CHAPTER 143: TRANSFORMATION

Three days later.

King Jared walked, shoulders squared and head high, even as his lords and bodyguards followed closely behind him. Their heavy footfalls echoed through the grand paved street that led into the heart of the vampire main city. The towering obsidian spires loomed above them, casting long shadows that darkened the path ahead.

The tensions were extremely high.

It didn’t help that the vampires walked closely behind and around them in a formation that seemed almost deliberate—tight, sharp, and suffocating. It wasn’t a warm welcome. If anything, it felt like a silent threat.

The werewolves growled and bared their teeth, shoulders rising with every small movement from the vampire guards.

And the vampire guards didn’t hesitate to bare their fangs right back.

Each side moved like coiled serpents, every glance an invitation to war, every twitch a potential spark. The silent standoff burned with suppressed rage.

But still, no matter how high the tension became, none of them seemed to dare to make more than low sounds. Just growls and hisses and small, deliberate movements of hands on weapons.

One look from King Jared was enough to keep the werewolves in line—his piercing golden eyes narrowing slightly, his mouth tightening. They instantly straightened, muzzling their growls as they clenched their fists instead.

While from King Zyren, he had spoken. Just once. His voice, cold and calm, had sliced through the rising chaos like the edge of a blade.

And the word was enough.

Enough for the guards and the lords—on both sides—to fall in line, suddenly very aware that the consequences of their actions would be more than they could bear. Even the most prideful among them flinched beneath the pressure of his quiet command.

"We walk together, or we fall apart."

The silence that followed was deafening.

King Jared was led into the main food hall, a vast cathedral-like chamber with black stone floors that gleamed like still water and massive arched windows that filtered in cold, silver light. Velvet banners bearing the vampire sigil lined the walls—twisting serpents and black roses.

King Zyren stood there at the far end, waiting to receive him. He looked utterly at ease, even regal, his body still and his expression unreadable.

Aira stood right beside him, dressed more elegantly than usual. Her dress, though still cut short compared to the gowns around her, was laced with silver threads and deep crimson silk. It hugged her body in a way that made her feel self-conscious, though the high neckline and longer sleeves gave her a small, rare sense of dignity.

Even her usual short clothes were unlike the ones she usually wore. Something she was relieved by and very much appreciated—even though she didn’t so much as make it obvious. Not with her face, not with her eyes. She stood still, eyes focused ahead, lips pressed tight.

King Zyren looked the same as usual, dressed elegantly in black with silver embroidery curling along the lapel of his coat. His long black hair was tied back with a crimson clasp, and his posture was stiff with command, arms loosely behind his back as he waited by the door.

King Jared approached.

He was dressed just as regally in a more colorful gold-colored ensemble. A huge furry coat, dyed in deep brown and beige, wrapped around his shoulders and spilled onto the ground as he moved. It made him look massive, almost like a bear stalking into enemy territory.

His furry ears were visible, a mark of pride rather than shame. They twitched once. His brown curls framed his chiseled face, and despite the grim atmosphere, his strong features and stormy eyes made him look extremely handsome—so much so that some of the vampire nobles already seated in the food hall couldn’t help but steal glances.

Their gazes lingered too long.

King Jared ignored them.

"Welcome, King Jared," King Zyren said, his voice smooth and unbothered. The words were formal, the tone utterly neutral. Not warm, not cold. Simply... efficient.

King Jared gave a curt nod, pausing a moment before speaking. "Zyren," he said coolly, his tone just as unreadable. "You’ve done a lot of decorating."

Zyren offered a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"I don’t like clutter," he replied. "But appearances do matter."

King Jared said nothing more. His lips twitched upward, but the smile was not kind.

Zyren raised a hand and gestured toward the long black dining table lined with high-backed silver chairs.

"Shall we?"

The two kings took their seats at opposite ends of the table, while the invited council members filed in.

King Jared’s entourage—Brilla, the sharp-eyed strategist with raven hair and a calculating gaze; Falson, the grim-faced enforcer with a scar that ran from jaw to collarbone; and Kannedy, the youngest among them, golden-skinned and alert—took their places.

