Page 2 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I go rigid, the song dying in my throat so fast that it leaves my tongue numb. I lower my gaze instantly, pressing myself against the cold stone behind me, my pulse a hammer against my chest.

I should not have sung.

I should not have made a sound.

He doesn’t move. I don’t dare to either. I can feel his gaze burning into me, stripping away flesh and bone until only raw, trembling fear remains. My stomach twists as I realize something strange—he isn’t looking at me with contempt.

He is... entranced.

His breath comes slow, unsteady, the rise and fall of his chest visible even in the low light. His lips part slightly, a sharp inhale, and I see his fingers twitch, as if reaching for something unseen.

I don’t get what I have done, but I know it is dangerous.

I squeeze my eyes shut.Go away. Leave. Forget me.

A heavy boot scuffs against the stone. Another step forward.

“Enough,” a sharp voice cuts through the space.

I open my eyes just in time to see another figure enter the room—a handler. His whip coils at his side, a sneer twisting his lips. His gaze flicks between me and the noble, narrowing slightly.

“Apologies, my lord,” he murmurs, though his tone is stiff, wary. “I will discipline her.”

No. No, no, no?—

The noble’s gaze does not waver from me. His silver eyes gleam, the torchlight catching the predatory glint beneath his hood.

Without a word, he turns and walks away.

The handler hesitates, glancing after him, clearly thrown off. Whatever trance had held the dark elf is gone now, but I know—Iknow—I will not be forgotten.

I don’t know what I did.

I’m clueless as towhymy voice did that to him.

But I do know one thing.

I have been noticed.

And in Protheka, that is thebeginning of the end.

2

VEYLAN

The air in my war chamber is thick with the smell of old parchment and burning incense, but none of it masks the metallic tang of blood that has soaked into the very bones of this fortress. A fitting stench. A constant reminder of what built House Drazharel.

This house is built on blood, war, and death. House Drazharel consumes even its own flesh and blood. My brothers and I are destined to kill and fight each other for the succession of the house.

It’s the will of our father, Hazeran Drazharel and the will of every patriarch in this house.

There’s nothing interesting in this place. My path is already laid out in front of me: die or be the next patriarch.

But right now, in front of me, something that captures my interest pops up. I haven’t felt this interested in years.

A human slave with an unnatural voice exists.

That is the report I’ve been given.

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