Page 46 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Veylan’s voice cuts through me like a knife, deep, quiet, intentional.

I don’t look up.

I rinse the cloth, wringing it between my fingers, letting the water slip through before placing it back beside the bowl.

He is still waiting.

He will always wait.

He does not force me.

I force my shoulders to loosen, forcing something calm into my voice. "I don’t remember."

A slow exhale.

A shift of movement.

"Liar."

A single word, soft, but edged with something sharper than steel.

I still.

He does not need to raise his voice. He never has.

His silver eyes burn into mine, his focus absolute. "You froze a man in place with a single note. You left him trembling, broken, useless, as if he were nothing but a puppet beneath your grasp."

I swallow.

The truth is a blade beneath my chest, pressing inward.

I should deny it. I should lie.

Yet he is still watching me.

Not like prey.

Not like something to be broken.

Something else.

Something worse.

He stands. The movement is slow, deliberate. His tunic is still undone from when I bandaged his wound, revealing dark skin marked with old scars, a history of war written into every inch.

The fire behind him flickers, stretching his shadow across the stone walls.

"I need answers."

The words settle between us.

A statement.

A warning.

A demand.

His fingers brush against my wrist. A touch meant to lead, not restrain.

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