Page 87 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Before I make this mistake again.

32

VEYLAN

The fortress is restless. I’ve been busy with the war going on in the East and the repercussions of saving Sera from House Velkiron.

But something has change in the past few days. Whispers slither through the halls like snakes, curling between stone and shadow. They speak of her.

They speak of me.

I hear them, though none dare say it to my face.

"The Dreadlord has gone soft."

"The human still lives."

"He took her to his bed, yet she still sings."

They think she has ensnared me.

They think I am weakened.

I let them think what they will. Their opinions are beneath me.

But my father? He is not.

The summons comes at dusk.

A demand, not a request.

The chamber is vast, cavernous, designed to make men feel small.

Hazeran sits on his throne of obsidian, a king carved from darkness.

My brothers flank him, their expressions varying degrees of amusement and intrigue. They are waiting for me to break.

I do not kneel.

I do not bow.

Hazeran speaks, voice smooth as a blade sliding between ribs.

"You stormed into House Velkiron for a human."

Silence.

"She should have been discarded the moment she was taken."

Still, I do not react.

"Kill her."

I let the silence stretch.

It lasts too long.

My hesitation is a living thing. A pulse in the room, a crack in the foundation.

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