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SERA

T he tunnels open to the night.

The cold wind slaps against my skin, a cruel contrast to the thick heat that still lingers from our escape. Veylan keeps moving, his grip on my wrist unrelenting, his strides devouring the ground as if distance alone can erase the mark of what he’s done.

What we have done.

“They will hunt us.” His voice is like gravel, low and sharp. He doesn’t look at me. He hasn’t looked at me since he pulled me into the dark. “They will never stop.”

I try to yank my arm free. Fail. “Then what’s the plan?”

He halts. The sudden stop sends me crashing into his back.

I step away instantly, but the heat of him lingers.

Veylan finally looks at me. Really looks at me.

There’s something wrong with his expression. Not fury. Not hunger. Something worse.

“They will look for a noble and his stolen human,” he says. “So we give them something else.”

It stinks of desperation.

The kind of place where gold and secrets mean more than blood.

Dark elves roam the narrow alleys, hooded figures whisper in huddled corners. A merchant drags a human girl by her chain, her collar gleaming under the dim lantern light. She stumbles, but he doesn’t stop.

Veylan steps closer to me. “We need disguises.”

I bite my lip to keep from reacting. To keep from revealing too much.

Disguises.

My pulse is a storm as realization sinks in.

He will have to play the noble. And I will have to play the slave.

He watches me. He doesn’t say it, but I see it in his silver gaze—can you do this?

The answer should be no.

Instead, I nod.

The disguise works. Almost.

I walk two steps behind him, head bowed, my wrists loosely bound with rope to complete the illusion.

Veylan plays the part effortlessly. Too effortlessly.

He moves through the tavern like he owns it, shoulders loose, stride arrogant. Like he belongs in places like this.

A place where men bargain for flesh.

A place where I could be bought.

I hate that my body responds.

We sit. The table is grimy beneath my fingertips. Veylan orders a drink in fluent elvish. I keep my head down. My heart pounds.

A man sits across from us.

Eyes too knowing flicker to me.

“She does not act like a slave,” he says.

Silence.

The tension sharpens.

Veylan leans back, slow and predatory. “Perhaps you would like to test that theory.”

I stiffen.

The man studies him. Then me.

He laughs.

But the laughter is wrong.

“She is not a slave,” the man murmurs. “She is something else.”

Veylan moves, just not fast enough.

The man grabs my wrist.

A mistake.

I react on instinct. My lips part. The song slips free. A single note.

The man’s pupils dilate. His grip loosens. His breath hitches.

Then his body slumps.

Unmoving. Dead.

The tavern erupts.

Veylan shoves me behind him. “Run.”