Page 11 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I do not understand why.

Why keep me? Why let me live?

Why let me sit in this room filled with silks and gold while others rot in chains?

He wants something.

But he has not asked.

Not yet.

That is worse than all the rest.

The fire crackles in the hearth, throwing golden light across the expanse of polished marble and blackened steel. I do not move when the air shifts behind me, when the smell of him cuts through the incense—dark spice and cold steel, something rich and ruinous that seeps into my lungs and stays.

He is standing behind me. Watching. Waiting.

I keep my spine straight, my hands resting delicately in my lap, my gaze fixed on the window. If he wants to speak, he will. If he wants me to sing, he will ask.

He does neither.

The silence stretches, a tether between us pulled too tight.

"You haven’t sung for me again."

His voice is smooth, but there’s something beneath it—something sharp.

I do not flinch.

"I didn’t realize I was required to entertain you," I murmur. My own voice is soft but not weak. A whisper wrapped in a blade.

A pause, footsteps. Measured. Slow.

The chair opposite me scrapes against the stone as he takes a seat. I let my gaze flick toward him, careful, assessing.

He is stretched out like a predator at ease, one arm resting against the arm of the chair, long fingers drumming against the dark wood. His silver eyes gleam under the flickering candlelight, unreadable,unnatural.

He is still waiting for me to answer.

I swallow hard, refusing to let my body betray me.

"You haven’t asked me to sing," I say instead.

A muscle jumps in his jaw, but his expression does not change. "Do I need to?"

I tilt my head slightly. "You give orders, my lord. I only follow them."

A slow, sharp smirk.

"You think obedience will keep you safe?"

I do not answer.

There is no safety here.

Only a waiting game, and I’m unaware of the rules.

Days pass, and I do not sing.

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