Bound to the Dreadlord

Chapter 1

Sera

The air in the underground slave pens is thick, stale—choked with the copper tang of unwashed bodies, the musk of damp stone, and the rot of old straw. It clings to my skin, seeps into my hair, burrows deep into my lungs like a sickness that will never leave. 

The torches lining the walls flicker dimly, casting long, wavering shadows that crawl across the low ceilings like hungry phantoms.

I keep my head down, my shoulders hunched, moving carefully through the narrow pathways between cots. The other slaves barely glance at me. Good. I have spent years perfecting invisibility, learning when to step aside, when to bow, when to let my silence shield me from the worst of this place. 

I am nothing. I am no one. That is how I survive.

A scream cuts through the heavy air. A crack of leather on flesh follows—a whip, or maybe the lash of a handler’s rod. The sound echoes, bouncing off the stone walls, followed by the wet sob of someone who hasn’t yet learned the value of silence.

Don’t flinch. Don’t look.

I force my feet forward. My hands tremble as I clutch the tattered remains of a water jug, its clay sides worn smooth from years of use. If I take too long, if I let my curiosity wander, I’ll find myself at the wrong end of that whip. And I’ve made it too far, stayed unnoticed too long, to ruin it now.

The pens are restless tonight. Something lingers in the air—something more than the usual dread that seeps into our bones like a second skin. Whispers slither through the dark, murmurs of an execution in the main courtyard. A human, one of the newer ones, caught trying to run. A fool’s mistake.

They’ll make an example of him.

I know better than to watch. I know better than to care. But it sits in my chest like a stone.

No one escapes House Drazharel.

No one escapes the dark elves.

I set the water jug down near the back of the room, close to my usual corner. This part of the pens is quieter, tucked away from the worst of the suffering, where the sick and dying are left to rot. It should feel safer, but the silence here is a different kind of cruelty.

I kneel, curling into myself, my legs drawn up, my arms wrapped around my knees. My body aches from the day’s work—scrubbing floors, carrying water, keeping my head down while dark elves passed, their voices dripping with disdain. The nobility rarely come here, but their guards do. Their handlers. Their enforcers. They watch us with unreadable expressions, eyes like silver moons in the gloom, filled with something far worse than hatred.

Disinterest.

To them, we are insects. Useful until we’re not.

I exhale slowly, pressing my forehead against my knees. My ribs sting, my muscles scream for rest, but my mind is still too sharp, too awake. My thoughts coil like snakes, restless and coiled too tight.

And so, before I can stop myself, I hum.

It’s quiet, barely more than a whisper of sound, just enough to vibrate in my chest. A melody, soft and slow, spilling from my lips before I even realize what I’m doing. It feels... natural.

Like breathing.

Like something I have done before, though I can’t remember when.

The sound wraps around me, comforting in a way nothing else ever has. The world seems to shift, just slightly, just enough to make me feel—

Movement.

I sense it before I see it.

A shape stands in the archway, just beyond the flickering torchlight. Tall. Cloaked in the heavy robes of nobility, the deep crimson and black of House Drazharel unmistakable even in the dimness.

My breath stutters.

One of them.

He is staring at me.

I go rigid, the song dying in my throat so fast that it leaves my tongue numb. I lower my gaze instantly, pressing myself against the cold stone behind me, my pulse a hammer against my chest.

I should not have sung.

I should not have made a sound.

He doesn’t move. I don’t dare to either. I can feel his gaze burning into me, stripping away flesh and bone until only raw, trembling fear remains. My stomach twists as I realize something strange—he isn’t looking at me with contempt.

He is... entranced.

His breath comes slow, unsteady, the rise and fall of his chest visible even in the low light. His lips part slightly, a sharp inhale, and I see his fingers twitch, as if reaching for something unseen.

I don’t get what I have done, but I know it is dangerous.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Go away. Leave. Forget me.

A heavy boot scuffs against the stone. Another step forward.

“Enough,” a sharp voice cuts through the space.

I open my eyes just in time to see another figure enter the room—a handler. His whip coils at his side, a sneer twisting his lips. His gaze flicks between me and the noble, narrowing slightly.

“Apologies, my lord,” he murmurs, though his tone is stiff, wary. “I will discipline her.”

No. No, no, no—

The noble’s gaze does not waver from me. His silver eyes gleam, the torchlight catching the predatory glint beneath his hood.

Without a word, he turns and walks away.

The handler hesitates, glancing after him, clearly thrown off. Whatever trance had held the dark elf is gone now, but I know—I know—I will not be forgotten.

I don’t know what I did.

I’m clueless as to why my voice did that to him.

But I do know one thing.

I have been noticed.

And in Protheka, that is the beginning of the end.