Chapter 110: Postponed.

Far from the bloodthirsty cries of the arena, down a long corridor of marble and onyx, Lady Vivian stood beneath a domed ceiling glittering with crystal light.

She was a vision in soft silver—a gown of pale silk clinging to her curves like water, trailing behind her with every elegant step. Delicate jewels sparkled at her neck and wrists, sapphire and garnet catching the candlelight with every breath. But it was her eyes that stood out most—unmistakable, piercing red, the color of noble vampiric bloodline and a soul that had long since tired of pretending to be kind.

Across from her stood Harriet—body slender but muscles taut under simple black fighting leathers, her breathing calm, measured, but no less intense. Her dark hair, usually plain, had been streaked at the ends with a deep shade of crimson. It was subtle, but noticeable.

Lady Vivian’s gaze slid over her, unblinking.

"You look ready," she said, voice as smooth as silk, as cold as the wind that sometimes swept the outer castle walls at dusk.

Harriet bowed low—deferential, as expected. "I am, my lady."

Vivian didn’t smile, not exactly. But a ghost of something passed her lips as she took a step forward. The soft padding of her heels echoed against the polished stone beneath them.

"I trust you know how important this match is," she said, her voice almost bored, but her eyes sharp as blades. "It is not just the outcome that matters, Harriet. It is the impression it leaves."

Harriet straightened, shoulders squared. "Yes, my lady."

"I’ve seen many fights," Vivian went on, examining her jeweled nails with mild disinterest. "But this one... I want it to be memorable. I want the crowd to cry out in horror. I want their stomachs to turn. I want Aira’s death to be..." She paused, then looked up slowly. "...gruesome."

Harriet’s expression didn’t change, but there was a slight glint in her eye. "She humiliated you?" she said quietly, as if testing the waters.

Vivian tilted her head, a lazy smirk forming. "She defied us. Not just me but everything Vampires stand for!."

"She is slowly bewitching Zyren our King!" She didn’t speak his name with love—no, Vivian’s voice went colder when she mentioned him. "She made a mockery of the order we’ve kept in place for decades. The people need to see what happens when a little mortal girl dares to believe she can outwit power."

"I understand," Harriet said.

"Do you?" Vivian stepped closer, now nearly within reach. "Because a simple death will not do. I want her broken. I want screams. I want blood. I want a message."

Harriet met her gaze now. There was no fear there. Only something darker.

"She’ll wish for death much before she finds it!"

That seemed to satisfy Lady Vivian. She gave a small nod, her attention briefly flickering to the darkening sky just visible through the arched window behind Harriet. The sun had dipped low, bathing the stone corridor in an eerie, crimson hue that matched Vivian’s eyes too well.

"She can’t fight ," Vivian said after a pause. "...that much I know! You can allow a few cuts on your body just to make it more interesting for the audience"

Harriet’s jaw tensed. "What if Zyren interfers?" She asked to which Lady Vivian instantly shook her head.

"He can’t! Not after the match has started. It would make him look weak!"

"I don’t know why he allows it but I’m not kind enough to look a gift horse in the mouth." Vivian’s voice softened, nearly wistful. "...if he wants to teach her a lesson in submission, I’ll teach her one she’ll remember in her next lifetime!"

Silence passed between them, heavy but brief. Then Vivian’s gaze dropped lower, toward the red streaks in Harriet’s hair.

"Interesting choice," she said casually. "The red. You’re not being subtle."

Harriet hesitated—just slightly. Then: "I thought it might catch his attention."

Vivian gave a soft laugh. Not cruel, but bitter.

"I once dyed my whole head red," she murmured, running a hand through her now-black waves. "Thought it might make him look at me differently. Thought maybe he liked... fiery things." Her lips curled upward, but not in amusement. "It didn’t work."

Harriet blinked. "I didn’t think it would. But I thought the effort might matter."

Vivian studied her then. Really studied her.

"You know he’ll never want you," she said, not with cruelty, but with sharp, plain honesty. "He’s a king! Only a vampire like me can stand by his side!"

"I don’t want him," Harriet said, perhaps too quickly.

Vivian raised an eyebrow.

"The wealth and riches you promised are more than enough!" Harriet said meaning every word. Her freedom would be an extra bonus but why would she want to to be with an unpredictable king that could order her killed in a single night.

That, at last, drew a small, approving nod from the vampire lady. She turned slightly, her gown whispering across the floor.

"Then give them a show. Make the crowd scream. Make Zyren look at you in awe for, even for a second. And when it’s over..." She paused. "...I’ll make sure you get everything you’ve ever wanted."

