Page 61 of Bound to the Dreadlord

They think they’ve taken something from him.

They don’t understand.

I am not his.

And I am not done.

23

VEYLAN

The war room stinks of bloodless battle.

The kind fought with words instead of swords.

Hazeran sits at the head of the table, a god among mortals, his gaze razor-edged, unreadable. His presence weighs heavy, pressing down on the room like a noose slowly tightening.

To his right, Maelrik lounges in his chair, long fingers tapping against the hilt of his dagger, waiting.

Vaedros swirls wine in his goblet, studying the room like a man waiting for someone to misstep so he can bury the blade.

Drathis is half-listening, feigning indifference. But his jaw is tight, his grip white-knuckled on his knee.

Xalith, the brute, watches us all like a beast in a cage, one heartbeat away from lunging.

This is what brotherhood looks like in House Drazharel. A den of wolves, waiting to tear each other apart.

Hazeran’s voice slithers through the chamber, smooth and sharp all at once.

“The borders in the east are being tested.”

Silence.

Not agreement. Just waiting.

“House Velkiron grows bolder.”

Another silence.

I say nothing. I do not care.

Maelrik leans forward, interest flickering behind his crimson eyes. “Let them test,” he murmurs. “It’s been dull without a war.”

Vaedros snorts. “You only say that because you have no land of your own to govern.”

Maelrik’s smile does not reach his eyes.

Drathis, usually the quietest of us, finally lifts his gaze. “What do you propose, Father?”

Hazeran steeples his fingers, his silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“I will decide soon enough,” he says. “But tell me… who among you is worthy to lead when I am gone?”

The question is a blade to the room.

It cuts deep.

A challenge. A provocation.

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