Zyren didn’t leave the room until he was convinced that Aria had already fallen asleep. The pillow had slipped away to reveal her pale, weary face, her lashes still slightly damp. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat told him all he needed to know. She was asleep. Finally.
Quietly, he rose to his feet, his movements so silent they hardly disturbed the air around him. The fabric of his cloak whispered against the furniture as he moved toward the door. With a soft click, he shut it behind him, the heavy wood muting the room in his absence.
He walked straight to the room beside it—his study. A cold, seldom-used chamber that bore the scent of old parchment and ink, preserved like a tomb. The guards stationed outside bowed sharply, but Zyren didn’t spare them a glance. His voice was low and final.
"No one disturbs me."
Then he stepped inside, sealing the door shut behind him.
The room was vast, swallowed in deep shadows and filled with rows of old tomes that no one but him dared to read. He strode past them, heading directly toward the enormous mahogany desk positioned at the far end of the room, its surface perfectly polished, untouched. His boots echoed faintly on the dark stone floor, each step deliberate and slow.
Zyren sank into the high-backed chair, its leather creaking beneath his weight. He turned it, letting his body settle into the cool stillness as he faced the window behind. A vast, unbroken pane of glass framed the night sky like a painting.
It was starless tonight—ink-black and oppressive. There was no moon. Just endless dark, heavy and perfect.
He didn’t move. Not even when the door creaked open behind him—just as he expected it would. He didn’t turn his head. He could already smell her presence. Familiar. Clean. Cold.
Footsteps approached. They paused, and then the voice came—low, composed, unwavering.
Savira’s voice hadn’t changed in the centuries he’d known her. It was eternally steady, like carved bone—aged, brittle, yet sharp enough to draw blood. Still, he didn’t turn to face her.
"You came quickly," he murmured, his tone flat, unreadable.
"Yes, my king. You called." Her voice bore no warmth, only the weight of duty. "I have yet to make any progress in my theories."
Her expression remained still as stone, though her respect was clear in every word. Her white hair was tightly braided in twin ropes that fell down her back. Her skin was youthful and smooth, almost unnaturally so, but her eyes betrayed her—deep crimson and old, like coals that had burned for far too long.
"I didn’t call you for that."
Zyren waved a dismissive hand. Her research didn’t interest him tonight. Not when there was something far more pressing looming over him—unseen but impossible to ignore.
"I called you about the bond. How soon can it be done?"
His question was sharp and direct, but barely had the words left his lips when Savira’s head shook firmly. Violently.
"It should not be rushed," she warned, her voice suddenly more urgent, no longer the calm, clinical tone she wore like armor. "I would recommend not dabbling into the ritual until you are sure that nothing can go wrong."
Zyren didn’t look at her. His gaze remained locked on the night outside, but his voice cracked just slightly—an undertone of irritation threading through.
"The more time goes, the more I feel her heart hardens towards me, no matter what I do."
He sounded almost...tired.
"You killed her father and brother. It’s to be expected."
The moment the words escaped her, Savira regretted them. They hung in the air too plainly, too honestly.
"It’s already enough that I kept her sister alive," Zyren bit out. "Moreover...I simply ordered it. It wasn’t like I did it myself."
There was anger in his tone now, a raw edge that hinted at how deeply the matter had begun to needle into him.
Savira chose her next words more carefully.
"According to ancient texts, the bonding ceremony will grant powers to both of you—something that would make you even more powerful."
Zyren’s head tilted slightly.
"It shouldn’t be anything serious. Maybe a passive ability. But it would also depend on how strong her bloodline is."
Her voice lowered as silence stretched between them like a blade. She didn’t look at him, sensing how tense he’d become.
"...But you could also use her sister. If they are indeed blood sisters, then there’s no reason why she shouldn’t also be a heatblood."
Zyren’s reaction was immediate.
His head turned. His eyes darkened, glinting like wine in the lamplight. He shook his head once—slowly, firmly.
"I can stand Aria... but I can’t promise not to kill her sister."
His words were spoken with such clarity, such brutal sincerity, that Savira stiffened in place. A cold chill passed through her bones. The girl—Aria’s sister—had no idea how close she teetered to death’s edge.
Seeing no point in continuing, Savira lowered her head in a deep bow. She waited for permission to leave, which he granted with a single, flicked gesture of his hand. She didn’t linger.
She exited swiftly, sealing the door behind her, and Zyren was left alone again—silent and unmoving, save for the way his gaze returned to the sky.
The quiet outside was thick, oppressive. A suffocating stillness that pressed on the windows and blanketed the air.
He reached forward and took hold of the crystal bottle of wine on the edge of the desk. He poured the liquid into a glass—deep red and glistening in the firelight like blood.
He sipped, his fangs peeking ever so slightly as the wine touched his tongue. It wasn’t enough. It never was.
The warm bitterness lingered on his lips.
His gaze burned through the darkness.
It had been a while since he’d had fresh blood.
And tonight, his thirst—his hunger—carried the image of a woman. A human woman. One whose heartbeat still echoed faintly in the room next door.