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VEYLAN

T he war chamber hums with the low crackle of burning oil lamps, the dim light casting jagged shadows across the map-strewn table. The stench of blood and steel lingers, remnants of the last execution still clinging to the stones.

My brothers stand in a loose circle around the table, their presence coiled with unspoken tension. Not one of us trusts the others.

And our father?

Hazeran Drazharel watches us like wolves on a leash, waiting to see which one of us will snap first.

He reclines, long fingers curled over the carved arms of his chair, his silver eyes glittering with something sharp, something cold. The golden sigils carved into his obsidian skin shimmer beneath the dim torchlight, remnants of old power—dark, unyielding, permanent.

His gaze settles on me.

"You killed a noble in my hall." His voice is silk over a blade, amusement curling through the edges, but I hear the weight beneath it. A test. A warning.

I do not flinch.

"He forgot his place."

Suffocating silence follows the statement.

Maelrik, the second-born, leans against the far wall, arms folded, smirking like a man who thinks he will one day sit in my place. His crimson hair falls over one shoulder in thick braids, his skin marred with ritual scars—offerings to the blood magic he worships.

"Since when do you care what the lesser nobles say?" he muses, tilting his head. "It was just a human girl, wasn’t it?"

A flicker of something vile rises in me, too fast, too violent, too telling.

I do not let it show.

Vaedros, the third-born, chuckles from across the room, lounging in his chair as though this conversation amuses him more than it should.

"Not just any human," he murmurs, his voice smooth, calculating. "The one you’ve hidden away in your chambers, locked behind doors even our spies cannot breach."

The room shifts, their gazes pressing as if they’re waiting for me to surrender.

The tension coils deeper.

I roll my shoulders, slow, deliberate, reminding them who leads this house.

"She is nothing," I say flatly. "A pet. A curiosity."

Hazeran exhales, a mockery of patience.

"Is she?"

I meet his gaze and I feel it.

The probing of his mind. The way he does not need magic to strip me bare, to sift through my weaknesses and find the thing I do not want him to see.

He has always been like this. Peeling us open with nothing but silence, waiting to see what bleeds first.

He is too close to the truth and it’s uncomfortable.

"You think I don’t see it?" He speaks softly, but the steel is there, razor-edged and waiting. "You think I don’t recognize obsession when it festers?"

A slow, lazy smile curves his lips, but his silver eyes are dead, void of anything human.

"You are not immune to the sickness of desire, Veylan. And you are not immune to its consequences."

Maelrik’s smirk sharpens. "He wouldn’t be the first to fall victim to a human’s tricks."

Vaedros hums in agreement, running a finger over the rim of his goblet. "You do remember what happened to the last noble who thought he could keep one, don’t you?"

I grip the table, hard enough to splinter the wood beneath my fingers.

Hazeran watches, waiting for a crack in my armor.

There is none.

"If I wanted her dead, she would be dead." My voice is even, unshakable.

"Would she?"

He says it so softly that it almost doesn’t register. Almost.

But the way the silence tightens after?

That registers.

The warning is not just for me. It is for them.

For my brothers.

For anyone who thinks to touch what is mine.

I stay rooted on my position, locking my muscles in and forcing myself to just be still.

If I move, I might betray something.

Something I do not even want to acknowledge.

Hazeran leans back, clasping his hands together in mock thoughtfulness.

"Obsession is weakness," he murmurs. "It is the slow rot of empires. The downfall of men greater than you."

He tilts his head, his voice turning mockingly soft.

"Do you intend to fall, my son?"

The words dig under my skin, sinking, twisting.

I hate that he can see it, loathe that he has found something to exploit, even if I refuse to admit that it is there.

My fingers curl. Then, slowly, I straighten.

I refuse to let him think he has won.

"She is nothing," I say again.

This time, I mean it.

I will prove it.