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VEYLAN

B lood splatters against black marble.

A sharp, wet sound, followed by the dull weight of a body collapsing to the floor.

The grand hall hums with a different kind of silence now, one that is thick, charged, waiting. The gathered nobles—high-ranking dark elves draped in silks and adorned with steel—do not gasp, do not recoil. But their silver eyes are alight with something razor-sharp and dangerous.

Interest.

They have always enjoyed a show.

I exhale slowly, rolling the tension from my shoulders as I flick the blood from my blade, watching the way it splashes onto the pristine stone.

A waste.

The elf I just cut down was no one of importance. A distant cousin of some lesser house, another power-hungry leech who thought himself untouchable.

He is irrelevant.

And yet…

The rage still coils in my veins, simmering too close, too thick, too raw.

I should not have killed him.

But the moment his mouth had parted, the moment his voice had dared to utter the question?—

"The human girl… you keep her locked away, and yet none have heard her sing. Perhaps, if you are willing to share ? —"

Something in me snapped. I remembered that she tried to escape from me. I’m still reeling from that.

The dark elf in front bore the brunt of my anger.

I had not thought. Had not hesitated.

One moment he had been standing, amusement curling his lips, his suggestion disgusting in its ease.

My blade had been in his throat in a heartbeat, his silver eyes blown wide with shock before he had gurgled, choked, and collapsed into a heap at my feet.

Now, he lies there, a crimson pool spilling beneath him, his fine silks drenched in the proof of his mistake.

The hall is silent.

Waiting.

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.

As if they can sense it too.

This thing inside me, this rage, this possession.

I should have let him live.

I should have laughed, brushed off the insult, turned it into a game, a moment of power wielded through words instead of violence.

Instead, I have given them something real.

They will talk. They will whisper.

They will see.

She will hear of it too.

I stop before the door to my private chambers, hands curling into fists.

The guards stationed outside glance at me, stiffening under my gaze.

They know better than to speak.

I inhale deeply, pressing my fingers against the carved wood.

She will still be inside. Still waiting.

Still mine.

I shove the doors open and step into the room, the fire casting long shadows over the silk-draped bed, the heavy velvet curtains swallowing the light.

She does not sit on the bed.

She is by the window, her back straight, head turned just enough to glance at me as I enter.

I do not say anything. Neither does she.

But something unspoken coils in the distance between us, thick, burning, impossible to ignore.

I close the door behind me.

Our game of wits begins again.