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VEYLAN

T he air in my war chamber is thick with the smell of old parchment and burning incense, but none of it masks the metallic tang of blood that has soaked into the very bones of this fortress. A fitting stench. A constant reminder of what built House Drazharel.

This house is built on blood, war, and death. House Drazharel consumes even its own flesh and blood. My brothers and I are destined to kill and fight each other for the succession of the house.

It’s the will of our father, Hazeran Drazharel and the will of every patriarch in this house.

There’s nothing interesting in this place. My path is already laid out in front of me: die or be the next patriarch.

But right now, in front of me, something that captures my interest pops up. I haven’t felt this interested in years.

A human slave with an unnatural voice exists.

That is the report I’ve been given.

I recline against the cold obsidian of my throne, fingers curled around the stem of a goblet, though the wine within it does nothing to dull my irritation.

"Say that again." My voice is a blade cutting through the dimly lit chamber, sending a ripple of unease through the three guards before me.

The tallest of them swallows hard before speaking. "One of the nobles—Lord Azrail—was… affected, my lord."

"Elaborate."

"A human girl. She sang. He—he froze. Stood there as though struck. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. It was unnatural."

My hand tighten around the goblet, the fragile crystal cracking under my grip. "You’re telling me that a human—a slave—bewitched a noble of this house with nothing but her voice?"

A pause. Then, "Yes, my lord."

The goblet shatters, shards of glass digging into my palm. The pain is nothing. The absurdity of this lie, however, makes my teeth grind together.

Humans are insects. Weak. Powerless. The lowest among them scurry through these halls, dodging our gazes, hoping for scraps, terrified of death and eager to please the masters who hold their chains.

Yet one—one—has bewitched a noble?

I press my bloodied palm against the armrest, the crimson pooling into the carved grooves of ancient script. A human should not have that kind of power.

Unless she is something else.

"Where is she?"

"In the lower pens, my lord. She has been secured."

"Bring her to me."

The guards hesitate. "Now, my lord?"

A slow, cruel smirk tugs at my lips. "Did I stutter?"

They scramble from the chamber.

I exhale, standing, rolling my shoulders back to rid myself of this nonsense . A human girl with a voice capable of halting a dark elf? Impossible. I do not believe in myths.

But I believe in control. And whatever this anomaly is, it belongs to me now.

The moment she is dragged before me, I know one thing for certain—she is not what I expected.

She is… small. Not physically weak, no, there is too much quiet steel in her posture, but there is a fragility to her beauty that unsettles me in a way I do not like.

She does not grovel like the others. She does not weep. She looks at me, and her oceanic blue eyes catch the candlelight, making my chest clench with something sharp and unrecognizable.

She is afraid. She’s doing her best not to show it.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, watching her from beneath heavy lids.

"Speak."

Her lips press together, and for a moment, I wonder if she will refuse. But then, softly, barely more than a whisper—"What do you want me to say, my lord?"

A voice like honey over fire. The sound of it strokes something in my heart, something dark and wanting. It is not magic. It cannot be.

But it feels like it.

My pulse ticks in my jaw.

"Your name."

"Sera."

Sera. A delicate name. One that should belong to someone easily broken. But there is something in her gaze that says she will not break for me.

It will be a pleasure proving her wrong.

"Sing."

Her body goes rigid, breath catching.

"My lord?—"

The hesitation in my title makes my fingers twitch with the urge to remind her who owns her now.

"Sing," I repeat, my voice carrying a command, the expectation of obedience.

She takes a shallow breath. Then, a sound unlike anything I have ever heard fills the chamber.

It is not music. It is sorcery .

A hum, low and trembling at first, but as she lets the melody unfurl, I feel it.

My thoughts splinter. My limbs feel weighted, my breath shallow. Power laces every note, not raw like blood magic but smooth, insidious, slipping into the cracks of my mind like silk and steel entwined.

I hate it. I want it.

Her voice curls around my bones, sinking deep, whispering to something I do not recognize within myself.

I do not like what it finds there.

I move before I realize I’ve done it, standing so abruptly that she stops, her breath hitching.

The spell breaks.

I hear the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

I inhale sharply through my nose, furious.

"Enough."

She gasps, stumbling back, as if suddenly realizing what she has done. She should be afraid.

She will be afraid.

I descend the steps of my throne, moving toward her. The guards shift but do not interfere. They know better.

I stop before her, so close that I can hear the unsteady rhythm of her breath. The scent of her—salt, something crisp like cold water—clings to her skin, foreign and infuriating.

I should kill her.

Instead, I lift her chin with a single finger, forcing her to meet my gaze.

"What are you?" I murmur.

She shivers. "A slave, my lord."

Lie.

What is she? I only know one thing with absolute certainty.

She is mine.

"You will not return to the pens," I tell her, and her brows draw together in brief confusion before realization dawns.

I am not sending her back.

I am claiming her.

I let my finger trail from her chin down the curve of her throat, feeling her pulse hammer wildly beneath my touch.

"From this moment forward," I say, my voice smooth, implacable, "you belong to me."

Her breath stutters.

I smile.

The fear in her eyes only makes me want her more.