Zareth moved with the effortless grace of a man born to rule, his cloak trailing like a shadow stitched to his every step. The courtyard was alive with movement—servants rushing to secure trunks, the clattering of carriage wheels echoing against the stone walls, and the faint neighs of horses tugging at their reins. His gaze was sharp, the kind that missed nothing, and it immediately caught the sight of his aunt and cousins heading toward their carriage, their faces tight with concealed bitterness.
The air was heavy with the scent of polished wood and horse leather, but beneath it lingered something sharper: resentment. Maltheira's expression was carved with barely restrained fury as she directed her daughters toward the waiting carriage.
Zareth's eyes narrowed further when he noticed Cavric—late as always—hurrying to join them. His jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation flashing in his crimson irises, but he said nothing. There were more important matters awaiting his presence.
He tilted his head slightly toward one of the attendants nearby. "Prepare my royal carriage," he commanded, his tone casual yet threaded with steel. The servant bowed and hurried off at once, as though failing to comply within seconds might earn him the Emperor's wrath.
For a fleeting moment, Maltheira turned her head back, clearly expecting the Emperor to offer her the dignity of a formal send-off. Her gaze clung to him like a demand. But Zareth, lips curving into a crooked smile, simply offered a mockery of kindness—an encouraging smile so deliberately insincere it was nearly cruel.
It had the intended effect. Maltheira's nostrils flared, her composure cracking as her jaw clenched. The woman gave a sharp snap of her skirts and stormed into her carriage with her daughters in tow, her dignity fractured under the weight of Zareth's silent ridicule.
"Run along," Zareth muttered under his breath, watching their departure with the faintest curl of amusement tugging at his mouth. "The throne was never within your grasp to begin with."
---
Meanwhile, Serenya was doing her utmost to compose herself, though it was a losing battle. Her cheeks still burned crimson, a warmth that refused to fade ever since that shameless Emperor had paraded her through the palace, holding her hand as though she were a trophy meant to be displayed.
She raised her hand, brushing her fingertips against her heated face. How could he do that? In front of everyone! The memory of his lips brushing against hers sent another wave of heat flooding her.
Walking a few paces behind her, Sabrina remained silent, though her observant eyes surely noticed her the princess's mortification. Serenya, desperate to distract herself, blurted out the first thought that entered her mind.
"The weather is looking bright today," she muttered hastily, her voice soft and unsteady.
Her words hung awkwardly in the air as the pair stepped into a shaded corridor. Outside, clouds swelled thick and heavy, swallowing the sun and casting the palace in shades of gray. A faint rumble of thunder rolled across the horizon, mocking her words. Serenya bit her lip, her cheeks deepening in color.
"Yes, Your Highness," Sabrina replied diplomatically, her voice calm as still water, though her eyes betrayed no hint of agreement.
Serenya sighed and decided, quite wisely, not to speak again.
---
Their steps eventually led them to the royal library, a towering structure of marble and obsidian that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. The moment they entered, Serenya's breath caught. The scent of aged parchment and ink wrapped around her like an intoxicating perfume, ancient and dignified.
The library was vast—far grander than the one she had known in Vayrana. Towering shelves rose in seemingly endless rows, gilded ladders leaning against them. Stained-glass windows filtered the light, casting fractured patterns of ruby and sapphire across the floor.
"We will begin with the kingdoms, Your Highness," Sabrina said smoothly, guiding her forward.
Serenya nodded, allowing herself to be led to a massive oak table in the center of the hall. She lowered herself onto the carved chair, the cool surface of the table pressing against her palms as she rested them.
Sabrina's heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she moved toward one of the towering shelves. Serenya watched curiously as her the woman scanned the spines with practiced precision, her slender fingers dancing along the bindings before selecting two heavy tomes. She returned swiftly, the books thudding against the table with quiet authority.
"I'm sure you might already be familiar with some of the kingdoms," Sabrina said as she opened one of the books, "given that your governess back in Vayrana must have taught you."
Serenya shook her head gently, strands of her silken hair falling across her cheek. "I doubt I would. My father ensured our studies focused solely on Vayrana and the kingdom I was once betrothed to."
