Page 8 of Bound to the Dreadlord

The air had moved.

I have witnessed magic in many forms—blood spells, enchantments, curses woven into flesh. I have wielded power that turns men to ash. But this…

This was different.

It was not forced. Not channeled through dark sigils or ancient words.

It was innate.

I felt it.

That cannot be ignored.

A growl rumbles low in my chest, and I slam my hand against the table, rattling the silver goblet resting beside it. The sound echoes, but the silence after is louder.

The shadows stretch long as I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers, willing away this unwelcome distraction.

She is a slave. A creature bred for obedience, nothing more. And I am letting her invade my mind like some ghost, clawing through my thoughts with a power I do not understand.

The aroma of candle wax and burning wood greets me as I enter my private chambers, a stark contrast to the cold stone of the war room. The massive space is lined with deep red drapery, the polished black floor reflecting the low light of the iron chandeliers hanging above.

She is exactly where I left her—kneeling on the rug before the great hearth, her hands bound before her, chains coiled around her delicate wrists like silver serpents. The firelight catches on the pale curve of her throat, the ghostly sheen of her hair.

She does not look at me when I step forward.

Good.

I close the door with deliberate ease, letting the silence stretch between us before I finally speak.

"Sing."

She lets out a sharp inhale. Not fear, but something close.

Still, she does not move.

Defiant.

Even now.

Slowly, I cross the room, boots whispering against the stone. I stop just before her, the hem of my cloak brushing the floor.

"You will not make me repeat myself."

She lifts her head then, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes catch the firelight, twin oceans frozen in a storm.

"What do you want to hear, my lord?" Her voice is steady, but there is a tautness in it, something strung too tight, like a wire stretched to its limit.

I watch her for a moment, then crouch before her, tilting my head. "Surprise me."

Her lips part slightly, hesitation flickering across her face.

Softly, a single note escapes her throat.

It is not like before.

There is no grand swell of power, no great shift in the air. This is different—subtle, quiet, a thing barely more than a breath.

A chill slides along my skin.

---