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VEYLAN

T hey took her.

They took what was mine.

There is no hesitation.

The bloodlust comes swift, merciless.

I move through the stronghold like a shadow of death. The first to see me does not scream. He does not get the chance. My blade slides through his ribs, the steel singing as it finds its home in his flesh. His breath catches in his throat, eyes bulging before he crumples to the stone floor.

His blood is still warm on my fingers when I pull my sword free.

The second man is smarter—he tries to run.

He fails.

A single flick of my wrist, and a dagger blossoms in the back of his skull. He drops before he can even take his second step.

Good.

The fools thought they could steal from me, take her from me, and simply live?

They were wrong.

House Velkiron’s Stronghold is a place of cold, calculated treachery. Stone corridors weave like a labyrinth, torches flickering against damp walls. The halls stink of arrogance, of nobles who think themselves untouchable.

I will remind them what fear tastes like.

Their guards rush in. Six men.

Their leader, a brute of a dark elf, sneers, silver armor gleaming beneath the dim light.

“You dare enter our home alone, Dreadlord?” he taunts, blade lifting. “Brave or foolish?”

I do not answer.

I move.

The first dies before he can lift his sword. My blade slices across his throat, severing the words before they leave his lips.

The second comes at me fast, a spear lunging for my heart.

Too slow.

I catch the shaft, twist, and slam it back into his chest. Bones crack. He gasps, his mouth opening like a fish out of water before I slam my boot into his face and send him into the stone.

Blood spatters the walls.

Three left.

They hesitate now. Good. They should.

The leader, to his credit, does not waver. He snarls, lunging for me. His sword sings through the air.

Steel meets steel.

The clash shudders through my bones.

I give him one second of hope.

But I rip it away.

My second blade plunges into his stomach.

The moment his body slackens, I rip my sword free and let him fall.

The remaining two do not wait.

They drop their weapons and run.

I let them.

I want them to carry my name in their screams.

Let them tell their lords that Veylan Drazharel is here.

Let them know that death follows in my wake.

That he is coming for her.

I move deeper into the stronghold, hunting.

Velkiron’s stronghold is different from my own. Too polished, too refined. A house built on experimentation, on forbidden blood magic that has twisted the very walls themselves. The energy here hums, sickly and unnatural.

It grates against my skin.

But I do not care.

She is close.

Her presence pulls at me.

Then, I hear it.

A scream.

Not loud. Not terrified.

But defiant.

My hands tighten around my sword.

They made her scream.

Someone will bleed for it.

The chamber is large, dimly lit by flickering green witchfire.

They have her bound, kneeling.

Two guards stand beside her. Another lords over her, his hand wrapped in her hair, pulling her head back.

A noble I recognize.

Vaelor Velkiron.

An arrogant, power-hungry wretch who has long dreamed of our house’s ruin.

He smiles at her.

“You are something special,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb against her cheek. “I can see why he wants you.”

My vision goes red.

Vaelor continues, oblivious to his fate.

“But tell me,” he whispers, “will he want you when I?—”

He does not get to finish.

I slam him into the stone.

His bones crack. His breath leaves in a gurgled choke. His fingers spasm around the blade at his hip, but he does not have time to use it.

I do.

I grip his throat, lift him from the ground, and watch the panic bloom in his eyes.

“Scream,” I tell him, voice soft. Mocking.

He chokes.

Pathetic.

I twist my hand. Bones snap. His body goes limp.

I let him fall.

Not worth my blade.

The guards do not fight.

They drop their weapons, trembling.

“Dreadlord—” one of them stammers.

I do not grant him a reply.

I do not grant him mercy.

One flick of my blade.

They fall.

The room stills.

The only thing that remains is her.

Sera kneels before me, chains around her wrists. Blood on her lower lip from where she bit down.

Her eyes lift.

She is not afraid.

She should be.

But the sight of her—bruised, shackled, stolen—does something twisted, dangerous.

I kneel before her, fingers curling around the chains.

They shatter under my grip.

She does not move.

Only watches me.

“I told you,” I murmur. “You are mine.”

A flicker of something burns in her gaze.

Not submission. Something else.

Something that makes my blood heat, my grip tighten.

I stand. Pull her up with me.

Velkiron is still breathing. For now.

But there are more coming.

More who will die before they lay a hand on her again.

I turn to her, voice low.

“Can you fight?”

Her lips part and a slow, dangerous smile graces her lips.

“Try me.”