Page 8

8

VEYLAN

T he blade in my hands is familiar. Reassuring.

Steel does not waver. It does not betray. It does not hesitate.

Unlike my thoughts.

I slice through the air, the curved edge of my sword catching the glow of the torches lining the walls of the training hall. The chamber is vast, its ceilings domed with black stone, the pillars etched with ancient script—remnants of a war long before my time.

This is where I come to remember who I am. What I am.

But I cannot focus.

Not tonight.

Sweat beads along my brow, but not from exertion.

It is her.

Sera.

The human with a voice that does not obey the rules of this world. A creature with no weapon but song—and yet it stirs things in me no blade ever could.

I swing harder. Faster. As if I could carve her out of me.

But she remains.

She lingers in the edges of my vision, in the shadowed corners of my mind.

The curve of her mouth when she defies me. The silence in her eyes that speaks louder than screams. The memory of her seated across from me, stubborn and poised, refusing the food I commanded her to take.

She is not afraid of me.

She should be.

Another swing. Another breath. I drop the blade with a loud clang that echoes off the stone walls.

I press my hands to the cold edge of the weapons rack, bracing myself.

And then I feel it.

That sound.

Not a song—not fully—but the echo of one. A hum threading through the stone, ghosting down the halls, brushing against my magic like a lover’s touch.

I freeze.

She’s doing it again.

She’s testing her voice. Her power.

I shouldn't feel it. Not from this far.

But I do.

Gods, I do .

My cock stirs, hardening instantly, painfully, as the sound slithers into me like smoke. Her magic knows mine. It calls to it. Her hum isn’t a performance—it’s a summoning.

And my body answers.

I close my eyes, cursing under my breath, jaw tight, breath shallow.

This is wrong.

This is dangerous.

And I don’t fucking care.

My hand moves before I can stop it, shoving down the front of my trousers. My cock is already leaking, heavy in my palm. The moment I grip it, I hiss between my teeth—gods, she has no idea what she’s doing to me.

I pump once, slowly, my mind replaying that moment—the way her throat bobbed as she held back her defiance. The way her lips parted when I said her name. That breath, that sound that changed the air.

My hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing the imagined weight of her mouth, her body, her song.

“Fuck,” I growl, voice breaking in the empty chamber.

I stroke harder now, fingers slick around the head, imagining it’s her hand, her warmth, her breath teasing just above me.

I think of her singing while beneath me. Think of her whispering my name with that voice that bends the world.

And I break.

My release tears through me like lightning, hot and savage, spilling over my fingers as I brace against the stone. I groan low, unable to contain the sound, and somewhere deep inside me I feel it?—

A spark. A tether. A thread between us that is getting tighter. Closer.

Too close.

I lean against the rack, panting.

She is dangerous.

And she’s already taking a hold on me.