Blood pooled in Rymora’s mouth like molten metal. Thick, warm, and coppery. Her entire body trembled from the impact—her back still screamed from where it had slammed against the stone wall, and her left arm hung at her side uselessly, every movement jabbing white-hot pain through her shoulder.
She couldn’t lift her head. Couldn’t speak.
All she could do was write.
With her good hand wrapped tightly around the quill, Rymora scrawled words onto the parchment as fast as her battered body would allow. Her brown eyes blurred with tears, but she blinked furiously and forced herself to focus. If she faltered now—if she stopped—Zyren wouldn’t hesitate to remind her of what he could do.
The room was silent but for the scratch of the quill and the occasional drip of blood from her split lip. The air was cold, unnaturally so, as if Zyren’s presence had stripped the room of warmth. It was late in the evening, shadows clung to the corners,and the fire in the hearth burned low, casting flickering light across the black stone walls.
She wrote everything.
How she’d gone to the kitchen. How she’d stolen the food that had already begun to rot. How the plan all along was to avoid the tournament by making herself sick. She left nothing out. The truth spilled from her hands like a confession.
She couldn’t bear to look up. Not at Zyren whose steely gaze she could feel fixed on her even as she scribbled on.
And then, the bathroom door flung open.
Rymora flinched instinctively glancing up her broken arm throbbing in protest, but it wasn’t Zyren moving this time—it was Aira.
She stumbled out, a mess of damp red hair clinging to her face and neck, her skin ghost-pale, her breathing shallow. She leaned heavily against the woman beside her—a healer, unusually old but human and dressed in a plain white gown that brushed the tops of her feet. Her hands were small, steady, and her face tense with concern.
"She needs rest," the healer said quickly, bowing low the moment her gaze settled on Zyren who she hadn’t expected to see still waiting in the room. Her voice was soft but urgent. "She’s weak. But she should be fine in a few days."
Aira’s stomach dropped.
That meant the fight—what she had risked everything to avoid—was still going to happen.
She didn’t speak. Not yet. Her gaze darted instead to Rymora—and her breath caught in her throat. Rymora’s face was bloodied, her mouth swollen, one eye already darkening. Her left arm was cradled close to her side, clearly broken. Aira’s knees nearly buckled.
’What had he done?’ She internally gasped until her eyes settled on what Rymora was doing a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Meanwhile Zyren sat calmly at the edge of the large bed behind him, his black coat blending perfectly with the velvet blankets beneath him. His hair, dark as the night sky, framed his face like a crown of shadows. When his red eyes lifted to meet hers, they didn’t hold rage. Not yet. Just calculation.
He gestured toward Rymora without looking at her.
"The paper," he said simply.
Rymora obeyed without hesitation, stretching her good hand forward with trembling fingers. She couldn’t meet Aira’s eyes.
That silence said everything.
Aira’s pulse thundered in her ears as Zyren took the parchment and read it in one long, practiced glance. Then, without a word, he tossed it onto the bed beside him like it was nothing.
The tension grew unbearable. Her body screamed for rest, for relief, but her mind screamed louder.
Her voice cracked, but it cut through the silence like a blade.
"I’d rather die a quiet death than do so as entertainment." She said with conviction not seeing any reason to hide since Zyren clearly knew everything.
For a heartbeat, Zyren said nothing. His expression didn’t change. But something behind his eyes snapped like a live wire. The calm mask cracked—and for the first time in a while, real anger bled through.
His lips curled, just slightly.
"Hmmm," he hummed, low and dangerous. "If you want to die so badly then... your sister might as well follow."
The blood drained from her face. He’d never said it before. Never directly threatened Liora. Until now.
Zyren took a step forward. One foot, then the other, slow and controlled. His boots echoed against the stone floor as he walked. Aira leaned harder against the wall, panic creeping up her spine, but she didn’t dare move.
He stopped inches from her.
Even at her full height, she was no match for him. He towered over her, radiating power and command. His red eyes locked onto hers without blinking, drinking in her fear, her pain, her defiance.
Aira swallowed hard, her lips parting to speak again—but he beat her to it.
"You’ll move into my room TODAY" he said softly. His voice was silk—and steel.
"For the tournament," he continued, almost casually. "I’ll figure something out."
"But..." he continued enunciating each word as he spoke. " If you can’t make a good enough plan then you might as well accept the fate handed to you!"
Then he turned to leave.
But Aira wasn’t done.
"You’re not going to touch my sister, right?" she asked, her voice trembling despite the strength behind the words a hint of panic in her tone.
He didn’t look at her at first. Instead, he turned his gaze to the two healers, still standing awkwardly to the back.
One was older, silver hair braided down her back, the sleeves of her white robe marked with healer’s sigils. The other, younger but male, with freckles scattered across his nose and wide blue eyes that looked like they might spill tears any second.
"Why should I?" Zyren said, voice still calm. "Clearly, the one who needs to die was the poor innocent fellow that poisoned you."
Aira’s breath caught.
The implication was clear.
No one outside this room could know the truth.
As if on cue, both healers dropped to their knees.
The younger man hit the ground with a soft thund, his palms pressed flat against the stone, his forehead touching it. The older one followed more gracefully but with no less desperation.
"I heard nothing, Your Majesty!" the young male healer cried. "Please—I don’t know anything! I swear it!"
The older one nodded furiously. "She was poisoned my lord! That’s all I know. Nothing more, my lord!" She said even as she internally bemoaned how she could be so unlucky in her old age something that didn’t even happen while she was younger and in the castle.