Sabrina gave a curt nod, unsurprised, and retrieved a rolled parchment from beneath her arm. She unfurled it with a deliberate flick, revealing a map inked with elegant but unfamiliar characters.
"This is the entirety of the Empire of Thorns," she began, her tone steady, teacherly. "It consists of twenty-eight kingdoms—eighteen human, ten vampiric."
Serenya leaned forward, her eyes widening in wonder. She had always heard the Empire was vast, but seeing it laid out before her filled her with awe.
"What language is this?" she asked, running a finger lightly over the intricate inscriptions that marked each kingdom.
"This," Sabrina explained, "is the Nytherian language. It was used to ensure clarity in official documents. However…" She turned, already moving to the shelves once more, "I shall fetch you one written in the common tongue."
In the Empire, each kingdom held its own unique cultural language, yet the common tongue bound them together, understood by all. When Sabrina returned, she laid another map beside the first. This one was more familiar, its markings immediately legible to Serenya.
Her eyes lingered on the territories, the sheer size of the empire overwhelming.
"Now," Sabrina continued, "your lessons in Nytherian language will begin soon. But before that, we must first ensure you are educated on vampires themselves. I doubt your prior education was accurate."
Serenya gave a small nod. Indeed, her parents had shielded her and her sisters from the truth, feeding them nothing but tales of grotesque creatures to instill fear and distance. Yet the vampires she had met here were far from the monsters of her childhood stories.
"Vampires exist in four tiers of hierarchy," Sabrina began. "The lowest are the turned vampires. Then come the half-vampires, followed by the noble-born. At the highest level are the pure-blooded vampires." Her tone dropped with weight. "His Imperial Majesty is, of course, a pure-blood."
Serenya's throat tightened as goosebumps prickled her arms.
"All other vampires may only consume human or animal blood. Pure-bloods, however, may also feed on other vampires." Sabrina paused, her gaze sharp. "It is one of the many reasons they stand above the rest."
Serenya's lips pressed together, unease gnawing at her chest. "Why can't they control it? Humans shouldn't be reduced to nothing more than… food."
Sabrina smiled faintly, her expression calm. "That is how the world is, Your Highness. Every chain of life has its order. To disturb it would invite disaster."
Serenya dropped her gaze, her fingers twisting in her lap. Yet the image of Zareth's blackened veins the night before haunted her thoughts. Her voice trembled as she asked, "What of decay? What is it, and how does it affect vampires?"
Sabrina blinked, surprised that Serenya had knowledge of such a thing. Still, she answered.
"Decay begins once a vampire has lived long enough—generally over five centuries. Their organs begin to rot from within. It is a slow, inevitable decline." She continued evenly, "Its symptoms, however, reveal it early. That way, it can be managed, allowing the vampire to live out the remainder of their years without succumbing to… ruin."
Serenya tilted her head, her innocent curiosity piercing. "Ruin?"
Sabrina inclined her head slightly. "A rogue. That is what we call a vampire who loses control. They become rabid, destructive, scavenging, and often slaughter their own bloodline without recognition."
Serenya's heart clenched. She lowered her eyes, sorrow gripping her at the thought of Zareth enduring such a fate. Her next words were whispered. "What are the signs?"
Sabrina folded her hands atop the book. "The redness of the iris dulls first. Then comes the rejection of blood—the body cannot take enough, and the vampire vomits it out. Beyond that, the symptoms differ from one to another. The Council watches such individuals closely, recording everything."
Serenya stared at her fingers, the weight of the truth pressing down like stone. Her lips trembled as she asked softly, "So… will His Imperial Majesty also succumb to decay?"
Sabrina's lips curved, almost amused. "No. His Majesty is different. He is of the royal bloodline. Never in recorded history has a royal succumbed to decay."
Serenya's eyes widened. "What?!" She looked at Sabrina in disbelief, her mind flashing back to Zareth's smug, wicked grin when he had claimed the very opposite.
Her jaw clenched, her innocent features twisting in outrage. 'That narcissistic man… He lied to me!'
She bit her lip, fury warring with embarrassment. And she could almost hear his deep, teasing voice in her head: Of course I lied, little dove. Did you really think I'd die that easily?
