Chapter 42: Soiled Plans

A beat passed.

Then another.

Nothing happened.

Aria’s lungs burned with the weight of her silence. She tried—truly tried—to keep her expression neutral, to focus on her food, to not glance in his direction, but her eyes betrayed her over and over.

They kept flicking toward Zyren, helplessly drawn to him, seeking the slightest shift in his demeanor. Anything. But he remained seated, poised, calmly chewing like he hadn’t just drunk death itself.

The longer he stayed still, the more her anxiety surged.

Her fingers clenched together until her neails dug into her palms. ’Why isn’t he reacting?’ she screamed inwardly. ’He should be choking by now—writhing in pain!’

She had poured the entire vial into his cup. Every last drop. That potion wasn’t just poisonous—it was designed to attack the essence of a vampire’s immortal core. There was no way it hadn’t taken effect. If it hadn’t... if Zyren truly wasn’t affected...

Then she might as well give up. Surrender. Curl into a ball and die!

Her chest heaved, but she fought to steady her breath. Sweat clung to her skin now, cool beads pooling at her temples, soaking the fabric at her lower back and beneath her arms. The air felt suffocating. She needed air—needed to run.

To distract herself, she slowly raised her hand, signaling to one of the servants. The girl stepped forward swiftly and filled Aria’s goblet with water. Aria brought it to her lips and drank greedily, almost finishing the entire cup in one go. The cold liquid did little to calm the inferno brewing inside her.

Still, Zyren continued eating.

His movements were slow, regal, relaxed. Not once did he falter. Not even a single twitch. No cough, no tremor. His expression remained that same collected calm, his crimson eyes occasionally scanning the room like nothing was amiss.

Aria had never been this terrified in her entire life.

Her throat ached. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and she clenched her jaw to stop herself from shaking. All she wanted to do was bolt. To leap from his lap, flee the great hall, and never look back.

And just as the thought locked fully into her mind—

She heard it.

A sudden, low gasp from behind her.

Aria whipped around sharply, her heart leaping into her throat.

Zyren’s eyes had widened in visible shock. A thin, dark stream of blood slid from one of his nostrils, carving a crimson path down the perfection of his face.

He looked stunned—genuinely stunned—his expression frozen as if he couldn’t understand what was happening to his own body.

Aria gasped too, but hers was not from horror. It was relief. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide, heart hammering in triumph. He was finally affected.

Without thinking, she scrambled off his lap, stumbling backward, staring at him as if she were witnessing a divine miracle. Her gaze refused to leave him. She was transfixed.

No one else had noticed yet. The nobles were still chatting, eating, sipping from silver goblets, oblivious. But then—a tray clattered to the floor with a metallic crash as a servant dropped it in shock.

The moment shattered. Chairs scraped back. Voices rose. Everyone turned. The tension cracked like lightning.

Gasps echoed around the long dining table as the vampires shot to their feet, their expressions transforming from curiosity to horror.

It didn’t help that vampires were exquisitely sensitive to blood. The moment the metallic scent flooded the air, their senses locked on it.

And their king—their immortal king—was bleeding. Heavily.

Zyren opened his mouth, trying to speak, but instead, a thick, dark wave of blood poured from his lips, cascading down his chin and splattering the table.

Every single lord and lady in the hall recoiled in unison.

"King!" Lord Virelle’s voice cracked like a whip, no longer composed. The red-tipped ends of his dark hair seemed to burn brighter under the chandelier light, mirroring the panic in his eyes.

"My lord!" shouted Lord Noctare and Lady Lythari at once, their faces pale and alarmed.

Even Lord Drehk, who had remained stoic through most things, parted his lips in genuine shock. Though his hulking form remained still, his eyes betrayed a storm behind the calm.

The blood was spreading, darkening and staining Zyren’s already black shirt. It wasn’t just dripping now—it was pouring. Down his chest. Over his lap. Onto the floor.

The slaves seated against the walls were no longer carefree or indifferent. They rose slowly to their feet, their wild, indulgent expressions replaced with unease. Their hands, still slick with food, froze mid-motion.

The servants were the most shaken. Some of them stumbled back, nearly falling, as if Zyren’s blood was fire. One even tripped and collapsed backward, eyes wide with terror.

