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VEYLAN

T he war room is colder than usual.

Not from the chill of stone or the ever-burning braziers casting a dull glow against obsidian walls.

No, this cold is a presence.

A calculated, watching, waiting presence.

Hazeran sits on his chair, untouched goblet of dark wine at his fingertips, eyes like sharpened steel pinned on me.

I do not stop walking until I reach my place across from him.

My brothers are already there.

Maelrik leans back against his chair, looking entertained, always entertained. The smirk curving his mouth does not reach his eyes.

Vaedros idly taps a dagger against the table, studying me with the slow amusement of a predator watching a wounded thing struggle to stand.

Drathis is tense, hands clasped in his lap, jaw tight as though he knows what’s coming and would rather be anywhere else.

And Xalith—Xalith is staring at me like he already smells the blood.

I say nothing.

Neither does Hazeran.

He watches. Measuring. Calculating.

And then—his voice slices through the silence like a sword.

"You are weak, Veylan."

A slow blink. A heartbeat stretched too long.

The words should roll off me like water.

They don’t.

I do not react. And that is reaction enough.

"Do you deny it?" Hazeran’s voice is quiet, even, the kind of tone that drips with the promise of violence.

The others are waiting.

Watching.

Hunting.

"You risked war for a human," he continues, tone unfazed. "And for what? A distraction?"

"She is nothing." My voice is cold. Steady. Unshaken.

A beat of silence. Then Maelrik laughs.

"Liar. You haven’t killed her. How many times does father have to tell you?”

We are back at this again.

I do not react, do not turn to him. I keep my gaze on Hazeran, my shoulders squared, my breathing measured.

My father does not blink.

"Then prove it."

A single, sharp order.

Xalith leans forward, all brute force and tension barely contained. "Dispose of her."

Drathis shifts in his seat, his discomfort clear but unspoken. Vaedros grins, tipping his dagger lazily toward me. "Yes, dear brother. Kill the little songbird. Let’s see you spill that lovely throat."

Hazeran does not smile.

He waits.

"You hesitate," Maelrik murmurs, tilting his head. "I think she’s gotten inside your head."

She has not.

She will not.

My fingers curl into fists beneath the table.

"You grow soft, Veylan." Xalith’s tone is mocking, but there is something behind it. Expectation. Hope.

He wants me to snap.

To prove something.

"Have I?" My voice is low, even. Dangerous.

"Yes," he says simply, unafraid.

I shift. Fast.

Chairs scrape, metal flashes—before he can react, I have him by the throat.

Xalith grins. Blood stains his teeth. "Ah. There’s the beast I remember."

I do not squeeze. Not yet.

My father has not given the order.

And his voice is the only one that matters.

Hazeran exhales slowly, resting his elbow on the table, fingers steepled.

"Are you finished?"

I hold the position a breath longer. After that, I release him.

Xalith coughs once, wiping blood from his mouth, before laughing.

"Soft," he mutters again, voice thick with mockery.

I glance at Hazeran.

He is watching me like a man who has already decided something.

I don’t like it.

"You will end this, Veylan," he says at last. "One way or another."

His words presses like a noose around me.

We both know what he is saying.

This cannot continue.

"What will you do, Father?" Drathis finally speaks, gaze flickering between us. "If Veylan does not?—"

"Then I will."

My stomach coils.

Hazeran’s voice is calm. Too calm.

"She is a distraction," he continues. "A weakness. And weakness must be eliminated."

Vaedros grins, flicking his dagger upright. "I’d be happy to do it myself."

My body tenses a fraction.

But my father sees it.

Of course, he sees it.

His fingers tap once against the table, watching. Waiting.

I inhale slowly.

Carefully.

"Then let her be disposed of," I say flatly.

My brothers pause.

They were not expecting that.

I push up from my chair, straightening. Dismissing them.

Dismissing this.

"Where are you going?" Maelrik asks, head tilting like a curious hound.

"To train."

A lie.

Hazeran knows it.

He doesn’t stop me because he has already set his trap.

He knows I have already stepped into it.

I stride from the war room, my hands clenched, my thoughts fraying at the edges.

I am not weak.

But my father sees something in me that he does not like.

And if he is forced to act—he will.

My jaw locks as I turn down the corridor, my steps quickening.

Hazeran will not wait long.

I need to get to her first.