Page 107 of Bound to the Dreadlord

We may have escaped Hazeran’s fortress, but the hunt has only just begun.

“We’re close,” he tells me as we delve deeper into the woods. “I’ve discovered this place when I was a young elf. We can stay there.”

I nod, not replying as I concentrate on just walking.

I force my aching body to move, each step a reminder of what I endured, of what I had to become just to still be breathing. I have spent my life waiting. Waiting to be saved. Waiting to be spared.

I am done waiting.

Something inside me has cracked open, something dark and unyielding, something that will not be buried again.

I am done running.

The realization is heavy, pressing into me with every inhale. This will not end—not until someone dies.

And I will not let it be me.

I stop.

Veylan does not.

"Veylan."

He slows, but he does not turn.

"I will not be weak anymore."

The words taste unfamiliar, strange against my tongue. But the moment I speak them, I believe them.

He exhales. A slow, deliberate breath. "That’s a dangerous thing to say, little siren."

I step forward, defying the raw ache in my muscles, the exhaustion weighing down my limbs. "Train me."

This time, he turns.

His silver eyes gleam in the dim light, unreadable, sharper than the blades he wields so effortlessly.

"You think you can survive my training?"

I lift my chin. "I have to."

Something flickers across his face, gone too fast to name. He studies me the way a predator studies prey—not with hunger, but with calculation.

"You should fear me," he murmurs.

"I don’t," I say.

His jaw tightens. “You should.”

His hand moves fast.

The dagger is against my throat before I can breathe.

I do not flinch.

His lips part, but he does not speak. This time, I move first.

I grab the hilt. Twist. Disarm him.

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