Aira opened her eyes again, meeting his gaze. He was standing in the doorway, arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes flicking over her ruined form with detached amusement.
"You always were dramatic, Aira. But this..." he gestured vaguely at her, "this is performance art."
She wanted to scream at him, to tear his smug expression off his face. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t even lift her head.
Instead, all she could do was glare, eyes full of loathing—and shame.
He stepped closer, his boots echoing ominously against the tile.
"You thought telling me no was the best?" he asked, voice lower now, his amusement colder. "Did you even think this plan through? That your little plan wouldn’t come back to bite you?"
He crouched beside her then, so close she could see every curve of his handsomely wicked face and red eyes as they bored into her.
"You look like you’re in pain!," he whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. "Clearly someone has to pay!" His voice low even as Aira felt a looming sense of doom as she noticed the slightly cruel expression on his face as he looked down at her.
Aira wanted to spit at him. But there was nothing left to spit. No venom. No strength. Just shame and pain—and something darker hiding in her chest.
He stood up again, and for a moment, Aira couldn’t tell what he would do next.
Then, he moved away pulling the door open even as he called out to the guards in the hallway in a voice she could clearly hear..
She blinked, disoriented.
"I don’t want you dying before I decide what to do with you ," Zyren said when he got back to where she laid towering over her with the same look and air of arrogance and majesty he always seemed to carry , his voice almost casual.
Rymora returned to the room with her damp hair still dripping onto the shoulders of her tunic, the clean scent of herbal soap clinging faintly to her skin. She felt lighter, but only for a moment—until she opened the door and walked in.
Standing inside, like a shadow that had taken form, was King Zyren.
Not just the man who ruled the castle, but the King of Vampires himself.
The male healer she had dragged behind her stumbled to a halt the moment he crossed the threshold. His knees gave out almost instantly as he fell to the ground, his breath caught in his throat like a trapped insect.
Zyren didn’t look at either of them. He stood with his back turned, tall and still, the dark coat he wore draping heavily across his frame. Black on black—every inch of him was the kind of haunting elegance no one could ever prepare to see in person. His presence swallowed the air, made the walls feel smaller, the ground colder.
But Rymora didn’t care about his beauty.
Her eyes flicked toward the bathroom, and to her shock, muffled sounds were coming from within. The soft rush of water. Voices. Movement.
Rymora hadn’t even known another healer had been summoned.
Her breath caught again, this time from sheer panic. If someone else was treating Aira then did he know? What did he know?
Before she could gather her thoughts, Zyren turned and strode toward the bed. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He simply walked and sat—elegantly, comfortably, like it was a throne carved just for him. The subtle way he spread his legs and leaned forward made him look like a king on a hunt.
Then his gaze landed on Rymora.
Sharp. Unreadable. Deadly.
"Tell me what happened," he said, his voice smooth, quiet—but it carried with the force of a command no one would dare ignore.
An attendant appeared beside her before she even realized he was in the room, offering parchment and ink. She barely registered taking it. Her hands were trembling too hard to hold the quill properly.
She tried to write—but her thoughts were frantic. What had Aira told him?
Had she blamed herself?
Or had she told him everything?
If she wrote something different—
And that moment was enough for a guard who had been standing by the door to move once he got a signal from Zyren.
Before she could blink, she felt the air shift—and then, pain exploded across her face.
A heavy force hit her full in the cheek, the impact throwing her body across the room like a rag doll. Her back slammed into the wall with a sickening crack. Her head hit stone. The pain was so sharp she couldn’t even cry out.
She slid to the ground, her vision flickering black at the edges as blood filled her mouth. The metallic taste was thick and immediate. Her lip was split. Her jaw throbbed. She didn’t know if her teeth were still intact.
Then a desperate voice broke it.
"Sh-she dragged me, Your Majesty!" the male healer cried, throwing himself prostrate on the ground. "Begged me to come—that her mistress was in trouble! I didn’t want to disobey! Please—please, I had no choice!"
Zyren didn’t even glance at him.
His eyes stayed on Rymora, who now knelt on the cold stone floor, her arms trembling as she tried to steady herself. Her hair fell over her face, clinging to her bleeding lip. She didn’t dare meet his gaze again.
Because now she understood what kind of mistake she’d made.
There was no room for error with him.
Only silence and obedience.
He gestured once more, calm and composed, like nothing had just happened.
"Write," he said again, his voice low and infinitely colder.
And this time, she obeyed.
With blood on her lip and fear in her chest, Rymora dipped the quill into ink, and began to write—every stroke of her pen a desperate prayer that her story would match Aira’s.
Because she knew now:
Zyren wasn’t just a king.
He was a punisher of liars.