Page 97 of Bound to the Dreadlord

Xalith leans forward, all brute force and tension barely contained. "Dispose of her."

Drathis shifts in his seat, his discomfort clear but unspoken. Vaedros grins, tipping his dagger lazily toward me. "Yes, dear brother. Kill the little songbird. Let’s see you spill that lovely throat."

Hazeran does not smile.

He waits.

"You hesitate," Maelrik murmurs, tilting his head. "I think she’s gotten inside your head."

She has not.

She will not.

My fingers curl into fists beneath the table.

"You grow soft, Veylan." Xalith’s tone is mocking, but there is something behind it. Expectation. Hope.

He wants me to snap.

To prove something.

"Have I?" My voice is low, even. Dangerous.

"Yes," he says simply, unafraid.

I shift. Fast.

Chairs scrape, metal flashes—before he can react, I have him by the throat.

Xalith grins. Blood stains his teeth. "Ah. There’s the beast I remember."

I do not squeeze. Not yet.

My father has not given the order.

And his voice is the only one that matters.

Hazeran exhales slowly, resting his elbow on the table, fingers steepled.

"Are you finished?"

I hold the position a breath longer. After that, I release him.

Xalith coughs once, wiping blood from his mouth, before laughing.

"Soft," he mutters again, voice thick with mockery.

I glance at Hazeran.

He is watching me like a man who has already decided something.

I don’t like it.

"You will end this, Veylan," he says at last. "One way or another."

His words presses like a noose around me.

We both know what he is saying.

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