Page 135 of Bound to the Dreadlord

A strangled noise claws its way up my throat. Betrayal, rage, grief. It is all the same. The magic binding me is strong, but I’m pushing against it with every fiber of my being fueled by my emotions.

A gargle leaves my lips. Almost there, I need to speak! To sing!

I have nothing left to lose.

And yet, it still hurts.

The brothers move.

Maelrik first, stepping forward, his blade drawn, his crimson eyes unreadable. Indifferent.

Vaedros next, rolling his shoulders like he is shaking off a burden. Unbothered.

Drathis watches me, his expression torn between amusement and regret. Amused. Pitying.

Xalith. Brutal. Merciless. Ready.

Then Veylan.

His fingers flexes around the hilt of his sword.

He has always known.

I stand.

Blood coats my hands, my arms. I’m not sure if it’s even mine. I do not care.

I lift my chin.

I do not beg.

I do not scream.

I do not run.

I let them do it.

Veylan moves first.

His steps are slow, measured, like he is forcing himself. His face is unreadable, carved from stone. He is cold. A monster of his own making.

But I see it.

The flicker of something shattered behind his eyes.

"Do…it."My voice is hoarse and raw as I speak despite the magic binding constricting my mouth and throat. “At least, I die…choosing…to die.”

The last sentence comes out as a garbled mess.

He does not respond.

He lifts the blade.

I close my eyes and he cuts me open in the heart. The pain isn’t only physical, Veylan’s actions cut through my soul and shreds every part of me.

Pain and anguish bursts through me, red-hot and all-consuming, a fire that rips through my veins.

My blood spills onto the altar.

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