CHAPTER 172: ZYREN’S MISTAKE

Zyren, though, was done! He had spent so much time watching the man, observing every twitch and breath, simply to see if there was any part of his senses which he could use to figure out what made the Zygon-turned-human different from real humans. His piercing gaze, trained from centuries of war and rule, scanned the man for any tell, any flicker—anything at all.

Only to find it impossible to tell.

Nothing. No odd pulse, no strange heartbeat, no flicker of foreign energy. The man’s breathing was human. His reactions, down to the smallest tremor, were human. It had irritated Zyren more than it should have.

The only way he had finally been convinced of the man’s true nature was the smell of the blood—which, to him, stank to the high heavens and that was only because of how much of it had been spilled.

Doing the same on a human would lead to nothing but death which meant that he needed a better way to figure out what separated them from humans.

Healers were good with potions, yes—but they weren’t miracle workers. Wounds like that on humans would instantly lead to their deaths. Zyren knew that well. They all did.

He rose slowly, the long silence in the hall stretching taut like the string of a bow. With a flick of his hand, he gestured to the guard who usually stood behind him—always quiet, always ready. Especially since he was the head of all the guards in the castle, his loyalty to Zyren unshakable.

The guard stepped forward with silent obedience. His translucent eyes shimmered faintly in the firelight, a subtle tell of his diluted Noctare clan bloodline—only slightly touched by their power, but still recognizable. Zyren didn’t have to speak for him to understand the intention behind his gesture.

The guard instantly drew his blade.

Without a word, he handed it to Zyren, who took it with a calm that belied the quiet rage simmering beneath the surface.

Zyren could have killed the man with his powers. It would have been swift—merciful. But why do that, when he could perform more experiments?

He moved closer, eyes narrowing with predatory precision.

Without a pause or flicker of hesitation, he dissected the other arm off the man’s body with a single swipe.

A clean cut. Smooth. Final.

Yet the Zygon simply continued to laugh.

The sound filled the vast hall, echoing off the tall marble walls in a way that made even the vampires shift uncomfortably. It was guttural, unhinged—something that scraped against the ear like metal on stone.

Zyren allowed it. For now.

He needed him to speak. Needed answers. But all that reverberated through the hall was a laughter that could only be described as inhuman. Not broken, not terrified—gleeful. Mad.

Annoyed now, Zyren’s eyes darkened.

With the next swipe—swift, controlled—Zyren simply took off his head, the blade whistling through the air.

The head rolled, hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. Blood spurted. The body jerked.

Zyren frowned, his gaze cool but expectant, watching the twitching limbs. Watching. Waiting. Anticipating a shift—any shift.

Surely now, the transformation would come.

And yet...

Nothing.

The only evidence of his surprise was a flickering of his eyes, so brief and subtle that only the most observant would notice. But to those who knew Zyren—who had learned to read his stoic face like scripture—it was telling.

Everyone in the hall went silent.

Utterly sober.

The body twitched once... then again... before it no longer moved. Still. Lifeless. Human.

And yet it was Jared, standing a few feet away, whose body trembled—before he chuckled.

The sound was loud, cutting through the tension like a blade.

"I guess you were wrong too!" Jared said, the sarcasm dripping from his words. He found the entire thing funny—even as he tilted his head, watching Zyren’s still expression with a strange kind of admiration.

Zyren remained as still as ever. His nonchalance was something that couldn’t be faked, not even now.

But the silence that followed was even more overbearing than before. No one dared to make a sound. The air was thick with tension, pressing down on every chest. Zyren’s gaze remained fixed on the dead man’s body, his expression unreadable as he stared with unnatural focus, still waiting.

It became awkward.

Nothing happened.

No claws. No transformation. Just... blood, pooling endlessly on the floor, pouring out of the man like a faucet that had been turned on and could not be shut. A sickening sound accompanied it—a wet gurgle, a slow drip.

It was gutting to watch.

And the people that were even more agitated and pissed at the sight were the only two humans there. Aria’s fists had clenched at her side, her nails digging into her palm. She had been scared at first—truly frightened—until it became clear that the person Zyren had just killed was actually human, and not a monster like Zyren had believed him to be.

The truth sank into her stomach like a stone.

This time, Aria could no longer bring herself to keep quiet. Her heart thundered, but her voice rose.

"He’s dead!" Aria said, her voice sharper than intended—clarifying the obvious.

The air shifted.

Her words only highlighted her disrespect even more. Every vampire in the room turned to look at her, their eyes glinting, expressions stiff with offense. It was as though she had spat on ancient law.

Even Harriet, who stood behind Aria, felt herself flinch. She had been waiting—expecting—Zyren to rebuke Aria. Surely he would snap. A king hated to be challenged the most.

But what was even more surprising to everyone—especially Harriet—was the fact that Zyren ignored Aria completely.

Just like he had ignored the head of the human servants who had dared speak to him earlier.

Instead, he turned slightly and gestured toward his guard once again.

Opening his mouth to speak this time, his voice rang out, low and decisive.

"Get me fire."

The words hit like ice water.

Everyone froze. Jared’s brow shot up, stunned. He had expected Zyren to take his mistake in stride. Maybe even admit it.

But to watch him double down?

Zyren refused to back down. Refused to accept even the possibility that he had erred.

’If he was indeed a monster, on the verge of death, he should have clearly transformed. Isn’t this a waste of our time?’ Jared thought bitterly, his arms folding tighter across his chest. Still, he didn’t leave. He was intent on seeing it through.

Soon, the fire was brought—contained in a small, round vessel, filled with glowing coals. The red embers shimmered like molten rubies, the flames crackling softly but steadily. The fire had been carefully prepared.

The guard held it reverently as he approached. Zyren, his expression unreadable, instructed him to burn the arm first.

Without hesitation, the guard obeyed, setting the severed limb on fire as the room watched with bated breath.

It burned quickly—flesh curling, blackening. The sickening scent of roasted blood filled the air.

Aria’s stomach churned.

She was pissed off. Furious. Her hands trembled at her sides. Not only had he killed a man, but now even the man’s family would never see his body. Zyren’s intention was clear—even after the arm was burnt and nothing else happened.

But Aria didn’t dare to speak again.

The looks she had gotten—the sudden coldness in the air when she had spoken before—reminded her sharply of what her place beside Zyren currently was.

Something that was only supposed to change after the bonding ceremony.

Her jaw tightened.

This time around, Zyren gestured again. The guard moved swiftly, tossing the fire onto the headless body that still bled at their feet.

A strange glint flickered in Zyren’s eyes. The tip of a smile hovered at the edge of his lips—barely there, yet unmistakable—as he stared down at the body.

He had noticed something. The slightest twitch.

The guard didn’t hesitate. He poured a viscous, silver-tinted liquid onto the corpse. It hissed as it hit the body—feeding the flames.

But then...

The headless body had barely ignited when, suddenly, it jumped up—like a puppet yanked violently by unseen strings.

Gasps filled the air.

Before everyone’s eyes, the head that had been severed began to transform on its own. The skin rippled. Twisted. Shifted grotesquely.

The body that emerged was five times worse than the monster the lords and council members had seen.

Bigger.

More feral.

Dark...grotesque. A thing of nightmares.

...And yet it had no head.