The woman spoke, the sharpness in her voice cutting into the still air. Aira’s eyes widened instantly, unable to help the reaction—especially when the woman hadn’t even paused before the command came rumbling out of her mouth. It was so blunt, so unapologetically delivered, that it stole the breath from her for a second. The older vampire even seemed to relish the shock on Aira’s face, a smug little expression curling at her lips as if she enjoyed watching the younger woman squirm.
But that smugness vanished the moment Zyren opened his mouth.
"Savira!" he snapped, his tone sharp and deep, laced with a displeasure that was impossible to mistake.
Savira reacted immediately, her posture lowering into an even deeper bow than before. The weight of his authority seemed to press into the air between them as she began to apologize without hesitation.
"I apologize, Your Highness, if my tone was a bit sharp! I also think we should start!" she said, her voice softer now but still carrying that calculating undertone. Her words, though contrite on the surface, were edged with a subtle deflection—pointing out in her own sly way that she had only been following Aira’s lead by urging haste.
I can’t imagine how long she must have lived to be so sly! Aira thought bitterly, studying the old woman’s every careful movement. It was the kind of cleverness that came from surviving for centuries. And Aira knew—without a shred of doubt—that getting on this woman’s nerves would be the last thing she needed tonight.
It didn’t help that this same woman was also in charge of the ritual she was about to toss herself into.
"Just to confirm!" Aira asked quickly, her voice tight with unease. "Just because I’m bonded to him and he to me doesn’t mean that it would affect my personality, right?" The question left her lips sharper than she intended, driven by the fear curling in her stomach. She was beyond terrified of getting a different answer than the one she wanted to hear. And she knew—she knew—that even if she did, it was too late to back out now. She had already walked too far down this path to turn back.
"Of course not! What do you—" Savira began, the first edge of annoyance flickering in her voice, only for her to pause mid-sentence. She continued in a much softer tone, deliberate and calm. "Your personality will not be affected."
Aira nodded slowly, though disbelief still gnawed at her. She didn’t trust the answer, but with no other choice, she pushed forward. Her steps took her closer to the bed, her eyes scanning the ground with growing unease.
She froze briefly when she noticed the markings—symbols, both large and small—drawn in a deep, dark red that could only be one thing. Blood. Fresh blood. The scent clung faintly to the air, rich and metallic, and the closer she moved the more certain she became that it hadn’t been there long.
The straps of her gown slid slowly off her shoulders as she moved with cautious reluctance, but before she could gather herself fully, she heard Zyren’s footsteps behind her. Without hesitation, without even the faintest display of self-consciousness, he stripped off his clothes. Each movement was unhurried but purposeful, carrying the same kind of confidence that made him seem entirely unaffected by the fact that she was there watching.
He stepped directly up to Savira, who immediately began to draw more symbols onto his chest. The strokes of her hand were deliberate, precise, each line carrying some meaning only she seemed to know.
At first, it was fine.
Then she pulled out a knife.
Aira’s breath hitched, her heartbeat faltering in her chest as she watched the blade glint under the candlelight. The steel was stained in places, its edge dark with a residue that might have been blood. Without a moment’s hesitation, Savira pressed the blade to Zyren’s wrist and carved a clean, deliberate circle into his skin.
Blood welled up instantly. She began sprinkling something from her other hand over the wound—fine granules that hissed faintly against the open cut. Aira’s brows drew together in intrigue and confusion. Her curiosity sharpened when she saw the brief flicker of pain cross Zyren’s face, and then sharper still when she realized the wound wasn’t closing.
Vampires healed fast—impossibly fast. But this... this kept bleeding. Slowly. Steadily.
Something that could make a vampire like Zyren not heal and feel pain... The thought lodged itself in her mind, igniting a sharp, almost dangerous interest. She wanted to know what it was, how it worked. She wanted it for herself. Her feet shifted before she even realized she had moved, and she almost stepped forward—until she caught herself.
Savira’s gaze was sharp and unyielding when it flicked toward her, and Aira froze where she was.
She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and forced her body to relax. Her hands went back to her gown, pushing it down over her hips with stiff, deliberate movements. The air of the room felt cooler against her skin now, goosebumps prickling along her arms and legs as she stepped forward. She told herself firmly that the woman wouldn’t kill her—at least not until after the ritual was complete.
The moment Zyren moved aside, Savira came to her. Without a word, the old woman took her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and began to carve the same small circle into her skin. Aira gritted her teeth, her chest tightening against the hot sting as blood pooled at the cut. The strange granules came next, scattering across the open wound, and a subtle burn rose under her skin. She tried not to flinch, keeping her gaze fixed elsewhere as if pretending not to care might make it hurt less.
When Savira finally released her, the woman stepped to the side and pointed at a nearby table. There, resting neatly on its polished surface, were two cups.
Aira stepped closer, relief washing over her when she saw that the contents were clear rather than red. But her relief was short-lived.
Her heart thumped harder as she leaned over them, realizing the liquid inside was bubbling faintly, though there was no heat to it—no steam, no warmth radiating from the cups. It was wrong. Unnatural.
She swallowed, glancing toward Savira, whose lips were moving in a steady rhythm. The old woman was chanting softly under her breath, the sound threading through the air like an invisible net.
The mysteriousness of it all pressed heavier into her mind, curling around her chest until her breathing felt too loud in the quiet hall.
Then the floor responded.
One by one, the symbols drawn in blood began to glow, a deep and steady red that pulsed faintly, as though the hall itself had begun to breathe.