The Stench Of Scarlet

"Don't," Iria's voice cut low and sharp beside me. "They're watching."

Her hand slipped into mine — warm, insistent — and I blinked, snapping out of the spiraling thoughts that had consumed me.

"I'm okay," I murmured aloud.

You're not," Iria shot back quietly, her eyes scanning my face.

I didn't correct her. I didn't need to. We both knew it was a lie — a soft, diplomatic kind. It was the sort of lie we all wore like perfume in rooms like this.

I didn't shake. I didn't stumble. I wasn't horrified. I was just... intrigued. Unblinking. Dressed in a pale silver gown that kissed the floor, blood-red embroidery at the hems like a secret stitched in, I stood before the corpse with the dispassion of a scholar staring into a fascinating failure.

Adrastan Vexmoor's body still twitched faintly. Death hadn't drained him completely. His lips were stained dark, crusted from the blood that had frothed violently at the edges of his mouth. The foam glistened with an unnatural tint — not quite human. Not quite right.

His eyes — once that glinting noble silver — were soaked red, the vessels burst in a final moment of absolute terror. Not from pain, but fear. Of me.

But it wasn't his death that had me still. It was the way he'd been killed.

The method. The message.

There was something about it that stirred a deep itch in my memory. Something old. Something I shouldn't remember.

I crouched slightly—not fully, not enough to be disrespectful—just enough to study the angles better.

Blood had spilled across the marble floor in an arc, almost like a crescent moon. Not splattered. Not chaotic. It followed a deliberate path, like it had been guided.

I could still feel the heat from the blood on the floor, even though I hadn't touched it.

My lips twitched. Not in cruelty. In awe.

Whoever did this… wasn't just an assassin.

They were an artist.

There was no mess. No evidence of struggle. No weapon left behind. Only the aftermath—clean, beautiful, and terrible.

It wasn't just a kill.

It was a message.

But who was it meant for...?

The ballroom buzzed in hushed, electrified whispers. Their mouths moved like fish gasping for air, but I heard nothing. The noblewomen's dresses swayed in discomfort, jewel-toned silks rustling like dry leaves. The men stood stiffly, careful not to make eye contact with me.

Not one dared step closer.

I took a step forward.

"Selene," Iria hissed softly. Her voice was sweet but taut as a pulled bowstring. "Don't be stupid. Let them handle it."

"But look at him," I said, voice lower, eyes locked on the odd pattern of blood staining the marble. "Whoever did this wasn't trying to hide it. They wanted it to be seen. The angle — the precision — the reaction in his pupils. This wasn't just poison. Something forced his heart to rupture from inside."

Her nails dug slightly into my palm, trying to ground me. I didn't mind.

"Selene Draven," came a deep voice behind me, this one laced with official authority. "Step back, please. The Council has ordered an immediate containment of the site."

I tilted my head, but didn't look at him. "Too late. I've already seen too much."

He didn't laugh. None of them ever did.

Several men in the dark slate uniforms of investigation officers formed a perimeter around the body. One of them was carefully scribing something into a hovering scroll that burned each word into its page with silver fire.

Auron stood just behind them, silent, arms crossed as if he were made of polished obsidian. I knew that stance — defensive, poised. Watching me.

Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then he looked away.

Smart.

"I didn't touch the body," I offered helpfully. "Didn't even blink at it. Not once."

One of the investigators grimaced. Another made a subtle warding gesture beneath his cloak. I rolled my eyes. Vampires and their superstitions.

"Iria Valenhart," said one of the officers. "You are free to return to your manor."

"I'm staying with her," Iria said, stepping half in front of me like she could shield me with her bones. "We're not leaving separately."

He frowned but didn't object. No one wanted to poke the bear. Especially when the bear was me.

There was a smear of red across the polished white floor. A swirl of foam and bile near Adrastan's clenched fingers. Blood had trailed like a serpent beneath his body, circling his head like a twisted crown.

"I swear I've seen this before," I whispered, mostly to myself.

"What?" Iria looked at me sideways.

"Nothing," I replied quickly, then added aloud — loud enough for those listening — "Just an unfortunate accident, wasn't it? Tragic. One moment you're waltzing like a pompous bastard, the next—pop. Gone."

That earned a few flinches from the nobility behind us.

Auron stepped forward then, addressing the officers. "Shall I escort them to a secured lounge?"

"I'm not in need of securing," I said with a tilt of my head. "I'm not some feral beast on a leash."

Auron didn't respond. As always, he played the line between obedience and disapproval with maddening grace.

"Still," he said eventually, "you'll be confined to guest quarters while the investigation proceeds. Not as a suspect. But for your safety."

"Oh, how thoughtful."

I turned and began to walk, Iria close beside me. The guards parted without being told. No one dared stop the Crimson Witch.

"My safety," I murmured again, tasting the words. "As if anything here could threaten me."

I didn't miss the way the ballroom sighed in relief as we left. Or how no one dared meet my gaze.

The corpse of Lord Adrastan Vexmoor remained in the center of the floor like a grotesque centerpiece to a night that was supposed to be nothing but wine and alliances.

I wasn't the first to witness his death — the officials were already moving when I noticed — but I was the one standing over him, unmoved, curious, unblinking.

The whispers would start before midnight.

And I would hear them all.

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