With that, Vivian began to walk away. But halfway down the corridor, she stopped and turned her head slightly over her shoulder.

"The hair suits you," she said. "You should keep it like that when all this is over!" She said.

And then she vanished around the corner, the soft sound of her footsteps swallowed by the growing roar of the distant crowd.

Harriet stood alone in the hallway, red-tipped hair catching the last of the dying sunlight. Her heart was steady, her breathing even—but her fingers flexed at her sides, like she was already picturing the fight.

She hadn’t lied. She didn’t want Zyren. Not really.

But she did want the glory that came with being by his side.

’If he falls for me! What kind of riches could I wish for that I wouldn’t get!’ She bitterly thought as she recalled the pet collar she had seen on his pet.

When the time came, when the arena gates opened and the crowd screamed her name—she would give them exactly what Lady Vivian wanted to get what she wanted.

A death no one would ever forget.

*************

The sun had nearly set as the massive pavilion doors creaked open. Zyren ascended the marble steps to the raised platform, his dark coat trailing behind him like a living shadow. The arena’s roar—thousands gathered to witness the finale—died to a hush as he reached center stage. His red eyes swept over the crowd, searching every flicker of expression.

A ripple ran through the audience. Some whispered, "Where is she?" Others scanned the platform, glancing at the empty space beside him—his "pet," Aira, was conspicuously absent. The expectation had been to see them together, but Aira remained hidden behind closed doors.

Zyren lifted a single hand. The murmurs ceased entirely.

"My lords, ladies, and honored guests," his voice was calm and domineering, carrying easily across the silent crowd. "The finale of this tournament has been postponed."

Graphics of shock passed over many faces. But before they could react, he continued, "Our would-be champion, Aira, was the target of a brutal betrayal: she was poisoned." He paused. A hush. "These perpetrators have been discovered—and dealt with."

He gestured sharply, and two attendants pulled back a velvet curtain at the rear of the platform. The two healers—male and female, once kneeling so pitifully—were revealed in horrifying form. Their bodies were drained of warmth, flesh torn and writhed in frozen agony. Shadows clung to their wounds like living things.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd—audience members stepping back, hands over mouths. Horror and awe flashed in their eyes.

Zyren’s voice remained steady: "They were bribed to ensure Aira’s fall." His words were crisp, public. "They paid with their promises—and their lives."

The audience quieted in shock. Some faltered in applause—grim nods of trust. Others looked unsettled, glancing at the stage as if seeing the world anew.

In the audience, Lady Vivian sat in the front row—adorned in dark lace and garnet jewels that pulsed in the dying daylight. Her red eyes flashed with fury. The display was too public. Too blatant. The display of power was meant to terrify—but not this way. She felt the shock in her chest like a blow.

Zyren raised his hand again. "Due to these circumstances, the match will not take place tonight. When Aira recovers sufficiently, the duel will resume—with finality." His gaze swept across Harriet—standing tall near the other end of the platform, her black hair tipped in red, stark beneath the torchlight. She met his eyes and nodded, silent, fierce.

A slow wave of applause greeted that. The crowd began to process, accept, fall into uneasy order.

But Lady Vivian wasn’t finished. She rose. Graceful at first, but her posture was rigid. She knelt, head bowed—an act of deference... yet her voice carried.

"My king," she began, and her tone was measured yet expectant. "Harriet has already proven her blood and skill. Another full week in limbo threatens not only her freedom—but her spirit."

A hushed suspense fell over the audience. Lady Vivian’s words were deliberate, pushing a plan: let Harriet stand in Aira’s place, sever the bond.

Zyren’s expression didn’t change—yet a faint flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. He inclined his head once.

"Speak plainly, Lady Vivian," he said calmly.

She lifted her chin, never breaking courtesy. "I request that Harriet be allowed to remain in the castle—under your protection—until Aira is truly well. Let her prepare. Let her prove that the victor’s prize is not merely survival but excellence under your gaze."

She met his gaze directly, red eyes brimming with ambition tempered by control. The audience leaned forward, caught.

Silence followed. Then Zyren spoke:

"You will have your wish." His voice was cold and final. "Harriet shall remain within these walls until my... pet has regained her strength. Only then will the match resume."

His eyes flicked to the ceiling, then back. His tone shifted slightly more menacing: "Anything else is unacceptable."

Lady Vivian nearly relaxed. But she maintained her posture, nodding once, politely. The tension in her throat was visible—even to the casual watcher.

Zyren turned and walked from the stage, leaving Harriet standing alone, the pale torches behind her flickering against her crimson-tipped hair.