Chapter 193: Do you know?

"Do you know," he said softly, a cruel amusement in his voice, "how long I’ve been amassing the power I used on you?"Liora couldn’t answer. Her throat wouldn’t open. Her body remained still, save for the candle shaking between her trapped fingers.

He chuckled, low and feral. "Oh, you’re even more frightened than I imagined. Delicious."

He tilted his head, as though examining a fragile animal caught in a snare.

"I suppose you’re wondering who I am. Most do, though it hardly matters to me. But for you—" his grin widened— "you may call me Vander."

Liora’s heart stopped.

Vander.

Zyren’s elder brother. The red-eyed vampire. The name spoken in whispers behind shut doors. The one banished. Imprisoned. Forgotten.

Her mind screamed. Not him. Anyone but him.

He was supposed to be locked away, restrained, weak. But the power wrapped around her body was suffocating. Whatever magic he had left, it was strong enough to control her like a puppet on strings.

She tried to fight.

Every ounce of her willpower surged. Her fingers twitched slightly. Then her foot slid back a mere inch. Sweat poured down her face, down the sides of her neck, plastering her cloak to her skin. Her lungs burned with effort.

But it wasn’t enough.

Vander laughed again, sharper this time, like metal scraping bone.

"No one is coming to save you, little mouse," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "And there’s nothing you can do. I’ll have just a taste—enough to feel human again."

He raised one hand, motioning her forward with a curl of his fingers. Her body obeyed against her will, feet dragging across the stone floor, inching closer to the bars. Closer to him.

Liora’s breath caught in her throat.

This was it.

She was going to die.

Her body moved step by step, and she could now smell him—blood and dust and rot. The candle’s flame danced wildly, like it too feared what was to come. Her face was mere feet from the bars now. His hand stretched forward, claws glinting in the low light, just shy of reaching her cheek.

Then—he frowned.

His eyes narrowed. His hand hovered midair.

"What—?"

Suddenly, Liora gasped.

Her chest expanded as her lungs filled. Her legs wobbled beneath her, free. The invisible grip shattered like broken glass.

She didn’t wait to question it.

With a strangled cry, she spun around and ran. Her candle nearly fell from her grasp as her feet slapped against the stone, the sound of Vander’s furious roar echoing behind her. Tears streamed down her face, blinding her, but she didn’t stop. Not even when the edges of her cloak snagged on broken stones. Not even when her knees ached or her chest burned.

She ran like the devil himself was chasing her.

Maybe he was.

She didn’t remember bursting out the hidden door or the way back to her quarters. It was a blur of shadow and light, corridors and breathless terror. But when she reached her room—when the door slammed shut behind her and the lock clicked—her knees buckled.

She collapsed onto the cold floor, her sobs raw and violent.

The parchment clutched in her hand shook as she cried. The ink had smeared from the sweat on her palms, but the words were still legible. The ritual—the thing she had risked everything for—was still intact.

Her hand tightened around it as she wept into the floor, the stone cool against her cheek.

She didn’t stop for a long time.

All the fear, the helplessness, the rage—it tore out of her like a storm. She curled into herself, trembling, her body still caught in the memory of being controlled. Of being made a puppet. Of being helpless prey in a cage with a monster.

And no one came.

No one had known.

No one had saved her.

"I’ll never—never—let that happen again," she whispered hoarsely, swearing the words like a blood oath.

She stayed there, crumpled on the floor, until her sobs faded into exhausted silence. Her face was damp. Her limbs felt like ash.

When she finally stood, the candle had burned out.

She fumbled for a match, lit the lantern by her bedside, and turned every light in the room on. The shadows fled into the corners, but her fear didn’t leave.

She couldn’t look at the dark.

Not now.

Not after those red eyes.

She sat on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring into the flickering light.

Because even now, deep down, some part of her was certain—

That monster was still smiling.

And he would not forget her.

’Burn in hell!’ She swore at him even as she turned her attention back to the ritual she had scribbled down impatient to get the ability she knew she would get if she actually used it.

’I’ll kill him!’ A huge sort of pride rising in her chest that made it hard for her to cower to someone that looked like all that remained of him was bones.

