Page 104 of Bound to the Dreadlord

A place where I could be bought.

I hate that my body responds.

We sit. The table is grimy beneath my fingertips. Veylan orders a drink in fluent elvish. I keep my head down. My heart pounds.

A man sits across from us.

Eyes too knowing flicker to me.

“She does not act like a slave,” he says.

Silence.

The tension sharpens.

Veylan leans back, slow and predatory. “Perhaps you would like to test that theory.”

I stiffen.

The man studies him. Then me.

He laughs.

But the laughter is wrong.

“She is not a slave,” the man murmurs. “She is something else.”

Veylan moves, just not fast enough.

The man grabs my wrist.

A mistake.

I react on instinct. My lips part. The song slips free. A single note.

The man’s pupils dilate. His grip loosens. His breath hitches.

Then his body slumps.

Unmoving. Dead.

The tavern erupts.

Veylan shoves me behind him. “Run.”

39

VEYLAN

The abandoned house reeks of old wood, damp stone, and secrets best left unspoken.

I sit on the edge of a worn-out cot, fingers pressing against the wound at my side. The bleeding has slowed, but every breath still feels like I’ve swallowed broken glass. Sera watches from across the dimly lit room, her arms crossed, eyes sharper than they have ever been.

“You’re injured.”

It isn’t a question. It’s an accusation.

I exhale slowly. “I’ve had worse.”

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