Chapter-12: Blood at the Noble Table”

The throne is carved in bone, dripping with fresh blood.

The dining hall shimmered with false nobility. Grand chandeliers bathed the long table in golden light. Silver trays held food meant for lords—roasted pheasant, buttered greens, soft bread with honeyed glaze. Nothing here was meant for him.

Zairen stepped inside.

The maids saw him—and froze.

One gasped aloud.

Another dropped the wine jug she was holding, the crimson liquid spreading like blood across porcelain tiles.

They remembered.

How could they forget?

Just few nights ago, he'd driven a silver fork into the steward's eye—again and again—until bone cracked and blood painted the walls. His screams still echoed in the dungeon corridors.

Even now, the stains hadn't come out. Even now, some servants refused to walk that hallway alone.

They looked at Zairen and saw not a boy—but a ghost in the shape of their future.

The butler came stumbling in, pale and breathless, clearly terrified.

"M-Master Zairen, your dinner was sent to your chambers. You aren't meant to—"

"I know," Zairen said coldly. "But I changed my mind."

The butler hesitated, trembling.

"But… Lady Meralyn—she forbade it."

Zairen moved like a serpent striking. He seized the man by the collar and yanked him forward with violent force.

"This house," Zairen hissed, "belongs to me and my sister. Not your lady. And I'm not your friend—you don't get to call me by my name like we share bread and secrets."

His voice dropped, cold and sharp.

"Call me that again, and I'll tear out your tongue and hang it over the fireplace. Understood?"

The butler could barely breathe. His knees buckled.

Zairen shoved him away with a sharp jolt. The man stumbled back, hitting the wall before catching himself.

"Y-Yes… Master" he stuttered.

"Good. Now bring the real food."

"But—"

"Now. Before someone dies."

The staff scrambled, rushing to obey. Plates clattered as they were placed before him—hot, fresh, untouched. He sat at the head of the table, where his father once ruled.

He dug into the meat like a starving beast. Blood ran down his fingers. He tore flesh like memory. Ripped bread like it wronged him. He chewed like the starving boy in the dungeon hadn't died—but returned with fangs.

He ate like he'd been raised on corpses.

Then—heels. Sharp, echoing, angry.

Lady Meralyn.

She stormed into the room, her gown dragging like a curse.

"What is the meaning of this?" she roared. "Who let this little bastard sit at my table?!"

The servants froze. A dropped spoon clinked against the tiles.

The butler bowed deeply, still shaken. "He came on his own, Madam. We tried to stop him. He—he threatened us—"

"Incompetent cowards!" Meralyn snapped. "You let a powerless brat terrify you? Half your pay is cut this month!"

She marched toward Zairen, eyes blazing.

"You! Worm! What do you think you're doing?!"

He didn't answer. Just tore off another chunk of meat, chewed slowly, and licked the blood from his fingers.

"Answer me, you filthy little—!"

She lunged forward and grabbed his arm.

His eyes lifted—calm, venomous, unfazed.

She flinched. For a moment, something ancient looked back at her.

"How dare you look at me like that!"

She raised her hand to strike him.

Zairen caught her wrist mid-air.

Firm. Still. Unblinking.

"I wouldn't," he said.

He shoved her—not hard, but enough to make her stumble and catch herself on the table edge.

Rage twisted her face.

"GUARDS! SEIZE HIM!"

Boots clattered in the hallway. Four men charged in, armored and alert.

But they didn't reach him.

"Enough!"

The voice cut like a blade.

Viscount Vireal Darneth entered, expression unreadable.

"What's going on here?"

"Husband!" Meralyn turned to him, eyes gleaming with fake tears. "This brat barged in! Ate our food! Threatened the staff! Laid hands on me!"

Vireal's gaze slid to Zairen, then to the spilled wine, then back to his wife.

Zairen stood slowly.

"'Our food'? 'Your table'?" He chuckled. "Don't make me laugh. This entire estate—every chair, every spoon—belonged to my father. And now, to me."

Meralyn's nostrils flared. "You arrogant little—!"

"Enough!" Vireal's voice boomed. "This is not a barnyard. You two are not pigs. Do not disgrace this house further."

He turned to Zairen.

"Eat, if you must. We'll dine later."

"Husband, you're letting him—"

"Silence!" he snapped. "I will not discuss dinner like a child."

He turned and left. Meralyn lingered a moment longer, eyes spitting venom, then followed. The guards dispersed.

Zairen sat back down, alone again.

He smiled.

"All for me."

—

That night, outside Zairen's quarters:

"You let that wretch humiliate us?" Meralyn hissed.

Vireal's voice was low, controlled. "Because you're an idiot."

"What—?"

"If we push him now, and something happens—if he dies and someone starts asking questions—what do you think will happen? You want our heads on spikes?"

"I—I didn't think—"

"No. You didn't. Let him grow. Let him feel safe. Then we slit his throat when no one's watching."

He walked away.

—

Later, a knock.

A young maid stepped in, head bowed.

"Master Zairen… a letter has arrived."

He took it without a word, closed the door behind her, and walked to the candlelight.

He opened the seal slowly, eyes gleaming.

Outside, the wind howled like a dying beast.

And he smiled again.