Page 9

9

SERA

T he stone beneath my bare feet is cold, biting into my skin as I move—silent, careful, a shadow slipping between pillars.

The courtyard stretches ahead, framed by towering black spires, the pale glow of the twin moons spilling silver across the archways. Beyond the gates lies the unknown—something wider, something freer than this gilded cage Veylan has locked me inside.

I am so close.

The guards stationed at the entrance shift lazily, their weapons resting against their shoulders, their eyes heavy with disinterest. Dark elves do not expect humans to run. Not when there is nowhere to go. Not when they believe we are too afraid to try.

They are wrong.

My heart slams against my rib cage as I move into the cover of the hedge wall, my pulse hammering with every second I steal from this night. My throat is tight, my breath shallow, but I cannot afford hesitation.

I have one chance.

I press a trembling hand to my chest, feeling the vibration deep inside—the dangerous hum of something I don’t quite understand.

Then, I sing.

Not a song, not a melody, not something beautiful meant to be heard.

This is a whisper of power, a thing curling from my lips and slipping through the dark, threading its way between the guards like a lover’s caress.

It takes less than a breath.

The nearest guard stiffens, his silver eyes going glassy. The other follows, their bodies tensing before they sway.

A flicker of confusion crosses their features, and then their weapons slip from their hands, clattering to the ground with a sound far too loud in the silence.

My stomach clenches. I did that.

I do not stay to watch.

I run.

The world is a blur of black and silver, of moonlight cutting through towering stone, of wind biting at my skin as I race toward the open gate. The night stretches ahead, endless, a whisper of freedom calling me forward…

A hand closes around my throat.

My body slams backward, the impact brutal, my breath vanishing in a single violent crush of power.

The world tilts, the sky shifts, and then?—

I am pinned against a pillar, trapped, a force so much stronger than me pressing against my chest, crushing the air from my lungs.

Then I see him.

Veylan.

His silver eyes gleam in the darkness, the eerie glow of the torches licking across the sharp angles of his face. The grip around my throat is unyielding, his fingers curling, pressing, his control absolute.

But that is not what makes the fear slice through me.

It is his rage.

The quiet, simmering kind—it doesn’t explode but burns slow, like a dagger sliding between ribs.

He is furious.

Not just at my escape.

At something else.

Something worse.

"You used it," he murmurs, voice smooth, measured—lethal.

My vision blurs, my pulse hammering against his hold, but he does not let go.

"You sang for them," he continues, tilting his head as if examining something disgusting beneath his grasp. "Not for me."

The words sink in and I realize this is not about the escape.

This is about him.

My stomach clenches, my fingers curling against his wrist, desperate for air, but he only tightens his hold, dragging me forward until his breath ghosts against my lips.

"Sing for me."

The command is silk-wrapped steel, dangerous in its softness.

I shake my head, the movement barely more than a tremor.

A flicker of something passes through his gaze. He leans in closer, and the heat of him is unbearable, wrong, suffocating in a way that has nothing to do with his grip.

"You belong to me," he murmurs.

The words scrape against something raw inside me.

He thinks this is about possession. About power.

He is wrong.

It is about fear.

In this moment, as his breath trails along my skin, as his fingers tighten, as he demands something I can’t give, I realize something far worse than being owned.

He is obsessed.

I’m not sure if that is better or worse than death.