Maltheira and her children exited the dining hall in rigid silence, their gowns whispering against the polished obsidian floors as the royal servants hurried to clear the remnants of the morning meal. The air was still heavy with the faint aroma of roasted quail and blood tea, but already it was being overtaken by the brisk scent of lemon oil as attendants swept in to wipe down the gilded table and collect crystal goblets.
The towering double doors of the dining hall closed behind them with a muted thud, sealing away the echoes of clinking dishes and muffled gossip. The corridor stretched ahead, illuminated by tall candelabras. Flames licked and sputtered, throwing shifting shadows along the frescoed walls—faces of past emperors, warriors, and saints seemed to watch their passage with judgmental stares.
Each daughter peeled away toward her respective chamber, skirts fanning like storm clouds around them, leaving Maltheira to glide into her own apartments. As she crossed the threshold, the scent of myrrh and lavender—burning low in the golden braziers—wrapped around her like a cloak. Her room was vast, adorned with tapestries embroidered with silver thread and a canopy bed carved from dark wood. The atmosphere was both opulent and suffocating, like a cage built of silk and marble.
The royal servants were already hard at work. Chests were thrown open, silken gowns folded into neat piles, jeweled hairpins laid carefully in velvet-lined cases. The sound of trunks being shut echoed like the tolling of a funeral bell. Each thud reminded her that she was being dismissed, sent away, her presence no longer welcome in the palace she had treated like her own domain.
Sorrelith stormed in moments later, her agitation palpable. Her crimson gown flared with each step, her sharp nails dragging down the smooth column of her neck as though trying to release the rage that coiled inside her.
"We can't leave yet, Mother!" she burst out, voice shrill with indignation. Her eyes glowed like embers, her fangs peeking ever so slightly as her lips curled. "Not when that human is still in the palace—and worse, when the Emperor entertains the idea of her becoming his Empress!"
Her words rang harshly in the chamber, startling one of the servants into dropping a silk shawl. The woman scrambled to retrieve it, bowing her head low to avoid Sorrelith's searing glare.
Maltheira inhaled slowly, pressing her lips into a thin line as she lowered herself onto the edge of her bed. Her posture remained regal, chin lifted high, even as fury simmered beneath her composed surface.
"I also had not thought Zareth would be serious about that human," she admitted, her voice cool but taut with suppressed venom. "And yet, it appears I miscalculated. If he elevates her… the throne itself might slip away from our grasp."
Her words sank heavy in the perfumed air, and for a long moment only the rustle of servants' hands over silks filled the room.
Velmira entered then, as if summoned by the gravity of her mother's admission. Her violet gown clung to her form, her hair coiled in elaborate braids that glittered with gemstones. But her beauty was marred by the scowl etched on her face.
"If we leave today, Mother," Velmira said, her voice trembling with desperation, "it will be impossible to regain our place. The palace doors will close to us, and I will not lose my seat to that despicable human!"
Her tone was shrill with entitlement, but Sorrelith let out a derisive laugh, rolling her eyes as though her sister's words were the whining of a child.
"It was never yours to begin with," Sorrelith sneered, her dark eyes flashing. "That seat belongs to whoever is clever enough to claim it—and clearly, that is not you."
Velmira's face flushed crimson, her nails digging into her palms, but before she could retort, Maltheira raised a hand. For once, she did not chastise Sorrelith for her cruelty.
Instead, her expression hardened. "We are running out of time."
Her voice carried the weight of finality, and both daughters stilled, their fury momentarily checked. Maltheira turned her gaze to Sorrelith, her eyes sharp as glass.
"What was the name of your friend?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual. "The one whose father is a lord, and who was sent here among the women to please the Emperor?"
Sorrelith's brows furrowed, her lips pursing as she rifled through memory. "Lady Evelyn," she said at last. "That is her name."
Maltheira gave a single nod, her expression unreadable. She turned to one of the servants bent over a half-packed trunk.
"You," she said coldly, her tone slicing through the chamber. "Fetch Lady Evelyn."
The servant bowed low, trembling at the sharpness of her mistress's voice, and hurried out of the room.
Time stretched thin as they waited, each tick of the gilded clock on the mantel a reminder of their dwindling chances. Sorrelith paced, her skirts whispering furiously against the stone floor. Velmira sat rigid in a carved chair, her jeweled hands fidgeting in her lap. Maltheira sat unmoving, her gaze fixed on the door, every inch the predator awaiting her prey.
When the door finally creaked open, Evelyn entered. Her fiery red hair gleamed like molten copper in the lamplight, cascading in waves over her shoulders. Her eyes, the deep red of spilled wine, flicked across the room before lowering in a bow. Her presence was striking, a reminder of the bloodlines she came from—noble, ambitious, hungry.
