Page 111 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Her lips part, and I expect defiance. But then?—

She sings.

It is a soft, slow sound, but it is enough.

The world shifts.

The ice in my veins seizes. My body locks. A deep, primal instinct fights against her magic, but it is too late—I am momentarily frozen.

I can still see her. Can still think. But my muscles—they do not obey me.

She bends, retrieves her dagger, and presses the tip to my throat.

Her eyes burn with something new.

I see it then—the shift.

Not fear. Not hesitation. Not even satisfaction.

She is becoming something else.

Her lips curl. "You told me not to hesitate."

The paralysis breaks.

My hand snaps up, knocking the dagger away, sending it clattering against the stone. She gasps as I flip her, pinning her beneath me once more. My fingers are at her throat, pressing just enough.

We are both breathing too hard.

The moment stretches, and questions appear in my head. What was that?

She could have killed me.

"Enough," I say.

I release her and step back, turning away before she can see what she has done to me.

Before I have to acknowledge it.

But then—the messenger comes.

A dark elf, dressed in the black leathers of my council’s personal scouts. They always have ways to track their intended receiver.

He does not bow. Does not kneel. Only delivers the message.

A decree.

Hazeran’s voice is not here, but I can hear it anyway as I read the parchment.

You are no longer my son.

You are no longer my heir.

You are no longer Drazharel.

I expected this. It does not lessen the blow.

Sera watches me.

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