Page 47 of Bound to the Dreadlord

That should unsettle me.

Instead, I find myself following.

I expected chains.

A cell.

More walls.

Instead, he brings me here.

The room is not like the others.

No cold marble. No cruel obsidian edges. No echoes of torment lingering in the stone.

Only knowledge.

Shelves stretch high into the ceiling, ancient tomes stacked in careful disorder, scrolls laid across tables, their ink so old it has begun to fade.

The smell of parchment and time settles over everything.

Veylan says nothing.

He moves like a force that has already decided the course of the night, stepping toward the largest table, sliding a heavy tome forward before flipping it open.

His fingers brush over the pages, trailing the text, searching.

"Do you read?"

The question catches me off guard.

His eyes don’t lift from the page.

My breath lodges in my throat, but I force my chin higher. "Yes."

Something flickers in his expression.

Not surprise. Not amusement.

Something closer to satisfaction.

He shifts the book toward me. "Then read."

I hesitate.

I step forward, closer than I should, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, to feel his expectation pressing against me.

The ink is familiar, yet foreign.

Old dialects, ancient scripts, some that I recognize, some that I don’t.

They speak of bloodlines.

Of creatures lost to time.

Of something that should no longer exist.

I don’t realize I am gripping the table until his voice slices through the quiet.

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