"You are glowing, Lady Evelyn," Maltheira greeted, her tone honeyed but laced with venom. She rose to her feet, approaching the younger woman with the air of a queen bestowing favor. Her gaze swept over Evelyn, appraising every detail. "I see your father did well in bringing you here to serve the Emperor. As his blood bank, of course."
Sorrelith smirked at the barb, but Evelyn's eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of offense flashing across her face before she smoothed it away with a practiced smile.
"I will always be grateful to my father," she replied sweetly, though her voice carried an edge. "Because of him, I am now one of His Imperial Majesty's favored women. The one he enjoys spending his time with."
The boast hung in the air like smoke, but Sorrelith pounced, her smirk widening.
"I doubt you still are," she said slyly. "Not since the human princess entered the picture."
Evelyn's smile faltered, but only for a breath before she recovered. She lifted her chin, her voice firm. "I have known His Majesty longer than she has. I know his tastes. He values quality blood—something only a vampire can provide. The human may warm his bed for now, but nothing more."
Maltheira chuckled, stepping closer until she was adjusting the folds of Evelyn's gown as though she were her own daughter. Her voice dropped, soft and deliberate.
"You know," she murmured, "your mother was a good friend of mine. That makes you almost like one of my girls. So let me tell you this—" her eyes gleamed, "—the human beside Zareth is not there only to warm his bed. He might, in fact, be serious about her."
She let the words sink in, watching the flicker of unease cross Evelyn's face.
"If that is so," Evelyn said slowly, her voice tight, "why have you not gotten rid of her yourself? Surely you, Lady Maltheira, would prefer to see one of your daughters at the Emperor's side."
Maltheira laughed softly, a cruel, amused sound. "Because, my dear, Zareth himself has ordered us to leave the palace. Because of her."
She spat the last words with contempt, though she carefully concealed the deeper humiliation—that Serenya herself had been the one to order their removal. Pride kept her tongue still on that point.
Evelyn's eyes widened in shock. "The Emperor cast you out? For a human?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "That is… new."
Maltheira saw the opening and pressed forward, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her gown with deliberate grace. "Which is why I want you to help us rid the palace of her. Completely."
Evelyn's lips curved into a smile, sly and unreadable. "Why not do your own dirty work? We both know how frightening His Majesty can be when someone touches what belongs to him. I would not risk my head for recklessness."
Maltheira's smile widened, genuine admiration flickering in her eyes. Evelyn was sharp—sharper than her own blood.
"You will not need to do it yourself," Maltheira coaxed, her voice low and silken. "Find a servant. A shadow in the palace. Let them carry it out unseen. And when it is done—silence them. I tell you this because that human will not merely be your rival, Evelyn. She will be a thorn buried deep in your flesh if you let her live."
Evelyn's eyes glinted, though her expression remained unreadable. "I will think about it," she said at last, her tone light but laced with promise.
Maltheira's lips curved, satisfaction coiling in her chest. She had seen the spark ignite. Evelyn bowed gracefully and excused herself, her fiery hair trailing like flame as she disappeared beyond the door.
"Do you think she will do it?" Velmira asked, her voice uncertain.
"She will," Maltheira said firmly, her eyes gleaming. "She is already smarter than the both of you combined. If only you had her cunning, we would not be packing our trunks now."
Her tone was sharp, shifting blame squarely onto her daughters.
"Mother!" Velmira hissed, affronted.
Sorrelith only rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath.
A knock sounded, and Cassian entered, bowing low. "My lady, the trunks are packed. The carriage is ready."
Maltheira rose, lifting her chin high, her dark gown sweeping behind her like a shadow. Her daughters trailed after her, their expressions stormy, their hearts heavy. Yet she walked with the poise of a queen, as though she were ascending, not being cast out.
---
The heavy doors of the dining hall shut behind them with a muted thud, echoing faintly through the grand corridor. Zareth did not loosen his hold on Serenya's hand, his long fingers wrapped firmly around hers, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool marble tiles beneath their feet. Servants scurried about like shadows along the gilded walls, their heads bowed low the moment their eyes landed on the Emperor and the girl he so audaciously kept tethered at his side. Each bow carried a reverence laced with fear, as though the very air around Zareth commanded submission.
Serenya's cheeks burned hotter with every passing servant. She tugged lightly at her hand, whispering under her breath, "Zareth… people are watching."
Her efforts were as useless as trying to wrest a jewel from iron. Zareth's grip remained immovable, and instead of granting her mercy, he lifted her hand slowly, deliberately, as though presenting a treasure to the world. His lips brushed against the back of her knuckles—warm, lingering, shamelessly reverent. The simple contact made her entire arm tremble, and her face flushed the color of ripened pomegranates.
