By the time Rymora returned to the room, her eyes widened in disbelief. Aria stood before the mirror in a black silky gown—one that clung to her figure and was, to Rymora’s shock, even shorter than the flimsy white one she’d worn earlier.
That alone stunned her. Aria despised short clothes. She had always gone out of her way to cover herself, avoiding even the slightest exposure. This—this was entirely out of character.
But what truly puzzled Rymora was when Aria reached for a thin black jacket—one with delicate lapels and small pockets lining either side—and casually slipped it on.
Brows furrowed, Rymora moved toward the writing desk, her mind reeling. She grabbed a small sheet of parchment and quickly scribbled a question with neat strokes before holding it up: "This is what you’re wearing?"
Aria didn’t even need to take the paper from her. She simply glanced at it and smiled.
"Yes," she replied, her voice strangely light, almost playful. "I think it suits the theme."
Rymora blinked, unsure what to make of that response. The theme? What theme? And the smile Aria wore—genuine, bright, almost giddy—only made it more confusing. There was a strange spark in her eyes, a glint of excitement that Rymora had never seen before.
Aria—the same woman who trembled with disgust under Zyren’s touch—now seemed as though she couldn’t wait for the dinner.
Frowning, Rymora scribbled again: "The theme?"
Aria merely shrugged, her expression unbothered as she adjusted her gown and leaned into the mirror, pulling it closer to inspect her reflection more intently.
"What do you think I should do to my hair?" she asked casually, as though asking about the weather.
That shocked Rymora more than anything else. Aria had never cared for her hair. Her red waves were usually left to fall freely, wild and untamed. Yet here she was—asking for it to be styled.
"A black ribbon would be great," Aria continued before Rymora could even pick up her quill, already visualizing it.
Without hesitation, Rymora moved to retrieve the ribbon and gently gathered Aria’s hair, brushing it back and tying it into a delicate bow that sat prettily at the top of her head. The simple touch gave her hair a softness, a grace it had never been allowed to have before. The result was surprisingly beautiful.
Rymora stepped back, admiring her work before scribbling quickly again: "I can put a bit of blush on your face?"
She held the paper up, hopeful—perhaps Aria had finally decided to please Zyren. Maybe she’d accepted that her best chance at survival lay in gaining his favor. That would mean more leniency, perhaps even the ban on coats would be rescinded. It was the only explanation that made sense.
But just as she offered the idea, Aria shook her head.
"No," she said firmly. "This will do."
She turned with a dramatic flourish, letting her gown flare slightly at the hem, then flicked her hair over her shoulder with a radiant smile.
"We can’t be late," she added in a singsong voice that stunned Rymora into silence.
The words lifted Rymora’s spirits. With Aria in this mood—seemingly content, even eager—their lives could finally become easier. Her mistress might win the king’s favor once and for all.
’Yes, mistress!’ Rymora thought joyfully, bowing deeply with reverence and silent delight.
’This will make my work and plan easier too!.’
Rymora thought as she stepped in line behind Aria, her movements light and graceful as she followed closely, unaware of the storm churning within Aria’s heart.
Aria, on the other hand, felt like she was walking on broken glass. Her chest tightened with every step, her heart pounding hard enough that she was sure anyone near could hear it. She forced her breaths to slow. She had
That was why she needed to arrive early. She needed time—to compose herself, to figure out when and how to slip the poison into Zyren’s glass.
’I need to pour the wine,’ she realized grimly, her brow furrowing as she walked. It was the only plan that made sense. The idea terrified her more than she wanted to admit.
Still, she kept moving, hand brushing the pocket of her jacket every few seconds to ensure the vial was still there. She could feel the small cylinder tucked tightly against her side, its contents shifting ever so slightly with each step.
She pushed open the grand double doors of the dining hall, tension tightening her spine like a taut wire. Relief briefly washed over her when she saw the hall was mostly empty.
No one acknowledged her presence. She hadn’t expected them to. But what caught her off guard was the sight of vampires already feeding—from their slaves’ wrists, the humans seated on the floor like cushions. She blinked, trying not to grimace.
’What is this? An appetizer?’ she thought bitterly, her stomach twisting. The scene infuriated her—not just the feeding itself, but what it implied. Zyren hadn’t needed to bite her neck. He had chosen to.
Suppressing the urge to groan in annoyance at the moans that filled the air, Aria found a spot to stand near the end of the hall, allowing herself to blend into the room’s shadows. Her eyes darted to the servants, who moved with methodical precision, arranging place settings and pouring wines into ornate goblets. Lords entered in twos and threes, whispering to each other, their gazes never drifting toward her. She might as well have been invisible.
But slowly, the pounding in her chest began to fade. She breathed deeper, the weight of rage still clinging to her but growing more controlled.
And then, he arrived.
The doors parted once again as Zyren strolled in with an effortless air of command. He wore black, as usual, but this time his coat shimmered with a dark blue sheen like midnight velvet. The guards flanked him silently, yet all eyes turned in his direction.
His face was unreadable at first—bored, cold, detached—until his gaze settled on her.
His crimson eyes lit up, gleaming with amusement as they slid slowly over her figure. Aria felt the burn of his gaze but didn’t flinch. She stood still, forcing her spine to remain straight, mimicking the composed poise of the nobles.
Around her, every servant and slave dropped instantly to the floor, heads bowed. But she didn’t kneel.
She lowered her head like the lords did and remained standing.
Zyren stepped forward, each movement slow and predatory, his boots echoing faintly against the floor. He stopped just beside her.
"Ahh!" he let out, a breathy exclamation of delight.
Aria felt his presence close—so close their bodies almost touched—but still, she didn’t look up.
He passed her without another word, only issuing a single, curt command as he went:
She followed without hesitation. She wasn’t surprised when he sat at the head of the table and immediately gestured for her to sit on his lap.
And this time—Aria smiled.
Not the forced, terrified grimace she’d given him before. This smile was practiced. Bright. Deceptively warm. She slid onto his lap with elegant ease, adjusting herself until she was seated comfortably.
Zyren’s eyes crinkled in genuine amusement as he leaned his head against his hand, resting one elbow on the table’s armrest. He stared at her face, his attention utterly captivated by her and nothing else—not the lords, not the food, not the ceremony.
"A ribbon," he murmured, beaming with boyish delight. "For me?"
His tone was so pleased, so genuinely touched, that it almost caught Aria off guard. He looked like a man who’d just received a cherished gift.
"And the dress... I like it!" he added with a firm nod, his eyes gleaming with pleasure as he continued to stare.
Aria nearly faltered. The look on his face—it wasn’t lust. It wasn’t dominance. It was joy. Pure, unfiltered joy.
It made her chest tighten with the briefest flicker of guilt.
But she buried it quickly...easily!
She smiled brighter, forcing her lips to stretch wider. "I’m glad you like it," she replied sweetly, her voice soft and affectionate.
’A gift from me... before I send you to hell.’