Page 21 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Watching.

I force my grip to loosen, my fingers aching around the hilt of my sword.

No one speaks first. Not even my brothers, who stand at the far end of the room, their unreadable gazes fixed on me.

Suddenly, a slow, deliberate clap.

My father.

Hazeran Drazharel, the true monster of this house, sits upon his high seat, fingers drumming lazily against the blackened wood of his throne.

The applause is slow, measured, each clap echoing like a deliberate strike against my restraint.

And his smile? It is mocking.

"You’ve never been prone to such… impetuousness, my son," he murmurs, voice smooth as silk, lethal as the steel hidden beneath it.

I do not respond as there is nothing to say.

No justification. No excuse.

I killed him because I wanted to.

I killed him because the thought of another dark elf hearing her—touching what is mine?—

I tighten my jaw, rage still thick in my blood.

Hazeran tilts his head, studying me like a beast kept on a leash, watching for the moment I pull too hard and snap my own neck.

"You’ve never been the jealous type either," he muses. "Interesting."

A trap.

A test.

I exhale through my nose, keeping my expression smooth, blank, indifferent.

This is nothing. A moment of weakness. A momentary lapse of judgment I will not repeat.

I step back from the body, sheathing my blade in a slow, measured movement. "Consider it a lesson," I say, voice even.

Hazeran’s smirk widens.

"Indeed," he says. "I do hope the girl is worth the mess she is making of you."

The hall erupts in quiet, cruel laughter.

I say nothing.

I turn.

And leave the body where it lies.

The corridors blur.

I stalk through the winding halls of my fortress, my steps measured but burning with the force of something unrelenting.

The torches flicker as I pass, the shadows bending, curling too eagerly toward me.

---