Page 66 of Bound to the Dreadlord

They made her scream.

Someone will bleed for it.

The chamber is large, dimly lit by flickering green witchfire.

They have her bound, kneeling.

Two guards stand beside her. Another lords over her, his hand wrapped in her hair, pulling her head back.

A noble I recognize.

Vaelor Velkiron.

An arrogant, power-hungry wretch who has long dreamed of our house’s ruin.

He smiles at her.

“You are something special,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb against her cheek. “I can see why he wants you.”

My vision goes red.

Vaelor continues, oblivious to his fate.

“But tell me,” he whispers, “will he want you when I?—”

He does not get to finish.

I slam him into the stone.

His bones crack. His breath leaves in a gurgled choke. His fingers spasm around the blade at his hip, but he does not have time to use it.

I do.

I grip his throat, lift him from the ground, and watch the panic bloom in his eyes.

“Scream,” I tell him, voice soft. Mocking.

He chokes.

Pathetic.

I twist my hand. Bones snap. His body goes limp.

I let him fall.

Not worth my blade.

The guards do not fight.

They drop their weapons, trembling.

“Dreadlord—” one of them stammers.

I do not grant him a reply.

I do not grant him mercy.

One flick of my blade.

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