Page 19

19

SERA

T he wound at his side is no longer bleeding.

My fingers hover over it, damp cloth smeared with crimson as I finish the last careful strokes, wiping away what remains.

I should be relieved.

Instead, I feel his gaze, heavy, unrelenting, dissecting me in a way that leaves me raw beneath his scrutiny.

Veylan does not speak.

He does not stop me, nor does he move away.

Every motion is a study.

Each breath measured, as though he is waiting.

For me to crack.

For me to slip up.

For me to sing again.

But I won’t.

I refuse.

The assassins are dead. The chamber reeks of blood and ruin, yet the true danger has settled between us, thick, unseen.

My voice.

The power that should not exist.

The power I can no longer deny.

I press the cloth into the water basin, watching the stain spiral out, dissolving into the blackened liquid. The task is small, insignificant, yet it gives my hands something to do.

"Where did you learn that?"

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.

That should unsettle me.

Instead, I find myself following.

I expected chains.

A cell.

More walls.

Instead, he brings me here.

The room is not like the others.

No cold marble. No cruel obsidian edges. No echoes of torment lingering in the stone.

Only knowledge.

Shelves stretch high into the ceiling, ancient tomes stacked in careful disorder, scrolls laid across tables, their ink so old it has begun to fade.

The smell of parchment and time settles over everything.

Veylan says nothing.

He moves like a force that has already decided the course of the night, stepping toward the largest table, sliding a heavy tome forward before flipping it open.

His fingers brush over the pages, trailing the text, searching.

"Do you read?"

The question catches me off guard.

His eyes don’t lift from the page.

My breath lodges in my throat, but I force my chin higher. "Yes."

Something flickers in his expression.

Not surprise. Not amusement.

Something closer to satisfaction.

He shifts the book toward me. "Then read."

I hesitate.

I step forward, closer than I should, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, to feel his expectation pressing against me.

The ink is familiar, yet foreign.

Old dialects, ancient scripts, some that I recognize, some that I don’t.

They speak of bloodlines.

Of creatures lost to time.

Of something that should no longer exist.

I don’t realize I am gripping the table until his voice slices through the quiet.

"You are not human."

A whisper.

A decree.

A truth neither of us can deny any longer.

The words unravel something deep inside me, something I don’t want to touch.

I step back.

He follows.

"Say it."

I press my lips together, hands curling into fists.

"No."

A shift in the air.

A warning.

Then he moves.

I retreat, but not quickly enough.

His hands press against the table behind me, caging me in.

Not forceful. Not violent.

Something worse.

Something dangerous.

His presence is all-consuming.

His breath is steady. Measured. Too calm.

But his hands?

His fingers flex, just slightly, as if fighting an instinct he doesn’t yet understand.

"You are not human," he repeats.

His voice is lower this time, softer.

As if the truth is not a blade—but a brand.

My throat tightens.

"Then what am I?"

Silence.

He doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know.

Veylan Drazharel has no answers despite his vast knowledge.

That idea doesn’t comfort me, in fact, it makes me tremble.

Am I a monster?