CHAPTER 255: SMELL OF BLOOD

Aira stepped out of the basement, the sound of her boots echoing faintly off the stone as she sheathed the blade in her hand. Her expression was tight—sharp with focus, weighed down by what she’d just witnessed. The air above felt clearer, but it did little to ease the heaviness in her chest.

Her eyes flicked toward the horizon as she crossed the outer court of the temple, every sense sharpened, wary of the shadows that lurked even beneath sunlight. The last thing she wanted was to be ambushed by another of the Zygons—those shape-shifting wretches that had infiltrated places once considered sacred.

Seraphina’s warning echoed in her mind. They attacked her even within temple walls.

That single truth had unsettled Aira more than she’d care to admit. If Zygons could reach Seraphina—one of the strongest among them—then nowhere was truly safe.

They clearly have more information networks than they’re letting on, she thought grimly. It didn’t surprise her. Monsters that could change faces had to be good at gathering secrets.

She moved quickly across the courtyard, passing stunned priests and worshippers who parted to let her through. The marble steps leading to the main temple glistened faintly under the afternoon light, and Aira ascended them with a soldier’s pace—steady, controlled, and without hesitation.

When she entered, she was relieved to find Rymora already waiting for her, seated quietly in the back pew where the faithful usually gathered. Rymora rose at once the moment Aira’s shadow crossed the threshold, her eyes scanning the corners of the temple as if expecting danger to emerge from every column.

Neither of them spoke.

They exited through the eastern archway, where the carriage awaited—a dark, polished structure flanked by armored guards. Soldiers lined their path, forming a living barrier to keep away the desperate believers who lingered outside the gates, hoping for blessings, healing... salvation.

Once, Aira might have stopped for them. Once, she would have smiled and offered light to soothe their pain. But that version of her—the one who believed she could save everyone—felt distant now.

Seraphina had been stronger, older, blessed and yet she had severely wounded. Lost her arm.

Who am I to think I could do better?

Her hand brushed the edge of her robe as she walked. The guards moved like shadows, silent and efficient. The humans were brave but fragile; the vampires beneath their cloaks, though powerful, were weakened in the sunlight. Even covered from head to toe, Aira could feel their unease—could smell the faint, singed scent of their skin beneath fabric.

Just as she reached the carriage, movement flickered at the edge of her vision.

Something rushed at her from the side.

Aira’s instincts took over. In one fluid motion, her blade was out again, its gleam catching the light as she spun—ready to strike—only to freeze at the sight before her.

A child.

A girl, no older than fourteen, crumpled before her with a cry. Her small hands trembled as she raised them, tears streaking down her dirt-smudged cheeks.

"P–please!" the girl stammered, voice breaking.

For a heartbeat, the world stood still.

Aira’s pulse slowed. Her sword lowered.

The past version of herself would have knelt immediately—would have offered comfort, a soft word, maybe even healing. But the woman standing there now was too tired, too wary, too changed.

She slid her sword back into its sheath with a quiet metallic click, her face unreadable.

The girl sobbed harder backing away in fear, but Aira didn’t look down again. Her nerves were frayed thin, and she no longer trusted the world enough to reach for its fragile parts.

With a shallow exhale, she turned away and climbed into the carriage. The whispers that followed her—shocked, pleading, disappointed—barely reached her ears.

Rymora entered after her, closing the door gently behind them.

The wheels began to turn.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was thick but not uncomfortable; it was the silence of people who understood too much to need words. Rymora could sense Aira’s unrest and wisely refrained from breaking it.

Through the carriage window, the temple’s silhouette faded into the distance.

Aira leaned back against the seat, her thoughts circling like restless crows. She was supposed to return to Zyren’s castle—to report what had happened in the lower sanctum, to speak with him about Seraphina’s defeat. But the idea of stepping back into that cold, brooding fortress made her chest tighten.

Her fingers drummed lightly against her knee.

Then, suddenly, her mind settled on another place—one name.

Liora.

Her sister. The only one still alive.

It had been too long since she’d last heard from her. Too long since her last letter—short, polite, strangely distant.

Aira straightened in her seat, her decision forming before she could question it.

"We’re not going to the castle," she said quietly.

Rymora turned her head, eyes flicking toward her mistress in surprise. "My lady?"

