Page 23

23

VEYLAN

T he war room stinks of bloodless battle.

The kind fought with words instead of swords.

Hazeran sits at the head of the table, a god among mortals, his gaze razor-edged, unreadable. His presence weighs heavy, pressing down on the room like a noose slowly tightening.

To his right, Maelrik lounges in his chair, long fingers tapping against the hilt of his dagger, waiting.

Vaedros swirls wine in his goblet, studying the room like a man waiting for someone to misstep so he can bury the blade.

Drathis is half-listening, feigning indifference. But his jaw is tight, his grip white-knuckled on his knee.

Xalith, the brute, watches us all like a beast in a cage, one heartbeat away from lunging.

This is what brotherhood looks like in House Drazharel. A den of wolves, waiting to tear each other apart.

Hazeran’s voice slithers through the chamber, smooth and sharp all at once.

“The borders in the east are being tested.”

Silence.

Not agreement. Just waiting.

“House Velkiron grows bolder.”

Another silence.

I say nothing. I do not care.

Maelrik leans forward, interest flickering behind his crimson eyes. “Let them test,” he murmurs. “It’s been dull without a war.”

Vaedros snorts. “You only say that because you have no land of your own to govern.”

Maelrik’s smile does not reach his eyes.

Drathis, usually the quietest of us, finally lifts his gaze. “What do you propose, Father?”

Hazeran steeples his fingers, his silver eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“I will decide soon enough,” he says. “But tell me… who among you is worthy to lead when I am gone?”

The question is a blade to the room.

It cuts deep.

A challenge. A provocation.

The kind that ends in blood.

Xalith’s fists tighten. “That is a dangerous thing to ask, Father.”

Hazeran’s lips curl. “Is it?”

Vaedros lifts his goblet, his amusement laced with venom. “If you want us to kill each other early, at least have the courtesy to say so.”

Hazeran says nothing.

The silence burns.

I push back from the table.

Every gaze swings toward me.

Hazeran watches. Waiting. Testing.

“Leaving already?” he asks.

I meet his gaze. “I have no interest in squabbling over bones.”

A lie. I will rule.

But not today.

I turn, striding out.

Behind me, my father smiles.

The need strikes suddenly.

A fire in my blood, a pull beneath my skin.

I move through the fortress, every step heavy with something unnameable.

It is nothing, I assure myself. It’s only game.

But I find myself heading for her chambers.

The argument still coils inside me.

The way she defied me.

The way she kissed me back.

Bit me.

Burned with me.

I have to see her. Have to remind myself why she is still nothing.

But as I near her room, something unfurls inside me.

A warning of something wrong.

The door is open.

I stop.

Stillness.

Too much stillness.

The room is wrong.

A chair overturned.

The table scraped across the floor.

My stomach clenches.

A single hairpin glints in the dim light.

I step inside, slow, controlled.

Not because I am not furious.

But because I am calculating.

One breath. Then another.

Glass crunches beneath my boots.

The scent of something metallic lingers.

Not blood.

Something else.

She wouldn’t leave.

Not without a fight.

Not without clawing and screaming.

Someone took her.

And they left their scent behind.

Velkiron.

The realization snaps something deep.

Primal.

Unforgivable.

I breathe once.

Then I stop.

The rage creeps in.

Boils under my skin, thick and all-consuming.

They took what was mine.

My jaw locks. My fists clench.

Something inside me shifts.

A decision.

There will be no mercy.

There will be no negotiations.

House Velkiron will bleed.

I will carve through them until she is back where she belongs.

With me.