Page 96 of Bound to the Dreadlord

A calculated, watching, waiting presence.

Hazeran sits on his chair, untouched goblet of dark wine at his fingertips, eyes like sharpened steel pinned on me.

I do not stop walking until I reach my place across from him.

My brothers are already there.

Maelrik leans back against his chair, looking entertained, always entertained. The smirk curving his mouth does not reach his eyes.

Vaedros idly taps a dagger against the table, studying me with the slow amusement of a predator watching a wounded thing struggle to stand.

Drathis is tense, hands clasped in his lap, jaw tight as though he knows what’s coming and would rather be anywhere else.

And Xalith—Xalith is staring at me like he already smells the blood.

I say nothing.

Neither does Hazeran.

He watches. Measuring. Calculating.

And then—his voice slices through the silence like a sword.

"You are weak, Veylan."

A slow blink. A heartbeat stretched too long.

The words should roll off me like water.

They don’t.

I do not react. And that is reaction enough.

"Do you deny it?" Hazeran’s voice is quiet, even, the kind of tone that drips with the promise of violence.

The others are waiting.

Watching.

Hunting.

"You risked war for a human," he continues, tone unfazed. "And for what? A distraction?"

"She is nothing." My voice is cold. Steady. Unshaken.

A beat of silence. Then Maelrik laughs.

"Liar. You haven’t killed her. How many times does father have to tell you?”

We are back at this again.

I do not react, do not turn to him. I keep my gaze on Hazeran, my shoulders squared, my breathing measured.

My father does not blink.

"Then prove it."

A single, sharp order.

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