For a moment, no one in the hall spoke.
Even the vampire lords, who had been speaking in hushed tones amongst themselves, fell into utter silence, their gazes snapping toward the raised dais where King Zyren sat with Aria on his lap. The weight of expectation seemed to choke the air, thickening it until even breath felt unnatural.
Aria, who had been reaching for a piece of fruit from the grand silver platter before her, froze mid-motion. Her fingers curled slowly inward, retreating to her lap as her gaze flicked up beneath her lashes toward Zyren, bracing herself.
"I agree! It’s been a while we had one!" Zyren’s deep voice echoed through the long hall, sharp and clear. Every syllable struck like a hammer, cracking the oppressive stillness. "Send one to the Castle butlers!" he commanded, his cold eyes drifting toward the head servant, who stood beside him with her head bowed in reverence.
"It should also be announced to the general public," he continued, with the ease of someone declaring a feast—not a decree that might lead many to death.
He raised his hand slightly, and one of the servants standing closest rushed forward, hands trembling visibly as he reached for the carved decanter to pour wine into the king’s cup. His knuckles were pale, his grip barely steady enough to avoid spilling.
Aria blinked slowly, watching the liquid swirl into the goblet.
I didn’t poison this one, she thought, the bitter humor dry on her tongue, even as dread crawled up her spine.
But her thoughts snapped to the announcement—the Blood Tournament. Her mind turned over the term like a blade in the dark. She tried to piece together what it meant, why it stirred such cruel delight in Vivian, who now sat demurely back in her chair, eyes glinting with malice.
The look on her face was triumphant—no, smug—and the gleam of glee in her red eyes made Aria’s stomach knot. The satisfaction that curved her lips was not just about the tournament. It was about her. This is aimed at me, Aria realized.
She barely noticed herself open her mouth, breaking a rule she never dared to—speaking to Zyren voluntarily. Her voice was soft, uncertain.
"This Blood Tournament... what’s it about?"
Her words barely carried, but they landed like a sharp breath in the tense air.
Zyren didn’t answer her immediately. Instead, his hand moved with silent confidence, sliding up the back of her neck. His fingers curled around the base of her skull, pulling her toward him.
She stiffened instantly, resisting out of instinct, but it was useless—her strength was a droplet compared to the ocean of his. Her breath caught as she found her face inches from his, lips trembling as she held them tightly shut, terrified he’d kiss her again.
"It’s a tournament," he whispered, his voice brushing across her lips like a silk threat, warm and dangerously soft.
"For slaves who are hoping to be free... and those that hope to serve me."
His breath ghosted over her skin, the heat of it sinking into her bones. His voice was low, intimate—yet she knew every vampire in the room could still hear him. He wanted them to. He wanted her humiliation to be shared.
"Each category gets a prize," he continued, his dark gaze fixed solely on her, as if no one else in the world existed. "The first gets their freedom. And the second... gets to fight for your place by my side."
A chill rolled down her back.
At first, something in her flickered—freedom? Could she...?
But the flicker vanished just as quickly, extinguished by realization. Her eyes widened as the words fully sank in, and her voice cracked through the silence.
"Fi-fight? What kind of fight?" The question escaped with a visible stutter, her eyes searching his for mercy.
Zyren let out a soft chuckle, but it didn’t warm his expression—it only made it colder, crueler.
"What other fight is there?" he asked, as if her question was amusingly naive.
"Weapons are allowed. It has to be... since it’s a fight to death."
Aria’s mouth dropped open. Her heart stopped. The words echoed like a drumbeat in her skull: fight to death.
She sat there, completely stupified, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. She—who had never wielded a blade in her life, who couldn’t even defend herself against Zyren’s whims—was supposed to enter a bloodbath for her freedom?
She parted her lips, preparing to argue, her expression drawn into a tight frown, but just as she did—
Zyren leaned forward and stole the breath from her mouth.
His lips closed over hers with the same possessiveness he showed the room—dominant, unapologetic. The kiss was slow and deliberate, yet entirely devoid of tenderness. His hands gripped her too tightly, holding her in place, leaving her powerless to pull away.
Aria’s body locked, every muscle screaming in resistance, but it was futile.
She felt eyes watching—felt their weight like burning brands on her skin. The humiliation suffocated her as she clawed mentally for escape. She pushed against his chest with all her strength.
His hands held her even though it was his mouth that made it impossible to pull away. Aware of the eyes on them it only made Aira feel even more self conscious than usual as she pushed him off only for it to make no difference until he finally pulled away.
Aira gasping for air and wiping her lips as she stared at him with a stony expression unable to do anything else even as her face flushed red in anger.
It was at this point that Zyren finally opened his mouth to speak. "You are MY pet! Unfortunately, I can’t have two!" he responded with a hint of regret in his tone that Aira did not in the least believe he actually felt.
He didn’t care about her and simply saw her as nothing but a thing to entertain himself.
"I can’t fight!" she told him directly with a hint of anger in her voice which she couldn’t help bit show.
"I’ll die!" she told him straight even as she looked right into the depth of the man’s eyes who had just kissed her as passionately as a lover would.
Not surprised to see him smile as he looked back at her and responded. "Then you’ll die! It’s the blood tournament you see!" he responded with a light shrug even as he picked up his cup and drank from it.
For a split second, Aira stared at the cup wishing she had poisoned it again.