She was still staring at the door when Aria’s voice rang out, sudden and unyielding.
The name cut through the stillness like a blade. Rymora’s head snapped toward her, startled, her steps cautious as she moved closer. She was even more taken aback when Aria—whose gaze was usually calculating, untouchable—gestured toward the chair beside her.
"Sit," Aria ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.
If that wasn’t strange enough, Rymora’s shock only grew when Aria signaled for the servants. Plates appeared, dishes steaming, the scent of roasted meat and spiced grains filling the air. She wasn’t just offering food—she was ensuring Rymora ate.
Rymora obeyed, trying not to stare. The first bite almost broke her composure. She had eaten well before, but the richness here was unmatched—tender meat sliding apart beneath her teeth, sweet wine warming her throat. Still, the food’s pleasure was muted by the weight of Aria’s presence.
Aria sat across from her, silent, her dark eyes fixed on Rymora with unnerving focus. She waited until every bite was swallowed, her expression sharp, almost predatory—like a commander silently measuring the worth of a new soldier. There was no doubt in Rymora’s mind: whatever war Aria was preparing for, she intended Rymora to stand at her side.
The news spread faster than Zyren had warned it would—faster than wildfire, faster than reason.
It was one thing for a small village to be burned to ash, as Aira’s had been, punished for harboring Hunters. It was another for the villagers to be found butchered—every body sliced open before death claimed them, the corpses then set ablaze.
The night had been filled with growls, howls, and the metallic tang of blood so thick it seemed to stain the air itself. Those who’d glimpsed the scene spoke in shuddered whispers, and those whispers warped, twisted, and grew in the retelling until there were dozens of versions—each more horrifying than the last.
Worse still was Zyren’s declaration: the dead had not been human at all, but monsters wearing human skin. Zygon heads—creatures that even hardened vampires feared—had been among them. His words should have been enough to silence doubt. They weren’t.
Some believed him. Others... whispered.
"He’s a monster himself. He just wanted an excuse to kill more humans."
"How long before he wipes us out?"
"He calls himself king, yet treats us like ants under his heel."
"Bloody king? No. He is Death itself."
The voices grew sharper, more venomous. Among humans, the outrage was a seed, quietly rooting itself deep in the heart. No one dared speak too loudly or act too boldly—they knew what happened to those who opposed Zyren—but the resentment was there, waiting.
Vampires, meanwhile, hardly flinched. Many of them were connected enough to know what Zygons were, and they praised Zyren’s ruthlessness.
"He might be crueler than his father," they murmured, "but he protects us."
From the grand halls to the servants’ quarters, the tale swirled like a living thing, impossible to kill. Even the maids whispered as they passed one another in the corridors, and it was only a matter of time before the words reached the ears of Harriet—newly woken in the healer’s wing.
She had been in a coma for days, her body weak, her mind still fogged when she caught the murmured fragments between the healers attending her.
"...Crete Village... slaughtered..."
Her breath caught. "What village?" she asked, her voice raspy, every word scraping her throat. A shiver crept through her chest, settling into her bones.
"Crete Village," one healer replied, not yet realizing the significance. "It’s not far from—"
The rest was cut short by Harriet’s sharp gasp. It felt as though someone had ripped the air from her lungs, carved her heart from her chest, and left a hollow space behind.
"They... they can’t all be dead," she whispered, the words trembling, disbelieving. "Someone... someone must have—"
Her vision blurred. Just days ago, she had seen her parents, had heard her mother’s laughter, her father’s voice. The idea that she would never see them again was unthinkable—so much so that her mind refused to fully grasp it.
"They..." she began again, but the sentence never finished.
"All of them were monsters!" a vampire healer barked, impatience dripping from every syllable. "If the king says they deserved to die, they did. Now stop squirming."
Harriet froze. Not because the words made sense—they didn’t—but because of the way they were spoken. So certain. So dismissive.
The healer’s scowl faltered when she saw the tears sliding silently down Harriet’s cheeks. She made no sound—no sob, no gasp—just a quiet, steady stream of grief.
The healers continued to talk, but Harriet no longer heard them. Their voices had become a dull hum, meaningless, as though carried away by the wind before reaching her. Her body felt heavy, too heavy to move. She couldn’t tell if it was the lingering weakness from her injuries or the weight of what she’d just learned.
And somewhere beneath the grief, fury smoldered. At herself, at the world, at Zyren. She wanted to hate him—needed to—but she couldn’t forget the monster she had faced, the one whose existence had proven Zyren’s claim.
And yet... she remembered the strange tension she’d felt when visiting her parents, the way they had looked at her as if seeing her from a distance. What if they had already been dead, their bodies just vessels for something else? The thought twisted the knife deeper, and fresh tears fell.
Regardless of all I’ve done... I couldn’t protect them.
The thought broke her. Her chest ached as if her heart had truly shattered, the pieces sharp enough to wound her from within.
The scream tore from her throat, raw and animal. She screamed until her voice cracked, until the healers rushed forward, trying to calm her, restrain her. She didn’t care. Her limbs were useless, her body a prison, and the goal that had driven her—to grow strong enough to kill Aira and take her place as the king’s pet—felt hollow now.
What was the point? The family she had fought for was gone. Every reason she had clung to was gone.
Her screams rose again, higher, desperate, filling the healer’s wing with chaos.
And then—soft footsteps.
The sound alone cut through her frenzy. She went still, the last of her sobs caught in her throat. The air in the room shifted, growing heavier.
Someone had entered. Someone whose presence demanded silence without saying a word.
Harriet lifted her tear-streaked face toward the doorway...