Zareth smirked, his eyes gleaming like storm-lit steel as he finally released her hand. "Look at you," he murmured, his deep voice low enough to curl around her ears, "already driving away all my troubles without lifting a finger."
The corner of Serenya's lips tugged into a reluctant smile despite herself. His words, though teasing and arrogant, carried a strange weight that made her heart thrum with both confusion and unease.
"If I had known you would be this—this good at executing orders—I would have found you sooner," Zareth drawled, tilting his head down so his piercing gaze pinned her. "Even if it meant raking apart the whole empire stone by stone."
Her throat tightened. The intensity in his eyes—dangerous, unyielding, yet undeniably tender when fixed on her—unnerved her more than his shameless words. She lowered her gaze, whispering, "This will only make them hate me more." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't like making enemies."
Zareth's laughter rolled from his chest, deep and amused, the kind of sound that could both comfort and terrify. His hand slid from her arm to her waist in one fluid motion, pulling her just close enough for his warmth to seep through the layers of her dress. Serenya stiffened instantly, eyes darting to the servants who immediately turned on their heels, pretending to be absorbed in tasks elsewhere. The guards lining the corridor shifted uncomfortably, faces averted as though the marble carvings suddenly became fascinating.
"Why," Zareth murmured, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear, "must you burden yourself with such trivial thoughts, little dove, when I'm here to love you more abundantly than anyone else ever could?"
Her entire body flared crimson. "Wh–what are you doing?!" she hissed, her voice breaking in flustered panic.
Zareth only leaned lower, the curve of his mouth forming that wicked, crooked smile that spoke of endless arrogance. "Showing you," he said softly, "how much I love you."
Her words stumbled over her tongue. "Y-you can't just—! Were you not taught proper manners? You can't do whatever you want!" Her tone rose, desperate for reason to tame him, though her shaky voice betrayed her resolve.
The Emperor's smile widened, carved with amusement and pride. "Of course I was taught," he whispered, eyes gleaming as if the world itself bent beneath his will. "My dear mother made sure I understood one lesson well: that I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and wherever I want." He paused, the weight of his words settling like a crown heavy with jewels. "Because I am the Emperor."
Serenya's jaw dropped, speechless at his audacity, her innocence no match for his brazen confidence. "You!…" she tried, but the words slipped through her like sand.
Before she could finish, Zareth silenced her with a move so bold it made her knees weaken. He pressed his lips against hers in a firm, unapologetic kiss that stole the air from her lungs. Serenya froze, eyes widening, her heartbeat thrashing wildly in her chest. Heat surged up her neck, consuming her whole face until she thought she might combust.
And then, as fate's cruel humor would have it, Sabrina rounded the corner. The woman stopped abruptly almost tripping. Her eyes widened before she quickly turned away, bowing her head in haste as though she had seen nothing.
Zareth, of course, noticed. He pulled back with unhurried arrogance, his thumb brushing over Serenya's lower lip before withdrawing. His expression betrayed not a hint of shame—only a predator's satisfaction.
"Sabrina," Zareth's commanding voice cut through the tension, his tone calm yet edged with authority. "You will begin her preparations to become Empress today. I have matters to attend to."
Zareth turned smoothly, his dark cloak sweeping across the polished floor like the tail of a beast. Yet before disappearing down the corridor, he stopped, pivoting slightly with his head angled back. His lips curved in a devilish smirk on his lips .
Serenya's mortification boiled into indignation. Her eyes blazed as she glared at him, though her blush betrayed her. "You—!" she stammered, unable to string together a proper reprimand.
"My sweet little dove," he teased, eyes glinting with wicked amusement, "don't tell me that kiss wasn't enough. Could it be… you're already becoming greedy for me?"
Serenya gasped, her face nearly scarlet. "I am not!" she blurted, her voice pitched high with outrage and embarrassment. She clutched her skirts as if to ground herself, her body trembling.
Zareth chuckled, the sound dark, indulgent, utterly merciless. "of course," he purred, "I trust you little dove " His laughter lingered in the hall long after he strode away, every step radiating the dominion of a man who owned both throne and heart with equal ruthlessness.
Serenya stood rooted in place, her chest rising and falling rapidly as if she had just escaped a battlefield. Her lips tingled from the imprint of his, and she lifted her fingers to them, horrified by the truth blooming inside her chest—how his shamelessness, his domineering arrogance, and his unbearable teasing had left her not only flustered… but shaken with a warmth she did not understand.
"He's impossible," she whispered under her breath, glaring at the ground as though it could swallow her embarrassment whole. "Utterly impossible."
But deep inside, even as Sabrina approached hesitantly to escort her away, Serenya knew one thing with terrifying clarity: Zareth, with his sharp tongue, unbearable narcissism, and suffocating possessiveness, would not just be the death of her composure. He would be the death of her entirely!.