CHAPTER35— A Hunger Older Than Mercy —
Earlier that day the king had summoned her , it was the first time he had summoned after the whole trying to escape fiascos .
With reluctance she walked in the room
Leona did not expect silence.
When the summons came, she had braced herself for shouting, for punishment, for cold orders delivered with colder eyes. That was how it usually went. Zephyrion did not call anyone without reason—and when he did, it was never gentle.
Yet the doors to his private chamber opened to a stillness so complete it made her pause at the threshold.
The air was wrong.
Too heavy. Too stale.
The torches along the walls burned low, their flames weak and trembling, as if the room itself was sick. Shadows clung unnaturally to the corners, refusing to retreat even under firelight.
"Your Majesty?" Leona whispered, stepping inside.
The doors closed behind her with a soft, final sound.
Her eyes found him on the floor.
Zephyrion lay sprawled against the obsidian stone, one knee bent awkwardly, one arm stretched out as though he had tried—and failed—to reach the chair nearby. His crown lay discarded several feet away, its dark metal catching no light at all.
He looked… wrong.
Pale did not begin to describe it.
His skin had taken on an ashen hue, veins faintly visible beneath the surface like cracks in marble. His lips were dry, nearly colorless, and his chest rose only shallowly with each breath. His eyes were open—but unfocused, dulled, as though something essential had been drained from them.
Leona's heart slammed against her ribs.
"Oh gods…" she breathed, moving toward him without thinking.
The scent hit her then.
Not blood.
The absence of it.
A vampire starving was not like a man hungry for food. It was a hollowing, a corrosion from the inside out. The hunger gnawed not at the stomach, but at the soul. And whatever restraint Zephyrion had been holding onto—it was tearing him apart.
He noticed her only when she knelt beside him.
"Leona," he said hoarsely.
Her name sounded wrong in his mouth. Too weak. Too human.
"What happened?" she asked, panic threading her voice. "You should have summoned the court—your healers—anyone—"
"No." His hand twitched, fingers curling against the stone. "Do not."
She hesitated. "You're starving."
A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I am aware."
Leona swallowed. Her pulse thundered loudly in her ears. She had heard whispers—rumors of the king refusing blood, of self-imposed restraint for reasons no one dared question. She had not believed them.
Now she was kneeling before proof.
"You'll die," she said softly.
His gaze snapped to hers, sharp despite his weakness. "No. I will endure."
"You're lying," she replied before she could stop herself.
For a moment, she thought he might lash out. Instead, his expression flickered—something like shame passing over his features before it vanished.
Leona stared at him, at the most feared being in the realm reduced to this broken, starving figure on cold stone.
Then she made a decision.
Before courage could leave her, she reached for the small blade hidden in her sleeve—the one she used for sewing, for chores, for mundane, harmless things. Her hands trembled as she pressed it against her wrist.
Zephyrion sensed it instantly.
"No," he growled, voice suddenly stronger. "Do not."
The blade nicked her skin anyway.
Blood welled, warm and vivid, its scent blooming in the air like a struck chord. Leona hissed softly but did not cry out. She held her wrist toward him, heart pounding so hard she felt dizzy.
"Take it," she said. "Please."
His breath hitched.
For a terrifying second, his eyes flashed crimson, hunger surging violently to the surface. His body tensed, every instinct screaming at him to take, to feed, to survive.
Then he turned his head away.
"I will not," he said through clenched teeth. "I will not reduce you to a vessel."
"I'm offering," Leona insisted, tears pricking her eyes. .
"You do not understand what you're asking."
"I understand enough," she whispered.
The room trembled—not physically, but with the tension between them. Zephyrion's control was fraying; she could see it in the way his fingers dug into the stone, in the sharpness of his breaths.
Finally, he looked at her again.
There was resignation in his eyes.
And something else.
Regret.
"If I take from you," he said quietly, "I may not stop."
Leona's voice shook, but she did not pull away. "Then don't let me die."
That was all it took.
He moved faster than she could track.
One moment he was on the floor; the next, his hand closed around her wrist, firm but not cruel. His lips brushed her skin, cool and trembling, as if he were giving himself one last chance to refuse.
Then his fangs pierced her flesh.
Pain flared—sharp, sudden—but it was swallowed almost immediately by something else. A strange warmth spread through her, a dizzying pull that made her gasp. Zephyrion drank carefully at first, measured, controlled.
But hunger was a liar.
His grip tightened as the taste hit him fully. His breath grew ragged, a low sound vibrating in his chest. Leona's vision blurred, her knees weakening as strength drained from her too quickly.
"Ze.. Zeph," she whispered, her voice fading.
He froze.
Her knees buckled, and instinct overrode restraint. He pulled back at once, catching her before she hit the floor. Blood smeared his lips, color already returning to his face.
Horror flashed through his eyes.
"Leona," he said sharply, shaking her once. "Leona—"
She did not answer.
Her body went slack in his arms, consciousness slipping away as the world darkened around her.
Zephyrion stared down at her, chest heaving, the weight of what he had done settling like chains around his heart.
For the first time in centuries, the Vampire King felt fear—not of death, not of enemies—
But of losing someone he had never meant to care about.