Page 31

31

SERA

V eylan is avoiding me.

At first, I tell myself this is a good thing.

For days, I don’t see him. No harsh commands. No sharp silver eyes dissecting me like something he’s trying to break apart and understand. No cruel hands dragging me too close, holding me just long enough to make my breath catch before shoving me away.

I should be relieved.

But something festers in the absence.

The fortress shifts, and I feel it—something is wrong.

I hear it before I see it. The whispers.

"The siren."

"The Dreadlord keeps her."

"She sings to him in the dark."

The rumors are spreading, curling through the halls like a slow-moving plague. I hear it in the sharp laughter of the nobles, in the way the guards shift uneasily in their posts. I see it in the way dark elf women watch me with something close to curiosity. The way the men watch me with something much worse.

Veylan has vanished from my sight, but the rest of them—they are starting to see me.

I need to know what they are saying.

The halls wind and twist, dark stone swallowing sound. I walk carefully, head low, body moving like I belong. No one stops me. No one even acknowledges me. Not yet.

A group of guards linger near the training grounds, speaking in hushed voices.

"He lets her stay in his chambers."

"She does something to him."

"You think he’s ensnared?"

"The Dreadlord? Please."

Laughter, but not dismissive. Curious.

My stomach tightens.

I keep walking, moving unseen, slipping past conversations that thrum with something dangerous.

"A siren."

"Impossible."

"Then explain why he keeps her."

"Explain why he killed for her."

The breath in my lungs freezes.

I knew the whispers would spread. But not this fast. Not this loud. And now, they are watching me differently.

I don’t realize I’ve taken a wrong turn until it’s too late.

The corridor narrows, the torchlight flickering too weakly against the dark.

A shadow shifts behind me.

I turn.

A guard blocks the path.

He is not like Veylan.

There is no patience in his gaze.

No leashed restraint, no careful cruelty sharpened into something like discipline.

He wants.

His eyes rake over me, lingering too long, lips pulling into something sharp and ugly.

"What’s a little human doing sneaking around, hmm?"

The torchlight glints against his dark armor. His sword is still sheathed at his side. He doesn’t think I’m a threat.

That makes one of us.

I step back. Not fast enough.

His hand shoots out, fingers catching my arm, squeezing. Hard.

"You think being the Dreadlord’s pet makes you untouchable?" he murmurs, dragging me closer. "That it makes you special?"

Panic claws at my throat. I shove against him, hard. He doesn’t move.

His other hand lifts, trailing to my jaw.

No.

Not like this.

The fear sparks something bright and vicious.

The heat in my veins unfurls. The tight coil in my stomach snaps.

And I sing.

Not a melody. Not a song. A sound.

A single, aching note.

The guard stiffens.

His body jerks. Eyes go wide, too wide.

His grip tightens—then falters. His breathing stutters, lips **parting as if to speak—**but no sound comes.

Veins blacken.

Skin drains of color.

His body spasms, and then he collapses.

Blood drips from his nose. His mouth. His ears.

I stumble back.

I killed him.

Not with a blade. Not with my hands.

With my voice.

The corridor spins. My body shakes, heart slamming against my rib cage.

I expect horror.

I don’t feel it.

I expect guilt.

I don’t feel that either.

What I feel—what terrifies me the most?—

Is how easy it was.

How good it felt.

I press a hand to my mouth, smothering a sound that is not a scream.

I need to get away.

Before someone finds me.

Before I make this mistake again.