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VEYLAN

S era walks behind me, her steps careful, measured. Like prey tracking the breath of a predator.

She should be afraid.

She should be running.

Yet she follows.

The fortress corridors stretch wide, the cold black stone swallowing sound, swallowing light. Swallowing her.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask where we’re going.

I think she’s learning.

But I catch it—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitch at her sides, like she wants to do something reckless. Like she wants to fight.

She won’t. But she will.

I lead her to the training grounds. A vast, open space of packed earth and ancient weapons, stained with centuries of blood. It is not a place for ornamented nobles or slaves meant for pleasure. It is a place of war.

Sera hesitates at the threshold.

She doesn’t belong here. She knows it.

I turn, watching her closely. Her chin tilts, as if she refuses to show weakness, but her hands betray her—clenching, releasing. Uncertain.

Good.

She should be uncomfortable.

She should hate it.

I take a dagger from my belt and throw it at her feet.

She jumps back. Predictable.

"Pick it up," I say.

Her gaze flickers between the blade and me, lips parting slightly, hesitation curling at the edges of her defiance.

"Why?"

I step forward. Just enough to make her feel it. The difference in power.

"You are weak," I murmur, voice low, deliberate. "And I have no use for weak things."

She bristles.

Not just with fear. Not just with anger. Something else.

Something that makes my blood stir.

Her fingers twitch. For a second, I think she’ll refuse.

Slowly, she bends, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the dagger.

That’s when it happens.

A flicker.

A ripple between us.

The blade trembles.

Not much. Not enough for her to notice. But I do.

My entire body locks, my magic coiling deep in my veins.

Did she?—?

No.

Not possible.

Her grip tightens, and the moment is gone.

I step forward. "Again."

She frowns. "What?"

"Do it again."

Confusion flickers in her gaze. "Do what?"

She doesn’t realize.

I don’t answer. Instead, I move.

My arm lashes out, striking toward her. She gasps, barely dodging in time, the dagger slipping in her grasp.

The hesitation is infuriating.

"Defend yourself," I command.

She shakes her head. "I—I'm not a warrior."

"Then you will die as prey."

I move faster. Not enough to wound, but enough to make her stumble, enough to force her to react.

She does.

Clumsy. Untrained. But reacting.

She grips the blade tighter, trying to match me, trying to survive.

Something tightens in my heart, something dark, something hungry.

She is not fighting to win.

She is fighting because she refuses to lose.

That is what makes her dangerous.

Her breath is ragged, her stance weak, but she does not yield.

My blade stops just shy of her throat, the sharp tip grazing against her pulse.

She should cower.

She doesn’t.

Something thickens between us.

I lower the weapon, gripping her wrist instead, holding her still, forcing her to turn to me.

"You will learn," I say, voice rough, weighted. "Or you will break."

She swallows. I see it. The way her pulse betrays her.

She opens her mouth—to argue, to spit something reckless.

She never gets the chance as a voice interrupts.

"Distracted, are we?"

The world stills.

I release her immediately, and the moment shattered.

Hazeran stands at the boundary of the training grounds, arms folded, silver eyes gleaming.

I do not turn to fully face him. I don’t need to.

Sera does.

She tenses. The way prey does when it realizes it is in the presence of something worse than a predator.

Hazeran’s gaze flicks between us.

Assessing. Calculating.

"Training your pet now?" His voice is smooth, almost amused.

I don’t respond.

He steps forward. Slow. Controlled.

Sera stiffens.

Interesting.

She fears him.

Not me.

Hazeran tilts his head. "Or have you grown sentimental?"

My jaw locks.

Sera watches between us, her grip on the dagger still tight, like she’s preparing to defend herself against something she doesn’t fully understand.

Hazeran chuckles. "Be careful, son."

Son.

The word is a warning.

A reminder.

I am not free to make my own choices.

Hazeran turns, his robes sweeping behind him as he walks away, his amusement lingering in the air like a warning of something dangerous.

Sera exhales. I hear the relief.

But I don’t turn to her.

Instead, I look at the dagger still in her grip.

I look at the way the blade trembled when she reached for it.

And I make a decision.

She is not just a distraction.

She is something else. Something worth discovering.