"He’s been poisoned!" Lady Vivian screamed. Her usually refined voice was now shrill, cracked with panic. She ran toward Zyren—but stopped just short, hands twitching, afraid to touch him.

Zyren staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his mouth like a ruptured faucet. Each step he took left a splattered trail on the polished floor. His face was a mess of red and agony.

"He’s been poisoned!" Lady Vivian cried again, louder this time, like she herself had swallowed the venom. Tears ran down her cheeks, smudging the kohl at the corners of her eyes. "Send for the healer!" she screamed, waving frantically.

Guards at the door didn’t wait for confirmation. They bolted out of the hall, armor clinking, footsteps pounding down the corridor.

Still, no one moved closer to Zyren. Not even the ones who had once worshiped him with every breath. Not even Lady Vivian since no one knew what kind of poison had been used.

And no one wanted to be the first to catch whatever death had crawled into his veins.

Aria stood amidst the chaos, her face the picture of wide-eyed shock—but within, she couldn’t have been more ecstatic.

She had done it.

She had done it.

She stared at him, trembling not from fear, but exhilaration, unwilling to blink, unwilling to look away for even a moment. She didn’t want to miss a second of his death.

It was gruesome. Blood now flowed not just from his nose and mouth—but from his eyes, a slow ooze that darkened the corners like tears from hell. His skin was paling beneath the crimson stains, and his expression twisted in clear, violent pain.

And yet—he hadn’t screamed.

It enraged her. He should be screaming. He should be begging. But his silence—his stubborn defiance—only made her smile.

’Does it hurt?’ she thought viciously. ’Yes, it must. It must hurt like hell. I hope it burns through every inch of you.’

She didn’t even care what happened next.

’Let them kill me. I did what I came here to do.’

For one fleeting moment, she regretted not preparing a second poison—for herself. Something quick. Final.

’I could always lick the bottle,’ she thought coldly, her hand twitching toward her pocket. ’End it before they tear me apart.’ Something that was bound to happen once Zyren was dead.

Zyren’s groans turned ragged. Louder. His body convulsed. His skin split along his collarbone, thin gashes opening like ruptured seams.

His mouth gaped open, blood drooling from it, but no words came. Only pain. Pure, deafening agony. He stumbled forward, grabbing the table for balance, his claws digging into the wood, splintering it.

Silence rippled through the hall. Not one soul moved. All they could do was watch.

Aria stepped back once—just once—as his knees buckled. She was ready for the finale. For his body to collapse into a pile of scorched remains, like every vampire that met the sun.

She had done it.

She had won.

She folded her arms, satisfied, watching him sag into his chair again. He tried to rise—failed. His arms trembled. His hands twitched like they were barely his anymore.

His eyes, once brilliant red, were glazed now. Clouded and wet. Blood pooled in the corners. His head drooped leftward like a rag doll.

Aria leaned forward slightly.

’This is it. He’s taking his last breath.’

But then—something shifted. Her satisfaction curdled. Zyren’s hand moved. Slowly. Deliberately and then—leaned his head against it.

A grotesque, bloodied smirk pulled across his lips.

And then—he laughed.

The sound was low, hoarse, broken by blood—but unmistakably laughter.

Bone-chilling.

Madness wrapped in silk.

It crawled into the ears of everyone in the hall and settled like ice in their veins. Even the guards by the door paused, dread written in their eyes.

His bloody teeth flashed as he tilted his head toward Aria, that same wild grin painted across his face.

His gaze—locked onto hers.

"It appears I’ve been poisoned," he said.

His voice was laced with pain—but calm. Too calm. Anyone else would have been screaming, writhing. His organs had just liquefied—in front of everyone.

Zyren raised his blood-drenched hand and wiped his mouth, smearing more red across his cheek. He stood—this time without help—his spine straight, posture flawless, as if he hadn’t just been seconds from death.

"It’s clearly... a very vicious one," he said. "I should meet its maker!"

And then, his voice dropped—deeper, colder.

"Obviously... someone will pay." It wasn’t a threat. It was a certainty.

Like the sun rising with the dawn of the day.

Smiling with bloodied teeth.

Death would come and He would bring it