On the other side of the arena was Rymora, who had been dragged there against her will.
At first, she had been mostly distracted, her thoughts elsewhere, swirling with a quiet desperation that left her half-numb. But once the fights began—once blood began to paint the sand in thick, gleaming strokes—Rymora couldn’t help the gnawing worry that curled in her gut for Aira.
Aira was unlike the other vampires—no, not even a vampire at all. Just a human girl dropped into a pit of wolves. Rymora couldn’t stop the flicker of pity that flared inside her, however much she tried to suppress it. Aira had never been cruel to her, never even looked at her with that usual venom most others carried in their gaze.
’This is not good!’ she thought, throat tightening as she glanced again at the tall figure beside her.
Lord Drekh sat rigid and unmoving. His features carved from cold stone, eyes fixed on the carnage before them with the dispassion of a statue. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream or plead. Just when she’d decided to gesture for a sheet of parchnt—to write so kind of excuse, anything that might let her slip away—he spoke.
His voice was smooth, low, but there was sothing sharp in the simplicity of his words that struck her like a slap.
"You’re not leaving until it’s over," he said flatly, as though he could read her mind as easily as a book laid open in his lap.
"If you feel like peeing, you can do it while standing."
Rymora’s jaw clenched. Her fists curled where they sat in her lap, trembling with the fury she had no words for. The indignity of it burned her, but more than that, the helplessness. He didn’t an it literally—of course not. It was just another reminder: Stand still. Don’t move. Obey.
Her heart thudded with increasing dread as the last fight began. A single woman, cutting down her opponents with brutal precision, barely marked by the blood that drenched her. Four bodies fell around her like discarded dolls. Rymora felt her mouth go dry.
She was ruthless. Skilled. And striking. Her beauty shone even beneath the carnage—flashes of red in her hair, just like Aira’s. It was uncanny. Unsettling.
’Clearly, whosoever wants Aira dead has made sure of it,’ Rymora thought, the realization chilling her more than the cold stone beneath her feet. She could think of more than a few who’d relish seeing Aira’s blood soak this very arena.
Rymora kept glancing at Lord Drekh, her eyes pleading silently, but he did not once turn toward her. She had no way to speak, no way to beg, her fingers twitching in her lap as her attention drifted again from the unfolding battle—one that no longer felt like a competition, only a performance of dominance.
Then, to her growing horror, he spoke again.
"You failed to please the last ti. I hope you can do better this ti."
The words hit her like ice water down her spine.
Rymora’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened, startled—not just at the content of what he said, but at the cold, casual cruelty in his tone. As though it had ant nothing to him. As though it hadn’t been painful, shaful—for both of them.
It had brought her only humiliation. Him, nothing but frustration and scorn.
And yet here he was. Asking her to try again.
She hated that she couldn’t spit her fury into his face. She hated that all she could do was shake her head, violently, the only form of defiance left to her. Her eyes glead with tears—unshed, burning, bitter. Every blink a silent curse hurled at him.
Still, Lord Drekh didn’t relent. His voice dropped lower, the threat in it coiled like a blade behind silk.
"In exchange for keeping your secret, the deal was that you would be of use to . Clearly, that has not been the case."
Rymora didn’t bother to hide the frown that etched deep into her face. She t his gaze directly, unflinching even as the cheers around them thundered louder, a grotesque chorus to their quiet exchange.
"Of course, if you don’t think your secret is worth—"
But she didn’t let him finish. Her head moved sharply, cutting him off. She understood. The threat hung in the air between them, thick and sharp as a noose.
She turned her eyes back to the arena, her body tense, refusing to look at him again. He seed to take the hint, going silent once more, though she could feel the weight of his gaze beside her like an invisible hand pressed to the back of her neck.
Soon, a clear winner erged.
All the others lay dead at her feet—limp, broken, discarded. She grinned, crimson-streaked and triumphant, her body moving with a cruel grace as she strode toward the high pavilion.
But her gaze was fixed not on Zyren.
No. It was locked onto Aria.
Aira didn’t flinch.
She stood motionless, expression unreadable, even as the victor’s eyes narrowed in cruel delight. A mocking curl played on her lips before she dropped to her knees, head bowed in reverence, and spoke.
"My King," she said.
Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but even through the roars and shouts of the crowd, Zyren heard her clearly. His stillness, the way he tilted his head, confird it.
Aira saw the way her lips moved and knew exactly what she said—even without hearing it.
The crowd hushed gradually, curiosity prickling through the air like static.
"My king! My na is Harriet Vonder. I am beyond delighted to be fighting for a place by your side!"
Her voice rang out now—confident, unshaken. For a human, it was impressive. Disturbing.
Aira’s eyes narrowed, drawn to her like a fla. Harriet’s eyes were brown. Human. But the way she held herself, the lethal precision of her movents—Aira couldn’t shake the thought that she might be half vampire.
Her clothes were soaked in blood, yet she looked effortlessly composed. Her hair, darker than Aira’s, spilled in soft waves behind her back. Her skin—smooth, untouched by the violence she’d just inflicted—glowed beneath the arena’s harsh light.
She had killed dozens. Without blinking.
Aira’s face remained calm, but her heart thundered in her chest. She watched Zyren rise from his seat, that broad, amused grin stretching slowly across his lips. He moved toward the railing with the easy grace of a predator—elegant, magnetic, deadly.
"You are ready to fight?" Zyren asked, his voice a whisper that carried, velvet-wrapped steel. He beckoned Aira closer, toward the rails, so all could see.
But Aira heard nothing but the rush of blood in her ears. Her brain scread one truth over and over: If I enter that arena, I will die. And Zyren—he wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t mourn. Might not even watch.
For a breath, she couldn’t speak. Her body trembled. But then, she forced the words past her lips like jagged glass.
"What about tomorrow?"
The words were barely a whisper. Not even a full breath. She wasn’t sure if she’d spoken at all—until Zyren’s voice answered, booming across the space in a tone that snapped the world into stillness.
"Tomorrow the winner will fight with my pet! Whosoever wins will get to stay by my side or be set free. The loser would also get a certain form of freedom!"
The crowd erupted in laughter and applause, their amusent rising in waves. It was a joke to them. A spectacle. A ga of blood.
Aira’s hands curled at her sides, nails biting into flesh.
Harriet stood, flicking her blood-matted hair behind her shoulder with a theatrical ease. Her eyes locked with Zyren’s, glinting with ambition.
She bowed, lips curved in a smile that flashed perfect, white teeth—teeth Aira herself didn’t have.
For a flicker of a second, she felt less.
Harriet had the skill. The beauty. The body that made even blood-soaked rags look like finery.
Aira couldn’t look away.
’I just need to survive and live past tomorrow.’
That thought rang sharp in her mind like a vow. Everything else—her past, her mother, even what she thought she’d seen—was dust beneath it.
Because in that mont, sothing cold and bitter blood in her chest.
...she didn’t want to die...’I want to live!’
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