Page 26 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I willprove it.

13

SERA

Laughter and the clinking of goblets swell through the grand feast hall, a cacophony of indulgence and cruelty. The walls shimmer with golden torchlight, casting long, flickering shadows over the twisted theater of suffering playing out across the floor.

I stand beside Veylan, a fixture at his side, like an ornament meant to be displayed.

The humans in the center of the room move in ways that make my stomach tighten. Women forced to dance, their bodies bending under silent commands, their faces schooled into hollow smiles as dark elves watch them like starving wolves before a fresh kill.

I want to look away.

But I cannot.

The music never stops—a slow, haunting melody played on instruments I do not recognize, an eerie accompaniment to the spectacle unfolding before us.

Some women dance, their movements too smooth, too rehearsed, their bodies trained for this moment. Others are made to crawl, their captors leading them by thin silver chains.

Then there are those dragged onto the platform, their trembling figures caught in the wavering candlelight.

A noble flicks his fingers, and one of them is pulled into his lap.

The laughter around the room rises, and I do not breathe.

My hands curl at my sides, fingers digging into my own skin. I feel sick, but I force my expression to remain empty. I have learned enough in this world to never let them see.

I hate this place.

Hate them.

Hate him.

And yet, when Veylan’s fingers close around my wrist, dragging me closer, the fire crackling in my heart flickers with something dangerously close to fear.

"You are tense, little human," his voice murmurs against my ear, low and smooth, as if he can taste my discomfort.

I do not respond.

His fingers tighten—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me what I am.

A possession.

A plaything he has yet to break.

A pet, nothing more.

I feel too many watching eyes.

Their gazes rake over me, assessing, prying, some filled with curiosity, others with something worse.

One of them speaks.

"She is a lovely thing," a voice drawls from across the table. "Surprising, considering how little you usually care for pets, Dreadlord."

I recognize Lord Rhyzal instantly—the way he lounges, the smirk tugging at his sharp mouth, his wine-soaked arrogance. He has been watching me for too long.

Veylan does not look at him. He merely swirls the dark liquid in his goblet, as if he has already grown bored.

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