like heat, curling with every breath Aira dared to take. It wasn’t just disdain—it was hunger. She wanted to see her die.
"If you plead," Zyren murmured, his lips brushing the air beside her ear, "discarding the match would be as easy as speaking."
Aira’s stomach twisted harder than before. Her vision blurred slightly.
So it was Harriet. Harriet—the one who’d won the tournament. The one Lady Vivian had handpicked, no doubt. Everything made a sickening kind of sense. The way Vivian watched her like a vulture. The match.
Aira’s voice was quiet, ragged, but it slipped from her lips before she could second-guess it.
"...and what do you want in exchange?"
She turned her head slightly, gaze dull and tired as it landed on Zyren’s sculpted face.
The ache in her gut doubled. Her fingers trembled slightly as she clenched her skirts beneath the table, the smell of food turning into an unbearable cloud of rot and bile around her. Eating was unthinkable. Just sitting here was a punishment.
Zyren smiled, and there was something almost boyish about it—charming, warm.
It made her want to scream.
"It’s simple. Move to my room."
His words landed gently. Too gently.
Then, as if anticipating her recoil, he added, "I won’t force you. So that’s the last thing you’ll have to worry about."
His voice dripped with honey, but it did nothing to erase the memory of her father’s blood, or the sound of her brother’s scream. The very man who held her now had orchestrated their deaths—and dared to speak as if kindness could bloom from his mouth.
Aira stared ahead, unmoving.
Her heart thudded behind her ribs like a prisoner begging to escape.