"Not yet." Aira’s gaze was fixed outside, on the winding path that split toward the northern woods. "We’re going to Liora. I want to see her."

Rymora nodded once, unquestioning. She leaned forward, pressing a small latch set into the side of the carriage wall—a discreet signaling mechanism. Outside, the driver adjusted the reins, steering the horses toward a different road without missing a beat.

The shift in direction was subtle, but Aira felt it in her bones.

The journey was long. Hours passed, the sun dipping lower in the sky. Shadows stretched across the road like dark ribbons as the carriage rolled steadily through changing landscapes—dense forests giving way to quiet plains, the faint glimmer of a river winding alongside them.

Neither woman spoke much. Aira’s thoughts were heavy—burdened by memories of her sister’s laughter, the days before the war, before bloodlines and power tore their family apart.

By the time the first torches came into view, night had already fallen.

Aira leaned closer to the window, her breath catching slightly.

Liora’s villa stood at the edge of a tranquil valley, surrounded by tall white poplars. The property was heavily guarded, but not ominously so. There was order, precision—a sign of careful control.

The guards at the door, the moment she lowered her hood recognized her since her features were well known after her fight at the arena.

Their posture straightened, and they stepped aside at once.

Relief flickered across Aira’s face, subtle but genuine. She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until that moment.

The carriage came to a stop before the front steps. Aira stepped out, her cloak fluttering softly behind her. The air smelled faintly of roses—Liora’s favorite scent.

Inside, the villa was warm and silent. A butler appeared almost instantly, bowing low.

"My lady," he greeted respectfully. "May I assist you?"

Aira nodded, lowering her hood. "I’m here to see Lady Liora. Please inform her that her sister, Aira, has come."

The butler’s eyes widened slightly—whether from surprise or discomfort, she couldn’t tell—but he bowed again and hurried down the corridor.

Rymora stayed close, her presence calm and grounding. Aira sat in one of the ornate chairs by the foyer, her gloved hands resting on her lap. The soft ticking of a nearby clock filled the silence.

She didn’t know what she expected—perhaps joy, perhaps relief. Liora had always been softer, gentler. Aira had imagined their reunion a hundred times over.

But when the butler returned, his expression made her stomach drop before he even spoke.

He stopped a few paces away, bowing lower than before—but there was nervousness in the gesture.

"My lady," he began carefully, "Lady Liora has asked me to convey... her apologies."

Aira’s heart skipped. "Apologies?" she repeated, her voice quieter now.

The butler’s throat bobbed. "She says she will see no one. Not even... family."

For a moment, Aira didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The words didn’t register right away.

She blinked once, slowly, as if hoping the sound in the air would rearrange itself into something else—anything else.

"I see," she said finally, her tone steady, though her hand on the chair’s arm tightened slightly.

The butler bowed again and stepped back, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of her silence.

Rymora’s gaze darted toward Aira, worry flickering in her eyes, but Aira didn’t look at her. She rose gracefully to her feet, her face calm, unreadable—mask firmly in place.

The butler hesitated under her steady gaze, bowing slightly as if to retreat—but Aira stepped past him before he could utter another word.

"Show me her room," she ordered, her tone low but edged with command.

"My lady, forgive me," the butler began cautiously, "but Lady Liora has given strict instru—"

"I’m her sister," Aira snapped, the sharpness in her voice slicing through his protest. The authority in her tone left no room for debate.

The butler stiffened, swallowing hard before nodding and gesturing reluctantly for her to follow.

Rymora, still standing at the foot of the grand staircase, met Aira’s eyes briefly but said nothing. She knew better than to interfere when Aira’s temper burned beneath the surface like this.

The climb up the stairs was quiet except for the echo of their footsteps. As they reached the upper hall, Aira slowed, her frown deepening. A faint metallic scent hung in the air—blood.

Her pulse quickened. Without waiting for guidance, she lengthened her stride, following the smell until she stopped before a closed door.

"Lady Aira—" the butler began again, but Aira ignored him completely and rapped her knuckles sharply against the wood.

"I said I don’t want to be disturbed! Send her away!" came Liora’s voice from within, sharp, impatient, almost desperate.

Aira’s lips curved in a humorless smile.

"Send me away yourself," she called back, her voice steady and cutting through the silence that followed like a blade.