Her heart raced, her cheeks heating once again as she muttered beneath her breath, "Annoying Emperor…"
---
The imperial royal carriage rolled to a halt outside a modest-looking inn nestled in the heart of Nytheris. Its polished black frame glistened under the muted sunlight, the golden crest of the Empire gleaming proudly on its doors. The horses stamped their hooves impatiently, exhaling misty breaths into the chilly air.
At once, curious whispers spread among the gathered townsfolk. Heads turned, eyes widened, and within heartbeats, the murmur grew into frantic movement. The footman jumped down from his post and flung open the door with practiced precision.
The moment Zareth stepped out, the atmosphere shifted. His towering presence demanded attention—his cloak, black as a raven's wing, swept across the cobblestone as though the earth itself dared not touch him. His crimson gaze flicked over the crowd with the detached sharpness of a blade, a gaze that both devoured and dismissed in the same breath.
"Long live the Emperor!" voices chorused, trembling in unison. Men bowed, women curtsied, and even children were dragged into hurried gestures of respect.
Zareth, in all his cruel perfection, barely acknowledged them. His lips twitched into the faintest curl of disdain, as though the very act of being worshipped was an exhausting bore. Without a word, he strode into the inn.
The wooden doors creaked open under his hand, and instantly the patrons inside scrambled to their feet. Tankards clattered onto tables, conversations died mid-sentence, and the smell of roasted meat and spiced ale was drowned by a sudden, heavy silence.
"Greetings, your Imperial Majesty," they chorused, bowing so low that spines strained.
Zareth inclined his head in a gesture that was neither thanks nor recognition, merely the acknowledgment one might grant a dog for sitting when commanded. His boots thudded against the wooden floor, each step deliberate, each echo a reminder of who he was—the predator in their midst.
Behind the counter stood an elderly woman with weathered skin and sharp, knowing eyes. Her apron was dusted with flour, yet her posture was not that of a mere innkeeper. When Zareth's gaze landed on her, something dangerous flickered in his eyes.
"Cecilia," he drawled, his voice carrying the weight of command and the lethality of a dagger.
The woman bowed her head deeply, though a faint smile curved her lips. "Your Imperial Majesty," she said smoothly, "what would you like today?"
A crooked smile spread across Zareth's face, the kind that could unsettle even the bravest of men. "The usual," he murmured, the words dripping with double meaning.
Cecilia's eyes glinted with recognition, and without another word, she stepped from behind the counter and led him through the dim corridor toward the inner chamber of the inn. The crowd of patrons exhaled in relief as the Emperor's presence passed them by, though none dared straighten until the door closed behind him.
The inner room was small but elegant in its secrecy. Books lined the walls, their leather spines etched with symbols long forgotten by common tongues. The scent of old parchment mingled with faint herbs and something metallic—like iron and blood.
Zareth seated himself on a carved wooden chair draped with velvet, his cloak falling around him like liquid darkness. He leaned back, one hand resting lazily on the armrest while the other drummed against the polished wood of the table.
Cecilia returned after a moment, setting a plate of steaming food on the side table—meat glazed with honey, roasted roots, and spiced wine. Yet she did not expect him to eat. She knew better.
Instead of touching the food, Zareth reached into his cloak and retrieved a small vial. The glass gleamed under the candlelight, the crimson liquid inside pulsing faintly as though alive. He placed it on the table with a soft clink, his gaze never leaving her face.
"Tell me," he said in a low, commanding tone, "what this is."
Cecilia's brow furrowed, though she masked her unease with a smile. "Of course, Your Majesty."
She disappeared briefly into the adjoining room and returned with candles, parchment, and a collection of smooth stones etched with ancient runes. With careful precision, she placed them on the table, forming a circle around the vial. The air in the room thickened, charged with a faint hum of energy.
Unlike the ignorant patrons outside, Cecilia was no mere innkeeper. To the world, she was an old woman surviving on ale and bread.
But beneath the mask lay her truth—she was a witch of considerable, cloaked in secrecy. Only two souls had ever known it: Zareth, and his late mother, the Empress.