NOVEL NEXT Chapter 107: Hands Off
A few adventurers nearby had caught fragments of the exchange. The word Thorneveil whispered from Veyron's lips froze them in place. A kingdom of elves. And here were two elves, locked in a venomous argument in broad daylight.
It didn't take much to piece together that this was not a quarrel to meddle in. The moment they realized it was tangled in noble bloodlines, every one of them looked away, pretending to be engrossed in the arena where Ethan's test was unfolding.
Veyron noticed, of course. He saw their sudden silence, their hurried avoidance of eye contact — and it only fueled him. His lips stretched into a vicious grin, pride swelling in his chest. Yes… even here, they know better than to interfere. Fear is the only language worth speaking.
Without warning, he stepped closer and seized Lirael's wrist. His grip was crushing, fingers digging painfully into her skin.
She jerked back, struggling to free herself. "Let go—!"
But his strength was overwhelming, his stat advantage undeniable. He tightened his hold until her bow nearly slipped from her trembling fingers.
"If you enjoy playing the maid so much," Veyron murmured, leaning in, his tone laced with mocking sweetness, "then you're wholeheartedly welcome to become mine. I'm growing bored of my current servant… but a new one—" his eyes raked over her with possessive hunger "—especially if she's my little songbird… mm, that will do nicely."
He tugged, pulling her closer. She fought back, every muscle in her arm straining, her face tight with defiance and shame. Her boots scraped against the dirt as she resisted.
Veyron's brow arched, amused.
"Oh? You've gotten stronger." His tone shifted, playful and cruel. "Twenty-two years, and you've managed to muster a little resistance. How quaint." His grip tightened further, the veins on his hand standing out. "But still…" His voice dropped, cold and final. "Weak as always"
Lirael's breath shuddered, her struggles faltering against the crushing force of his grasp.
He leaned in, his lips close to her ear, whispering words designed to cut.
"Father was right… the males of our family are superior. You'll squeak and resist all you like, but in the end, it only makes the game more entertaining."
Lirael's teeth clenched, humiliation burning her cheeks. She wanted to scream, to strike him — but the fear, the memories, the cold steel of his dominance smothered her voice.
Veyron's grin widened as he drank in her silence.
"And as for this 'master' you're trailing after…" His eyes flicked briefly toward the arena, the view was blocked by crowd but the cheers were there none the less, heh..oblivious. "Whatever reason you've shackled yourself to him — debt, desperation, some pathetic bargain — it matters little. I will handle it."
He tilted his head, mock tenderness seeping into his voice.
"Only for you, my dear. Only for my songbird."
His low laugh slithered through her like poison, each word twisting the knife of helplessness deeper.
Veyron's voice dropped lower, savoring every syllable.
"And when you squirm like this, you remind me so much of her. Ah, Seridien…" His lips curled, almost reverent, almost vile. "Your mother had that same fire in her eyes before it was crushed out. How tragic… how delicious that her daughter inherited both her beauty and her futility."
Lirael froze. Her blood turned to ice.
The moment her mother's name passed his lips, all resistance drained from her body. Her strength faltered, her bow arm going slack in his iron grip. She couldn't even meet his gaze, her humiliation shackling her deeper than his hold ever could.
Veyron's grin widened, his voice coiling like a snake ready to strike again—
But then, in an instant, his entire body tensed.
A cold shiver ran down his spine, primal and undeniable. The fine hairs at the back of his neck bristled. He looked down—
A blade hovered at his wrist, its edge biting so close to flesh that the faintest pressure would cleave his hand from his arm. Its killing intent was suffocating, the kind that allowed no escape and excuse.
Veyron hissed through his teeth and released Lirael at once, stepping back quickly. His proud smirk flickered for the first time, replaced by narrowed eyes.
And there he was.
Ethan stood before him, tall and unyielding, his blade steady and gleaming with a promise of violence. The aura radiating from him was heavy, menacing—like a predator daring its rival to make the wrong move. His gaze never wavered, sharp enough to cut without steel.
For the first time since arriving, silence swallowed the square. Even the murmurs of the crowd fell away.
Veyron flexed the fingers of his freed hand, glaring, but said nothing.
The only sound that remained was Ethan's slow, steady breath… and the faint hum of his blade, still thirsty in the air between them.
Ethan's blade hovered inches from Veyron's hand, its cold steel humming with restrained killing intent. His eyes locked onto the elf's with unshakable calm.
Then, he spoke—low, precise, and merciless.
"…Tell me," his voice carried like a knife scraping glass, "do you have a problem in your head, going around touching what isn't yours?"
The words struck sharper than steel.
Gasps rippled through the adventurers nearby. There was no mistaking it—this wasn't an insult to elves, nor families, nor kingdoms. It was a direct strike at Veyron himself, who was definitely a noble. A public humiliation.
Veyron froze for half a heartbeat, his pride reeling. Problem in my head? This insect dares— His teeth ground audibly as rage twisted his handsome features.
Veyron's eyes narrowed into slits.
His mind snarled, hot with disbelief.
Wasn't this boy supposed to be in the middle of his trial? Did he abandon it just to stand here? Did he fail to even cut the block?
"You…" his voice shook with contained fury, "you dare speak to me like that?"
But Ethan wasn't done.
He stepped toward Lirael and placed a steady hand atop her trembling head. His expression softened only for her, a quiet contrast to the cold fury he radiated toward Veyron.
It's alright, his voice whispered in her mind, steady as stone. I'm here. He won't touch you again.
Lirael stiffened at first, then relaxed slightly under his touch, her ragged breathing easing. Her trembling stopped.
Ethan's gaze flicked back to Veyron, his eyes like drawn blades.
"She's mine," he said flatly, the weight of his words ringing across the arena.
"Touch her again—and you'll find out exactly what your head problem costs you."
The crowd fell into a hush, their earlier murmurs swallowed by the tension crackling in the air.