Harriet was back on her feet, moving with slow, deliberate steps through her chamber. Her body still ached—deep, dragging pains that pulsed in time with her heartbeat—but she could feel herself recovering faster than should have been possible. The physical wounds were healing; the rest of her... was another matter entirely.
Her eyes were flat. Lifeless.
Xeera, her ever-attentive maid, flitted about the room, helping her dress. She spoke in gentle tones, recounting bits of meaningless chatter, stories from the kitchen staff, small pieces of gossip—anything to fill the air with something other than silence. But Harriet gave no sign she heard. It was as if Xeera’s words dissolved before they could reach her.
Harriet’s gaze stayed locked on the tall mirror before her. She studied the image staring back—not with vanity, but with a dull, clinical detachment, as if she were looking at someone else entirely.
The cold weight in her chest did not shift even as she began fastening on her jewelry, sliding rings onto her fingers with mechanical precision. Xeera’s hands moved carefully through her hair, weaving and pinning until the style was perfect, each motion painfully gentle, as though Harriet might shatter under the wrong touch.
When Xeera finally spoke again, her tone carried quiet concern.
"Lady Harriet, is there anything else you’d like me to do?"
The question was polite, but laced with the unspoken truth—Harriet was still in pain, and Xeera knew why. Knew her mistress had woken to the knowledge that her entire village had been wiped from existence.
Harriet’s answer came cold and sharp, without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
"No. You don’t need to follow me."
She left the room without slowing her pace, her footsteps soft but unyielding on the polished floorboards. Xeera remained behind, her lips pressing into a thin line, knowing better than to push.
The food hall was quiet when Harriet entered, only a few early arrivals scattered among the long tables. Her appearance drew startled glances—no one had expected her so soon, let alone walking under her own strength—but no one dared to voice their surprise.
The hush deepened when King Zyren arrived, his presence filling the hall like a shifting pressure in the air. Aria followed a step behind him, her gaze flicking briefly toward Harriet before sliding away.
Lady Vivian was already seated, her posture refined, her face composed into an almost serpentine calm. The curve of her lips was subtle but unmistakable—she was holding something back, something sharp. Her eyes slid toward Aria with calculated leisure, and in that look Aria read the truth: whatever Vivian was about to do, it was designed to wound her.
Still, the food was served. Aria took her seat beside Zyren, her fingers curling briefly around the silverware before she began eating with unhurried precision. If her appetite was going to be ruined, she might as well fill her stomach first.
Across the table, Harriet toyed with her food, barely lifting her fork, her face still set in that same blank, unseeing mask.
When Lady Vivian raised a hand, all movement stilled. Zyren’s gaze cut toward her, and he gave the barest nod. For a moment, his eyes drifted to Harriet—a fleeting, unreadable glance that Harriet ignored entirely.
"Your Highness," Vivian began, bowing her head with flawless grace. Her voice carried an air of solemnity, though Aria could almost hear the satisfaction hidden beneath. "Lady Harriet has recovered, and I believe now would be the perfect time for the final match of the Blood Tournament to be held."
Her tone was poised, but her mind burned with vicious certainty. Harriet will kill Aria. Harriet will die soon after. I couldn’t dream of a better ending if I tried.
Aria’s eyes narrowed slightly. She had already noticed Harriet’s return, but what unsettled her was not the recovery—it was the emptiness. Harriet had been broken in ways Aria understood all too well. Waking to find your world gone... it stripped something out of you that no amount of strength could replace.
At least I have Liora, Aria thought bitterly. What does she have?
And that was what made Vivian’s move all the more insidious. This wasn’t about honor or tradition—it was a weapon aimed directly at her.
For the first time, Aria felt the urge to plead her case to Zyren, to stop the match before it began. Because once the challenge was accepted, there would be no walking away—one of them would have to die.
The thought sparked something dark inside her. Anger. Frustration. She could beat Harriet—of that she had no doubt. She was faster, stronger, and far more dangerous now. But killing her? No. Not .
She had long since abandoned the combat lessons Zyren had arranged with Vander. They were no longer necessary—she possessed the physical power she had once craved, and she had no patience for wasting her time with drills.
"Your Highness," Vivian pressed on, her gaze sweeping over the gathered lords. "I trust you will uphold the long-held customs of the vampire realm."
The reaction was immediate. Lord Virelle and Lord Noctare inclined their heads in firm agreement. Lord Drehk merely continued to eat, his disinterest plain, while Lady Lythari leaned in close to him, whispering something in a voice meant only for his ears, her lips curved in a slow, knowing smile.
Zyren hummed low in his throat, lifting his goblet. He took his time, sipping deeply, while Aria fixed her gaze on him.
She reached for the bond between them—something she had deliberately avoided since the day it was forged—and pushed her thoughts toward him.
The match can’t happen. Not yet. Harriet is too weak. Shift it forward, give her time to—
She didn’t have the chance to finish.
"I agree," Zyren said, setting his cup down with deliberate weight. His voice cut through the hall, cold and final. "The match has been postponed for far too long."
No one looked surprised. They all knew the power a ritual bond granted its participants. Most here had chosen not to attempt it themselves—too dangerous, too consuming, and far too easy to end in death if one partner’s strength faltered.
"...The match will be held this evening," Zyren continued, "and the winner will be decided."
His tone was flat, but his eyes lingered briefly on Aria, an unspoken confidence in her ability to survive. To him, the risk was acceptable. Necessary, even.
Because Zyren’s thoughts were already elsewhere. Past the petty intrigues of the Blood Tournament. Past the power struggles in the hall.
He was focused on the one enemy that truly concerned him.