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SERA

T he chains bite into my wrists, cold metal grinding against raw skin, but I do not dare shift. Any movement might be perceived as defiance, and I don’t know yet if defiance is something that will get me killed.

The dark elves who dragged me here don’t speak as they march me forward, their armored boots clicking in rhythmic precision against polished stone. The corridor is endless, stretching into a vast hall so immense that the very walls seem to exhale shadow. Black marble gleams under the flickering light of hundreds of torches, their flames casting elongated, twisting reflections on the glossy floors.

They’re leading me somewhere else. A change of settings outside the Dreadlord’s war chambers.

A hundred silver eyes presses against me, the cruelly elegant nobles of House Drazharel watching from raised platforms that encircle the room like a theater built for bloodshed. Some observe with idle interest, others with the sharp-edged smirks of creatures who have long since forgotten what it means to fear.

I am the spectacle tonight.

At the farthest end of the throne hall, seated upon an obsidian seat carved with writhing serpents and jagged runes of power, waits the thing that now owns me.

Veylan Drazharel.

The Dreadlord.

His presence makes my skin crawl before my eyes even reach him. He is a void in the center of all this grandeur, a figure draped in crimson and shadow, his lean frame exuding the kind of quiet, effortless power that makes the air itself feel heavier. His silver eyes—too pale, too inhuman —fix on me the moment I am dragged forward, and I feel their weight like iron shackles.

No emotion. No interest. Just calculation .

I swallow hard, my throat dry, my heart hammering so violently against my body that I wonder if he can hear it.

They force me onto my knees before him, my shackles clattering against the cold marble; followed by a silence that is thick enough to smother.

He does not speak at first.

He watches.

Long enough for the silence to stretch unbearably, long enough that my muscles begin to ache from how still I am holding myself.

"How long have you known?"

His voice is smooth, controlled, but there is an undercurrent beneath it—something dangerous lurking beneath the surface.

I lift my head just enough to meet his gaze. If it is bravery or stupidity that makes me do so, I don’t have any idea.

"Known what, my lord?" My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

A slow blink, as if my answer is an irritation rather than a surprise. "Your voice," he murmurs. "Your power. How long have you been using it?"

My stomach knots. I force myself to breathe. To think.

Say the wrong thing, and I will die.

Say the wrong thing, and maybe worse will happen.

"I don’t have power," I answer carefully. "I only sang."

A pause. Then he leans forward slightly, the dim torchlight casting cruel shadows over his sharp cheekbones and the fine line of his mouth. His fingers rest lightly on the arm of his throne, tapping once, twice, a lazy rhythm that does nothing to conceal the tension coiling around him.

"You expect me to believe that?"

I don’t answer because I have no idea what will keep me alive.

His gaze narrows, and then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts a hand.

"Sing."

The word sends an electric pulse through my spine, a command wrapped in silk but heavy as a blade pressed to my throat.

I part my lips, but nothing comes out. Not even a breath of sound.

His silver eyes darken with something unreadable. "Sing, Sera."

My fingers clench into my lap, nails pressing against my skin hard enough to sting.

If I refuse, I will be punished.

If I obey…

I inhale slowly, my pulse hammering like war drums in my ears.

The first note leaves my throat in a whisper, hesitant, barely enough to echo through the cavernous space. But the moment I let it out, something shifts.

I feel it.

Like a ripple in the air, like an invisible force stirring around me.

The torches flicker. The room seems to breathe , a slow exhale of something unseen, something waiting .

He freezes.

Not a single movement. He barely breathes.

His silver eyes remain locked onto me, his breath suspended, his fingers curling just slightly on the armrest of his throne as though restraining himself from something even he does not understand.

The other dark elves shift uncomfortably, their amusement from earlier vanishing into something colder. Some glance at Veylan, as if searching for permission to react, but he gives none.

He is staring at me like I am an abomination.

I clamp my lips shut abruptly, choking off the melody.

An oppressive silence follows.

I am breathing hard now, my body trembling with a fear I do not fully understand. My voice does things I don’t think possible.

But he knows.

I saw it.

For the briefest moment, the Dreadlord himself had been held captive.

I drop my gaze back to the floor, my breath shuddering from my lips.

Veylan exhales slowly, measured, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter—but all the more lethal for it.

"You are either the most dangerous creature I have ever encountered," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, "or the most unaware ."

I don’t answer. I wouldn’t know what to say.

A hand gestures sharply, and before I can react, I am yanked to my feet, my chains rattling in protest. My head snaps up just as Veylan stands as well, stepping down from his throne.

The gap between us shrinks.

Too close.

Too much.

He towers over me, and though he does not touch me, his presence is suffocating—like standing at the boundary of a predator’s jaws.

"I could have you executed," he murmurs, his breath warm against my temple.

I feel my pulse stutter. "Then why haven’t you?"

A slow, razor-sharp smirk curves his lips. "I have not decided what to do with you yet."

He lifts his fingers, just barely brushing against my chin before pulling away.

Just as abruptly, he turns. "Take her to my chambers. Leave her in chains."

The guards move immediately, gripping my arms before I can process the words.

He does not look back.

I am dragged away, my heart thundering, my mind screaming with a single, horrifying realization.

He is not letting me go. He is not killing me either.