Page 109 of Bound to the Dreadlord

He steps back, tossing my dagger toward me. "Again."

I pick it up.

And again, I fight then I fall.

The cycle repeats. Over and over. My body screams in protest, every muscle aching, every joint bruised. My hands tremble, raw and blistered.

But I do not stop.

I do not yield.

Hours pass. Maybe more. The sun climbs higher, beating down against us. Sweat drips down my spine, mixing with the dirt and blood smeared across my skin.

I last longer than three strikes.

I block.

I dodge.

I counter.

His eyes narrow. "Better."

The smallest sliver of pride flares in me.

But then he moves again—faster.

I do not see the strike coming until it is too late. The flat of his blade presses against my throat, a cruel reminder of just how easily he could end me.

"Still dead."

I exhale, shaking, exhausted. "Then teach me better."

His expression flickers, something dark and unreadable flashing across his face. He steps back. Watching. Measuring. Calculating.

"Again," he says.

By the time the sun sets, my body is a tapestry of bruises, my hands aching from gripping the dagger for so long.

I should be broken.

I should be done.

But I am not.

Something has fundamentally change in me. I can feel it in his stares.

It’s something else.

Something becoming.

41

VEYLAN

The ruined courtyard is deathly still. The mountain wind howls through the cracks in the stone walls, carrying the scent of snow and rot. The place was once a fortress, once a battlefield. Now, it is nothing but a graveyard of forgotten wars.

The perfect place to create a monster.

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