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VEYLAN

S he lingers in my thoughts like a sickness that will not burn out.

She is in my chambers now, chained where I left her, and I am here, standing before the great obsidian table of my war room, pretending that I am not thinking about her.

The candlelight flickers against the black marble walls, casting jagged shapes that curl over the weapons mounted along the stone. Each blade bears past victories and wounds, each artifact a memory of power taken, lands burned, bodies broken.

Yet my grip tightens on the edges of the map before me, the parchment crinkling under my fingers.

A human girl should not have this kind of power over me.

I cannot ignore what I saw.

When she sang, something shifted.

The air had moved.

I have witnessed magic in many forms—blood spells, enchantments, curses woven into flesh. I have wielded power that turns men to ash. But this…

This was different.

It was not forced. Not channeled through dark sigils or ancient words.

It was innate.

I felt it .

That cannot be ignored.

A growl rumbles low in my chest, and I slam my hand against the table, rattling the silver goblet resting beside it. The sound echoes, but the silence after is louder.

The shadows stretch long as I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers, willing away this unwelcome distraction.

She is a slave. A creature bred for obedience, nothing more. And I am letting her invade my mind like some ghost, clawing through my thoughts with a power I do not understand.

The aroma of candle wax and burning wood greets me as I enter my private chambers, a stark contrast to the cold stone of the war room. The massive space is lined with deep red drapery, the polished black floor reflecting the low light of the iron chandeliers hanging above.

She is exactly where I left her—kneeling on the rug before the great hearth, her hands bound before her, chains coiled around her delicate wrists like silver serpents. The firelight catches on the pale curve of her throat, the ghostly sheen of her hair.

She does not look at me when I step forward.

Good.

I close the door with deliberate ease, letting the silence stretch between us before I finally speak.

"Sing."

She lets out a sharp inhale. Not fear, but something close.

Still, she does not move.

Defiant.

Even now.

Slowly, I cross the room, boots whispering against the stone. I stop just before her, the hem of my cloak brushing the floor.

"You will not make me repeat myself."

She lifts her head then, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes catch the firelight, twin oceans frozen in a storm.

"What do you want to hear, my lord?" Her voice is steady, but there is a tautness in it, something strung too tight, like a wire stretched to its limit.

I watch her for a moment, then crouch before her, tilting my head. "Surprise me."

Her lips part slightly, hesitation flickering across her face.

Softly, a single note escapes her throat.

It is not like before.

There is no grand swell of power, no great shift in the air. This is different—subtle, quiet, a thing barely more than a breath.

A chill slides along my skin.

The torches waver, the flames bending as if drawn to the sound.

My magic, dormant within me, stirs.

I feel it.

The way my pulse slows, my breath deepens. The way my body reacts without my permission.

It is a spell, but it is not a spell.

It is her.

I should stop this.

I should silence her.

Instead, I let her continue.

She sings low, a melody that makes the firelight glow warmer, richer. It curls through the air like fingers dragging over silk, twisting into the very fabric of the distance between us.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

I am letting her do this to me.

That realization is what snaps the trance.

With a sharp exhale, I move—gripping her by the chin, tilting her face up so abruptly that her breath catches.

The song dies instantly, cut off in a jagged gasp.

A single beat of silence, and then?—

"What," I murmur, voice low, dangerous, "are you?"

Her pulse is a wild drum beneath my fingers.

"I don’t know," she whispers.

Lies.

Or truth.

I do not know which is worse.

My grip tightens ever so slightly, enough to make her lips part, enough to watch her throat bob as she swallows hard.

My body is thrumming with something dark and unfamiliar, something infuriating.

I am reacting to her.

That cannot be allowed.

Abruptly, I release her, standing so quickly that she flinches.

"Enough," I say, turning from her.

I stride toward the window, staring out at the endless sprawl of my territory beyond the blackened glass.

She is a distraction.

An unknown. A risk.

I cannot let this continue.

But I also can’t stomach letting her go either.

I glance back over my shoulder, eyes narrowing.

"You will not be leaving these chambers," I state, finality heavy in my tone. "From this moment forward, you belong to me."

Her breath stills.

In that silence, I see something in her gaze.

Not just fear.

Not just defiance.

Something worse .

A storm waiting to break.