Page 3 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I recline against the cold obsidian of my throne, fingers curled around the stem of a goblet, though the wine within it does nothing to dull my irritation.

"Say that again." My voice is a blade cutting through the dimly lit chamber, sending a ripple of unease through the three guards before me.

The tallest of them swallows hard before speaking. "One of the nobles—Lord Azrail—was… affected, my lord."

"Elaborate."

"A human girl. She sang. He—he froze. Stood there as though struck. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. It was unnatural."

My hand tighten around the goblet, the fragile crystal cracking under my grip. "You’re telling me that a human—a slave—bewitched a noble of this house with nothing but her voice?"

A pause. Then, "Yes, my lord."

The goblet shatters, shards of glass digging into my palm. The pain is nothing. The absurdity of this lie, however, makes my teeth grind together.

Humans are insects. Weak. Powerless. The lowest among them scurry through these halls, dodging our gazes, hoping for scraps, terrified of death and eager to please the masters who hold their chains.

Yet one—one—hasbewitcheda noble?

I press my bloodied palm against the armrest, the crimson pooling into the carved grooves of ancient script. A human should not have that kind of power.

Unless she is something else.

"Where is she?"

"In the lower pens, my lord. She has been secured."

"Bring her to me."

The guards hesitate. "Now, my lord?"

A slow, cruel smirk tugs at my lips. "Did I stutter?"

They scramble from the chamber.

I exhale, standing, rolling my shoulders back to rid myself of thisnonsense. A human girl with a voice capable of halting a dark elf? Impossible. I do not believe in myths.

But I believe in control. And whatever this anomaly is, it belongs to me now.

The momentshe is dragged before me, I know one thing for certain—she is not what I expected.

She is… small. Not physically weak, no, there is too much quiet steel in her posture, but there is a fragility to her beauty that unsettles me in a way I do not like.

She does not grovel like the others. She does not weep. She looks at me, and her oceanic blue eyes catch the candlelight, making my chest clench with something sharp and unrecognizable.

She is afraid. She’s doing her best not to show it.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, watching her from beneath heavy lids.

"Speak."

Her lips press together, and for a moment, I wonder if she will refuse. But then, softly, barely more than a whisper—"What do you want me to say, my lord?"

A voice like honey over fire. The sound of it strokes something in my heart, something dark and wanting. It is not magic. It cannot be.

But itfeelslike it.

My pulse ticks in my jaw.

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