Zyren’s lords—Lord Drehk, the quiet observer with blood-red rings on his fingers; Lord Virelle, whose sharp smile barely concealed his venomous tongue; Lord Nctare, elegant and unreadable as always; and Lord Lythari, who sat motionless, only her glowing violet eyes betraying interest—sat across from them.

The servants moved quickly, heads bowed, as they brought out the food. Heavy trays of meats and vegetables, soft breads, and dark sauces were laid out with practiced care. Silver goblets were placed before the vampires and filled from black crystal bottles.

Aira tried her best to remain silent.

It didn’t help that the tensions in the air only grew even as the food was served. Every time a goblet was poured into, a hush followed. The liquid shimmered darkly in the light—thicker than wine, darker than juice.

It was blood.

Aira didn’t look. She kept her eyes trained on the smooth polished wood of the table, her hands clasped tight in her lap.

Even King Jared showed his utter distaste for it.

He didn’t bother to hide it. His upper lip curled just slightly as his eyes narrowed at the goblet placed before Virelle. The vampire took a slow sip, then deliberately licked the drop from the corner of his mouth, eyes never leaving Jared.

King Jared looked away with a small huff.

He began to speak.

"Your main city looks good," he said, voice tight, the words hanging awkwardly in the air like a dagger waiting to fall.

But the slight look of annoyance was clear in his eyes—an open challenge disguised as a compliment.

Zyren didn’t rise to it.

He ignored him.

He continued to eat like nothing had happened, like no one had spoken, lifting a cut of roasted meat to his mouth with slow, deliberate ease. He chewed thoughtfully.

The tension only increased.

Meanwhile, in the servants’ quarters...

Martha was sweating.

Her palms were slick, and she had to wipe them on her apron twice as she tried to steady the tray in her hands. The plates rattled faintly, and she winced at the sound.

She took a shaky breath and pressed her back against the stone wall outside the kitchen.

Calm down. Just food. Just a tray.

But her hands were still shaking.

She could hear the murmurs echoing faintly from the grand hall—distant voices, low and sharp. She couldn’t make out words, but she didn’t need to. The tone was enough.

Her heartbeat thundered. Louder than before. Louder than it ever had in her chest.

There was something wrong.

Not just with the air. Not just with the gathering. With her.

She looked down at her hands. They were shaking—but now, they were shifting. Darkening. Her fingertips looked... longer. Sharper. Her breath caught.

A sharp pain stabbed through her spine.

"No—" she gasped, falling against the counter.

A cook turned. "Martha?"

Martha clutched her face, her eyes wild. "I—I don’t know—something’s—"

Then came the sound—bones cracking, skin stretching.

Her body convulsed.

And then—silence.

In the hall...

The grand doors opened.

All heads turned.

Martha stepped in, her steps slow and stiff.

She still carried a tray. A silver plate of roasted meat sat upon it, but the tray trembled in her hands.

Her face was down. Hair covering her eyes.

"Martha?" whispered Aira. No one...no servant was to enter through the main doors except the lords and the Kings.

Zyren stood.

"What are you...," he called with a frown on his face and anger brimming in his eyes —"

She looked up.

Her eyes were black. Entirely black.

And her face—distorted, inhuman. Her mouth stretched far too wide. Her jaw cracked open.

Then, with a sound like tearing flesh—

She dropped the tray.

And screamed.

It wasn’t a human scream.

Her body snapped backward, and then lunged forward, bones ripping through skin as her form expanded. Claws burst from her fingers. Her back tore open. Something large and grotesque unfurled from her shoulder blades—tentacles, slick and sharp.

Brilla leapt up. "Guards—!"

But it was too late.

Martha moved faster than any servant should.

She launched herself across the table, claws extended—and aimed straight for the kings.

But while all the lords jumped out of their seats in complete and utter shock neither King Jared nor King Zyren moved a single muscle in surprise even though they looked about to burst in anger.