Aira looked like she had nothing else to say after she heard Zyren speak. Her mouth pressed into a firm line, her eyes dull with fatigue. She simply stood beside him in silence, even as the cheers and applause around them grew louder—sickeningly loud. It grated against her skull like the clanging of blades. Each shout was a celebration of bloodshed, echoing like a war drum in her chest.
Intermittently, her gaze would flick toward the arena below, where blood smeared the sand in dark, drying patches. From one moment to the next, she’d catch glimpses of broken bodies being dragged out, limbs limp and twisted. Sometimes, it wasn’t the defeated that left—sometimes it was the victor too, collapsing under the weight of their own wounds. The scent of iron drifted up from the pit, subtle but enough to churn her stomach.
Aira didn’t know what to feel. Grief was too soft. Pity too hollow. What clung to her ribs and pulsed in her throat was rage—a quiet, suffocating fire. She stood still, outwardly composed, but her nails dug into her palm and her jaw trembled from the tension. Another set of fighters entered. Another pair of lives used as spectacle. Her chest ached with it.
By the time it was all over, only four people were left alive. They stumbled forward like ghosts—half-dead, bloodied, glazed-eyed—and approached the podium where Zyren sat with imperial ease. Aira stood beside him, her presence like a shadow to his flame.
The fighters bowed low, their skin crusted with blood, backs trembling under the weight of exhaustion. For a beat, Zyren said nothing. He simply remained in his chair, draped in power, eyes distant and calculating, his posture loose but commanding—as if every soul in the arena moved at the pull of his fingers.
The motion alone made the air still. Applause faded to nothing. The very atmosphere around him seemed to pull taut with reverence—and fear. Aira felt it, a strange pressure behind her ribs, like something primal stirring. Even the wind hushed.
The fighters dropped to their knees the instant his gaze swept over them, their foreheads pressed to the bloodstained floor like sinners before a god.
"You fought for your freedom and won. You’ve earned it."His voice was calm, rich with finality.
Aira’s eyes stayed fixed on him, not the kneeling men. The cadence of his voice, its assuredness—it pulled her in like gravity.
"From now on, you are no longer slaves."
Aira saw the tremor that passed through them at his words. One of the bulkier men—the one with a gash splitting across his brow—began to cry. Not a soft, dignified weep. His shoulders shook violently as he choked on his sobs, his blood mixing with tears that dripped down his scarred cheeks.
She understood it. Freedom, for them, was a miracle dragged from the jaws of death. But still... her stomach twisted.
She couldn’t unsee it. The body that man had killed. The way he’d driven his blade into another human’s throat just to stand here now, alive, free, and weeping like a child.
How can you live with yourself? she thought bitterly. How can you smile like that?
She didn’t hate him. She hated the necessity of what he’d done. But part of her couldn’t stop thinking—was that man’s life worth less than yours?
The rage churned low in her gut.
Zyren kept speaking, and the crowd drank it in. Aira didn’t listen. His words faded to a low hum in her ears as the pageantry unfolded. Flower petals fell from the balconies. Women came forward to drape garlands over the fighters’ shoulders. Servants brought out lavish clothes, replacing blood-streaked rags with silk and gold.
Zyren announced that a place in his castle would be theirs if they wished it. He praised their skill. Their strength. Their glory.
But Aira wasn’t hearing him anymore. Her gaze slid away from the stage, drifting down toward the audience below. No one noticed—everyone’s eyes were fixed on the king, drinking in his every word like gospel. That gave her the rare freedom to look.
Her gaze moved over the vampires first—arrogant, beautiful, deadly. They sat like royalty in their gilded boxes, faces serene and amused. Then to the humans, segregated, quiet, many with dull eyes and tight lips.
It was idle observation—until her eyes froze.
Aira’s breath hitched, her body going completely still. Her vision tunneled. Her knees nearly buckled as her heart began to pound.
There, in the arms of a vampire, was her mother.
She blinked rapidly, thinking her eyes were lying. But no—they weren’t. Selira sat with a collar fastened around her neck, but otherwise... she looked untouched. Her hair was smooth, styled. Her gown was fine—rich blue velvet, laced with silver thread. Her skin glowed, unmarred. Her lips were painted. And her eyes...
They were glittering.
Selira looked happy. Genuinely happy. Her fingers curled tightly around the vampire’s arm, clinging to him like a lover, like a woman drunk on affection. She smiled up at him like he was the sun.
Aira felt cold shoot through her spine. Disbelief gripped her throat.
Is that... her? she thought wildly. Is that my mother?
Her brows furrowed, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Her feet shifted, like she might step closer to get a better look. Her body trembled with confusion—relief, betrayal, nausea—when Zyren’s voice cut through her trance like a blade.
"You found something you like?"
Her head snapped toward him, heart lurching. He was seated again, staring at her with that knowing smirk that made her skin crawl.
She shook her head fast—too fast—and moved closer to him.
"No," she replied, her voice low and controlled. The lie felt like ash in her mouth.
She focused her eyes forward again, pretending to be composed, while her stomach twisted violently. The bile rose again. She clutched her hands in front of her, praying her face showed none of what she felt.
The men were gone. In their place, twenty women stood, arrayed in two perfect rows of ten. Some looked nervous. Others excited. But they were all still. Waiting.
Aira’s stomach flipped. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her fingers curled into fists as dread surged through her.
Zyren spoke beside her, his tone light, amused. "The first group will be fighting for their freedom. But the other ten..."
Aira’s breath hitched.
"...will be fighting for a place by my side."
She blinked, confused. Her gaze darted back to him, horror spreading across her face like ink in water.
Zyren turned to her, as if reading the question forming on her lips. His eyes gleamed with twisted amusement.
"I’m sure you’re wondering why any of them would want to be by my side," he said. His smile was a razor.
"...I am king. Moreover, I’m sure each of them has someone they serve who would benefit if I took a liking to any of them."
She could barely hear the rest. Her mind was unraveling. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Are—are they going to fight too?" she asked, her voice strained, barely above a whisper.
Zyren gave a slow, deliberate nod. It was almost gentle. Almost kind.
"Of course. What else would they do?" he said, with a scoff and a casual shrug.
Aira stared forward, unable to breathe. Her vision blurred. She wasn’t sure if it was fear... or fury.