Page 13

13

SERA

L aughter and the clinking of goblets swell through the grand feast hall, a cacophony of indulgence and cruelty. The walls shimmer with golden torchlight, casting long, flickering shadows over the twisted theater of suffering playing out across the floor.

I stand beside Veylan, a fixture at his side, like an ornament meant to be displayed.

The humans in the center of the room move in ways that make my stomach tighten. Women forced to dance, their bodies bending under silent commands, their faces schooled into hollow smiles as dark elves watch them like starving wolves before a fresh kill.

I want to look away.

But I cannot.

The music never stops—a slow, haunting melody played on instruments I do not recognize, an eerie accompaniment to the spectacle unfolding before us.

Some women dance, their movements too smooth, too rehearsed, their bodies trained for this moment. Others are made to crawl, their captors leading them by thin silver chains.

Then there are those dragged onto the platform, their trembling figures caught in the wavering candlelight.

A noble flicks his fingers, and one of them is pulled into his lap.

The laughter around the room rises, and I do not breathe.

My hands curl at my sides, fingers digging into my own skin. I feel sick, but I force my expression to remain empty. I have learned enough in this world to never let them see.

I hate this place.

Hate them.

Hate him.

And yet, when Veylan’s fingers close around my wrist, dragging me closer, the fire crackling in my heart flickers with something dangerously close to fear.

"You are tense, little human," his voice murmurs against my ear, low and smooth, as if he can taste my discomfort.

I do not respond.

His fingers tighten—not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me what I am.

A possession.

A plaything he has yet to break.

A pet, nothing more.

I feel too many watching eyes.

Their gazes rake over me, assessing, prying, some filled with curiosity, others with something worse.

One of them speaks.

"She is a lovely thing," a voice drawls from across the table. "Surprising, considering how little you usually care for pets, Dreadlord."

I recognize Lord Rhyzal instantly—the way he lounges, the smirk tugging at his sharp mouth, his wine-soaked arrogance. He has been watching me for too long.

Veylan does not look at him. He merely swirls the dark liquid in his goblet, as if he has already grown bored.

But Rhyzal presses further.

"If she’s only a pet," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, dripping with challenge, "surely you wouldn’t mind sharing, Dreadlord?"

The words coil through the air, sinking their claws into my spine.

Everything stops.

The music. The laughter.

The very air in the room seems to wither, curling into something brittle, something fragile.

A wrong step. A breath too loud. And it will shatter.

Rhyzal does not seem to realize it yet.

Or maybe, in his drunken arrogance, he does not care.

He reaches for me.

His fingers brush my wrist, a light touch—barely anything.

It happens too fast.

One moment, Rhyzal is seated. The next, his throat is no longer whole.

A flash of silver.

A sharp, wet sound.

A spray of crimson across the table.

The noble’s goblet falls from his hand, rolling across the floor.

And I do not move.

Blood stains my skin, hot and fresh, dripping from the curve of my cheek, streaking down my throat.

I cannot look away.

Rhyzal’s body slumps forward, his mouth parting in what could have been another drunken remark, if not for the way the red gushed from his lips instead.

His chair topples, and the sound of his body hitting the marble floor is deafening.

Silence presses against the walls, against my ribs, against the scream rising in my throat.

Did that just?—

My breath sticks somewhere between horror and disbelief.

Veylan does not blink.

His sword is already sheathed. As if the motion had been nothing more than an afterthought.

He lifts his goblet again, taking a slow sip, silver eyes as calm as still water.

Like this was inevitable.

Like Rhyzal had only gotten what he deserved.

Like there was never another outcome.

The nobles are still silent and watchful.

The laughter starts.

Soft at first, a few scattered chuckles, but then it spreads, rippling through the room like a slow-building tide.

"Well," someone muses, amusement laced in their tone. "It seems our Dreadlord does not share his toys."

More laughter follows, murmurs of approval, of mockery, of dangerous amusement.

I barely hear them.

Veylan is watching me.

His silver eyes lock onto mine, dark and unreadable.

There is no fury.

No warning.

No sign that what he just did had been anything other than instinct.

But in the depths of his gaze, there is something else.

Something worse than rage.

Something that coils tight around my whole being.

Obsession.

Powerful men have fallen for something else.