Page 50 of Bound to the Dreadlord

"Enough."

The word snaps like an arrow, silencing the advisor instantly.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Hazeran speaks again.

His tone is different now—colder. Calculating.

"The Destroyer," he murmurs.

The title shivers down my spine.

"A woman whose voice will unravel men," another voice supplies, cautious. "Who will bring ruin to power with nothing but a song. It is an old myth, but…"

A beat of silence.

The advisor dares to speak the unspoken.

"…what if it is not a myth at all?"

My breath stills.

My fingers tighten against the tapestry, fabric pressing against my skin like a second heartbeat.

The Destroyer.

A voice that lures men to their doom.

A prophecy that whispers of ruin.

Of me.

Hazeran does not answer immediately.

When he does, his voice is quiet, but there is something behind it—something heavy, unreadable.

"A slave is no threat to me."

A dismissal. A denial.

But not a certainty.

His doubt clings to the air.

The tension tightens.

"Should we have her executed?" one of the advisors dares to ask.

Ice threads through my veins.

The silence that follows lasts longer than necessary. Too long.

I press myself deeper into the shadows, feet shifting just slightly.

The smallest movement.

Too small to be noticed.

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