Page 49 of Bound to the Dreadlord

That idea doesn’t comfort me, in fact, it makes me tremble.

Am I a monster?

20

SERA

Our conversation yesterday lingers in my mind. I need answers, so I have to go back there. Fortunately, he gave me permission to come here if only for a few hours before I meet him later.

The library doors loom before me, their blackened wood carved with silver veins of ancient runes. An invitation. A trap.

Veylan does not give permission lightly.

This is a test. A calculated allowance, a moment for me to take my place beneath his watchful eye—or prove I cannot be trusted.

The guards do not speak as they open the doors. I step inside, and the silence swallows me whole.

The Grand Library of House Drazharel is not like the libraries I imagined as a child, whispered fantasies of knowledge and candlelight.

This place is built for war.

The towering shelves stretch into shadow, stacked with weapons disguised as words. The parchment here is not inked with history—it is stained with power.

Magic hums in the still air. Books written in dead tongues stare down at me with silent authority.

I let my hands brush along the bindings as I pass. Some pulse faintly, thrumming beneath my fingertips like a heartbeat. Others whisper beneath my touch—a wordless promise, a threat.

The guards keep their distance. They think a library is nothing but walls and books. They are wrong.

Knowledge is its own kind of weapon. And I need one.

I move deeper, weaving through the endless corridors of stone and parchment, slipping past shelves older than I can fathom.

Suddenly, I hear voices.

Low. Measured. Too close.

My pulse trips.

I step back, pressing into the narrow gap between a shelf and a draped tapestry. The space is tight, suffocating, but it conceals me.

The voices grow clearer.

A name cuts through the stillness.

"—Sera."

Hazeran.

I would recognize that voice anywhere. It coils through the shadows like a serpent, controlled and quiet, yet sharp enough to cut.

He is not alone.

I listen. I should not, but I do.

"A prophecy," one of the advisors mutters, his voice hushed but urgent.

"The warnings have existed for centuries, my lord. The sirens—what remains of their blood—should have been wiped out. Yet your son holds a human in his chambers, a human with a voice that can?—"

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