Serenya didn't change from her dress. The silky fabric clung faintly to her skin as she stepped out of her chambers, her heart a fluttering, nervous thing. The candlelight flickered across the polished floors, reflecting her pale face as she walked through the silent hallway. The scent of burning cedar and distant roses mingled in the air, grounding her even as confusion swirled through her mind.
Her fingers brushed against her palm where the wound had been. Smooth. Unblemished, just a mild scar almost invisible. Not a trace of the blisters remained. Maybe—just maybe—Zareth had done something to the kerchief, some strange property in the cloth that had healed her. It was foolish, perhaps, but the only thing that made sense. He was powerful, terrifyingly so. What else could explain it?
Her pace quickened. The echo of her steps filled the long corridor.
When she rounded a corner, she nearly collided with Cassian. He bowed instantly, his usual composed expression softening slightly when he saw her. "Your Highness," he greeted smoothly. "Is something the matter?"
Serenya swallowed. "Where's Zareth?" Her voice came quieter than she intended, trembling faintly.
Cassian straightened. "His Imperial Majesty is with Lord Darien. Would you like me to show you there?"
He asked it politely, but there was something knowing in his tone—like he was fully aware how Zareth valued her presence. He probably thought it unwise to keep her waiting.
Serenya's lips parted to answer, but then she froze.
What if he found her absurd? What if he laughed and told her she was imagining things? How was she supposed to explain that her hand had miraculously healed? That she had peeled away his kerchief and found her skin smooth as porcelain, untouched by pain or burn?
Her heart pounded. No. He'll think I'm foolish.
Serenya bit down on her lip, forcing a soft smile. "Forget it," she murmured. "I'll be returning to my room."
And before Cassian could respond, she turned swiftly, her skirts whispering around her legs as she walked away.
Cassian stood there, watching the retreating figure of the human —small, uncertain, and yet strangely luminous against the dark corridor. He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, and motioned for one of the servants. "Take this tray," he ordered quietly, handing over the one he carried with blood wine and glass before striding off to deliver a report elsewhere.
Back in Lord Darien's chamber, the air was heavier, thick with heat from the fire and the sharp scent of blood wine. Shadows danced across the stone walls, flickering over the two figures inside.
Zareth set his glass down with a sharp clink. The goblet kissed the edge of the polished table, and the sound seemed to cut through the silence. He clenched his jaw, the muscles in it tightening as though he were restraining something feral.
Across from him, Darien studied him quietly, eyes narrowing when he noticed the faintly darkened veins that traced along Zareth's neck—an unnatural black pulsing just beneath his skin.
"Are you decaying?" Darien asked, half-mocking, half-serious.
Zareth opened his eyes, their dark depths glinting like onyx under the firelight. A crooked smile curved his lips, arrogant, cruel, but breathtaking. "Why? Would you miss me?" he drawled. "I'm sure you would. What a dreadfully boring place this world would be without me in it."
Darien rolled his eyes, already too used to his cousin's unbearable narcissism.
Zareth rose, the hem of his black cloak brushing the floor as he poured himself another glass of blood-infused wine. His movements were precise—graceful in the way only predators could be. "Initially, I thought I was decaying," he said, his tone nonchalant even as his fangs glinted faintly when he spoke. "But it turns out it's something else entirely." He swirled the liquid in the goblet, watching the thick red spiral. "Demon blood."
Darien's brow arched.
Zareth tilted his head, amused at his cousin's disbelief. "Don't look so surprised. You've always known there was something darker running in my veins."
Darien placed his own glass down and stood, his bathrobe parting slightly to reveal a chest marked by faint scars and the strength of centuries. He crossed the room, each step slow, deliberate, before pulling open an old trunk near the fireplace. From it, he drew a heavy book bound in dark leather. The scent of old ink and dust filled the air as he carried it back and dropped it on the table before Zareth.
"The reoccurrence of demon's blood," Darien said, "appears once every few generations. It's been more than four—perhaps five—since it last manifested. Most of the bloodline has forgotten it ever existed." He opened the cover, revealing faded pages filled with strange symbols and jagged ink strokes. "My mother gave me this when I was a child. She believed I might carry it, but it turns out I wasn't the one."
He poured himself another glass, his expression unreadable. "It seems it's you." He paused, his voice lowering slightly. "Aunt would've been quite proud, if she were alive to see it."
The muscles in Zareth's jaw flexed. His eyes flickered briefly, the firelight catching the faint hint of grief beneath all that arrogance. If his mother had lived… maybe he wouldn't have become this monster that the empire both feared and obeyed, but then he smiled because he loved it .
He took the book and flipped through it. The pages were rough beneath his fingers, filled with curling symbols and ancient sketches—runes that pulsed faintly under the light, as if alive.
"This isn't any language used in the empire," Zareth muttered. Darien gave a crooked smile. "That's because it isn't meant to be read by just anyone."
Zareth's eyes lifted sharply. "Then who?". Darien met his gaze, his tone low and knowing. "The demon's mate."
Silence followed. Heavy. Still. The words hung between them like a curse.