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VEYLAN

T he fortress is restless. I’ve been busy with the war going on in the East and the repercussions of saving Sera from House Velkiron.

But something has change in the past few days. Whispers slither through the halls like snakes, curling between stone and shadow. They speak of her.

They speak of me.

I hear them, though none dare say it to my face.

"The Dreadlord has gone soft."

"The human still lives."

"He took her to his bed, yet she still sings."

They think she has ensnared me.

They think I am weakened.

I let them think what they will. Their opinions are beneath me.

But my father? He is not.

The summons comes at dusk.

A demand, not a request.

The chamber is vast, cavernous, designed to make men feel small.

Hazeran sits on his throne of obsidian, a king carved from darkness.

My brothers flank him, their expressions varying degrees of amusement and intrigue. They are waiting for me to break.

I do not kneel.

I do not bow.

Hazeran speaks, voice smooth as a blade sliding between ribs.

"You stormed into House Velkiron for a human."

Silence.

"She should have been discarded the moment she was taken."

Still, I do not react.

"Kill her."

I let the silence stretch.

It lasts too long.

My hesitation is a living thing. A pulse in the room, a crack in the foundation.

They feel it.

My brothers smell it.

Maelrik smirks, lazy and sharp.

"Gone soft, have you?"

Vaedros exhales a laugh, sipping his wine. "Imagine that. The Dreadlord, brought to his knees by a human."

Drathis says nothing, but his gaze is knowing. Too knowing.

Xalith, the brute, watches me with something like hunger. A wolf waiting for weakness to bleed.

"He won’t do it," Xalith murmurs.

"Perhaps he cannot," Maelrik muses.

Vaedros hums. "Perhaps he does not want to."

The amusement is a knife against my patience.

Hazeran watches. Measuring.

Xalith steps forward, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers. "I say we test him."

He doesn’t ask for permission.

He just lunges.

The fight is instant. Brutal.

Xalith doesn’t hold back. Neither do I.

The moment his blade swings, I meet it with my own. Steel shrieks against steel.

The world narrows. The voices fade.

Nothing exists but the fight.

Xalith is bigger, but I am faster.

He moves like a hammer, striking hard, relentless. I move like a storm, precise, unyielding.

His blade cuts too close. I turn. The steel misses by an inch.

I slam my elbow into his ribs. He grunts, staggers back, grinning.

"That all you have, brother?"

I don’t answer. I strike.

My blade finds his shoulder. Blood splashes the sand.

He snarls, retaliating.

I duck. My fist collides with his jaw.

He stumbles. Spits blood. Laughs.

"She will be the death of you."

Something inside me snaps.

I move without thinking.

My next strike is not controlled.

It is not measured.

It is vicious.

The blade sinks into his side.

Xalith chokes on the pain.

The fight is over.

He falls to one knee, hand pressing against the wound.

I stand over my brother, blood dripping from my blade.

My chest rises, falls. Steady.

He looks up at me, lips curling.

"Careful, Dreadlord." His voice is thick with pain, but he is still grinning. "You’re starting to fight like a man with something to lose."

The words slam into me harder than his fists ever did.

I step back. Sheathe my blade. I do not react.

I turn, eyes locking onto my father’s.

Hazeran is expressionless.

But I see it. The quiet knowledge in his gaze.

He knows.

My brothers know.

I leave without a word.

I tell myself it means nothing.

But I feel it.

The shift.

The crack in my own foundation.

I hate that she caused it.