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

Aira groaned softly, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as a sharp beam of sunlight pierced through the drapes, slicing straight across her face like a blade made of heat. She turned her head away with a frustrated sigh, not bothering to open her eyes just yet. Her body felt heavy—but not with exhaustion, no. It was the pleasant weight of rest, deep and thorough.

No pain. No stiffness. No lingering ache from the wild, explosive argument she had endured the night before.

That realization made her relax further into the mattress. She hadn’t expected to sleep well, not after Zyren’s voice had echoed with so much fury and restraint. But now, there was a strange lightness in her chest, a clarity she hadn’t felt in days.

She shifted under the blanket, sighing again as warmth cocooned her. Her bare legs slid against the silken sheets, her skin humming slightly with the familiar hum of magic in the ritual chamber. She knew exactly where she was—Zyren’s ritual room. It was carved deep within the inner tower, steeped in powerful wards and old spells, and it always felt... strange. Like sleeping in a place meant for gods, not mortals.

Still, she’d slept like one.

With a soft smile on her lips, she turned over again, blindly confident that the bed beside her would be empty. After all, Zyren had been pissed—his jaw tight, his eyes like glowing coals, and his silence louder than any shouted words. He wouldn’t have stayed.

He never stayed after nights like that.

But instead of empty sheets, her arm hit something warm. And hard.

Aira stilled.

Her palm had collided with a broad, muscled chest. One that moved slightly with breath.

Her eyes flew open.

And there he was.

Zyren.

Awake.

His crimson eyes watched her, unreadable but not cruel. A slow smirk ghosted across his lips, as if he’d been waiting for her to register his presence.

"You’re awake," she breathed, her voice hoarse with surprise.

"I’ve been awake," he replied, voice smooth and deep, still tangled with the dregs of sleep. "You’ve been making little sighs in your sleep for the past hour. They were very distracting."

Aira blinked, suddenly aware of how close their faces were. The sheets were tangled around their legs, and her fingers were still resting lightly against his bare chest. The pulse beneath his skin beat with steady, calm control, but hers had turned traitorous—racing wildly now that she was fully aware of what, or rather who, she had rolled into.

His gaze softened, just slightly, and it made her breath catch.

She wasn’t used to that look on him—so raw, so open. Last night’s rage had been scorching, yes, but it had also come from something deeply personal. That much she had known. And now, in the warm spill of sunlight, she saw none of that fury

"You’re not angry anymore?" she asked carefully, still trying to find her balance.

He huffed, the sound low in his throat. "Oh, I’m still angry. Just not at you."

She tilted her head. "That’s... surprisingly reassuring."

Zyren chuckled, and the sound vibrated through his chest like a quiet rumble of thunder. He lifted a hand and reached out to brush a lock of her hair behind her ear, the gesture unexpectedly gentle.

She hated how he did that—balanced between distance and tenderness so easily. Like a storm that paused just long enough to let sunlight bleed through the clouds.

Still, it warmed her chest.

"I feel... better," she admitted, looking down at her hands.

"Good," he said. "You’ll need your energy."

Her brow furrowed. "For what?"

Zyren stretched, the motion slow and graceful. Muscles shifted beneath his skin like a dance, and she had to forcibly drag her eyes away from the exposed line of his collarbone.

"We’re going to take a bath," he said calmly, as though discussing weather.

Aira blinked. "A bath?"

"And then," he continued, "we’re going to have breakfast. With the others."

She blinked harder. "With the others?"

"You act like I just declared war," he teased.

"You basically did," she muttered. "Breakfast, with others, after last night?"

"You’ve been locked up too long, Aira," Zyren said, his voice lower now. "And I need to remind you that you’re still alive.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Because there it was—that complicated, jagged edge to his voice. Something wounded. Something fragile.

He saw it, too. The question in her silence.


"I’m trying," he said simply. "To do better.

She swallowed, throat dry.

’You can’t! Not even if you tried!’ She thought not daring to say her thoughts out loud.

He leaned in, just a fraction closer. "Come. A bath. Food. And maybe..." leaving the rest of what he wanted to say unsaid a look that made Aira want to take several steps back and away from him even as he chuckled and turned to leave.