The carriage rumbled over the cobblestone path, wheels crunching softly as the sunset spilled molten hues of gold and crimson across the palace gates. Serenya pressed her palm against her lap, trying to steady the way her thoughts scattered like dry leaves in the wind. Zareth's earlier words clung to her, impossible to shake off. His mother… had pushed his father—the late Emperor—to his death?
She stole a glance at him. He sat across from her, eyes closed as if holding back something, his posture deceptively relaxed, yet his presence filled the entire carriage like a storm that had only decided, for now, not to break. Even with his lashes lowered, she felt caged beneath the weight of him. Her heart drummed painfully in her chest, louder than the rhythmic turning of the wheels.
When the carriage slowed and finally halted, the footman rushed forward to open the door. The evening air was crisp, tinged with the scent of roses and the faint smoke from torches being lit along the imperial palace walls.
Zareth stepped down first, tall and commanding, his dark cloak falling into place around him like shadow itself. Then, with a crooked smile curving his lips, he extended his hand toward her.
Serenya hesitated only a second before placing her fingers into his palm. His grip was warm—too warm—and frighteningly steady. As he helped her descend, his gaze didn't remain on her face. It flickered down, deliberate, grazing over the slope of her neck, lingering at the hollow of her collarbone, then traveling shamelessly lower before finally returning to lock onto her eyes again.
Her breath caught. She looked away quickly, determined this time not to follow his gaze and play into whatever game he was orchestrating.
Zareth's lips twitched as if amused by her defiance. His attention dipped to her hand—the one still bound with his kerchief—and he squeezed it lightly. Strangely, there was no pain, no sting where the blister should have been. His eyes narrowed at the sight, suspicion flickering, but he said nothing.
Before Serenya could dwell on it, Cassian approached and bowed deeply. "Greetings, Your Imperial Majesty. Your Highness," he said smoothly. "Lord Darien and King Cedric have arrived and are currently in their respective quarters."
Zareth merely inclined his head, the acknowledgement cool and dismissive, before guiding Serenya forward with the ease of someone who had already decided where she belonged—always beside him.
Her voice came softly, almost a plea. "I should return to my room." She was desperate to escape, if only for a moment, his hungry gaze that made her skin heat unbearably.
Zareth's arm coiled around her waist before she could take another step. His lips brushed the shell of her ear as he whispered, "Of course you should. But we'll be having dinner first."
The word dinner rolled from his tongue with double meaning, and her stomach knotted.
Then, with a teasing tilt of his lips, he added, "You can freshen up first, little dove." He released her as suddenly as he had captured her, and the absence of his touch was almost as suffocating as his presence. Without another glance, he strode away, his cloak trailing behind him like the train of a dark coronation.
Serenya swallowed hard and made her way to her chambers. As always, the three ever-present servants greeted her with curtsies . "Greetings, Your Highness," they chorused, their sharp eyes already scanning the change in her clothes and the subtle changes in her expression.
But when Serenya caught sight of herself in the mirror, her attention went straight to her hand. Slowly, she unwound the kerchief. Her breath stilled in her chest. The blistered skin she had expected to find, angry and raw, was nearly gone. What remained looked faint and healed, as though a week—no, more—had already passed since the injury.
Her heart pounded. "How…"
"Your highness" Tessa. "Which dress would you like to change into for dinner?"
Serenya didn't even hear her. Her eyes were fixed on her reflection, on the impossible smoothness of her hand. Panic twisted in her chest. "Leave," she whispered, her voice faint but firm.
The servants blinked in surprise. "Your Highness—"
"I said leave. Now."
Confused, they curtsied again before filing out, casting confused glances at her.
Alone, Serenya peeled the kerchief fully away, staring at her hand as if it no longer belonged to her. "H-how is this possible?" Her whisper trembled. The skin was pale, unmarred, as though her body had been touched by something unnatural—something she didn't understand.
Meanwhile, Zareth walked the long corridor, his boots striking the marble floor with deliberate confidence. His cloak flared behind him like a trail of living shadow. He didn't bother to knock when he reached Lord Darien's quarters. Instead, he pushed the door open and entered without pause.
Darien looked up from his seat near the fire, his damp hair falling loosely across his forehead, his eyes narrowing. "You seem to have forgotten the courtesy of knocking before entering another man's room."
Zareth smirked and made himself at home, sprawling carelessly on the couch as though he owned not just the palace, but the very air his cousin breathed. "Have you forgotten that I'm the Emperor?" His tone dripped with lazy arrogance, his crooked smile daring Darien to argue.
Darien, being his cousin—a direct one from his mother's side—did not rise to the bait. He combed his fingers through his damp hair once more, his irritation barely concealed. "I heard you already have a human beside you to keep your boredom at bay. What are you doing here?"
Zareth leaned back, resting one arm over the couch with studied nonchalance. "So I can't visit my cousin?" His smirk widened, sharp and mocking.
Darien turned fully then, his voice flat. "Tell me what it is that you want."
As if summoned by the tension, Cassian entered carrying a tray with a rare bottle of blood-infused wine Darien had brought with him. He poured into two glasses and departed swiftly, leaving silence in his wake.
Zareth swirled his glass, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like molten rubies. He took a sip, the taste rich yet unsatisfying, the hunger within him gnawing deeper. His fangs ached. His patience frayed.
He rose to his feet with that same predatory grace and turned his gaze to Darien. "Tell me, cousin—have you heard of demon blood flowing through a Vampire?" His voice was low, dangerous, every syllable designed to command attention.
Darien paused mid-sip, eyes sharpening. He set his glass down and leaned back in his chair. "I've heard of it… once," he admitted slowly. "But it's a tale buried in time. A legend of the first Emperor, the one they called the Demon of Thorns—the man who conquered every kingdom and forged this Empire . We're of the same bloodline."
Zareth's smile was cold, sharp as the curve of a blade. He tilted the glass to his lips again, swallowing the blood wine, but it did nothing. His thirst raged, his body already burning for the one source he refused to share with the world.
His little dove.