Chapter 1 #3
Silence fell, charged and electric.
“With a statement like that,” one of the basilisks said dryly, “we should take this inside.”
Liora glanced at him. He looked older than the rest, his yellow scales dulled with age. His voice carried the calm authority of someone who had witnessed enough foolishness to no longer be surprised by it.
A younger basilisk, smooth-skinned, green-eyed, hair tied in a too-casual knot, lifted a hand. “I’m going to need a drink for this,” he muttered.
Another one, taller, bulkier, and absolutely radiating eldest-child energy, caught Liora’s eye.
When he noticed her watching, he nudged the younger one aside with a firm shove of his tail, the gesture equal parts command and quiet reprimand.
“Be respectful,” he scolded…then added under his breath, “But yes. Definitely inside.”
The group of them headed back toward the bar, now mostly cleared out thanks to Hektor’s dramatic fire display.
Pythorus eased alongside the older basilisk, voice low and diplomatic. “If you’ll allow us a private corner, we can explain everything without an audience.”
Hektor motioned subtly for the siblings to follow, eyes sweeping for threats.
Liora caught the moment as Zara moved to follow, how Hektor reached for her sister’s hand.
Zara stilled, and Hektor’s usually guarded expression softened as he looked at her.
The sight tugged a quiet warmth from Liora’s chest. After everything, after all the chaos and stubbornness, she was genuinely happy for her sister.
Still, she couldn’t resist. “Oh, come on,” Liora sighed loudly, dramatic as a stage actress. “This is happening now?”
Elian elbowed her sharply. “Let them have their moment.”
Liora only grinned, entirely unrepentant.
The basilisks led the way into the bar’s private lounge, stone walls glimmering with vein-like gold, ancient carvings catching firelight. It felt secret and dangerous.
Liora lingered near the entrance, allowing the others to step forward first. She folded her arms loosely, observing rather than speaking. This part of the work—explanations, negotiations, careful persuasion—often fell more naturally to Hektor.
The basilisks settled in a loose semicircle, their massive coils shifting against the polished stone floor. Their earlier bravado had faded, replaced by wary curiosity. Slitted eyes tracked every movement.
Pythorus inclined his head respectfully, voice smooth and measured as he began. “My guests,” he gestured to the triplets and Hektor, “Are searching for certain demigods, specifically the children of Zeus.”
“Is that what that magic thing they did just now was?” the youngest-looking of the three asked.
“Exactly,” Pythorus confirmed. “But they aren’t looking for just any kind of demigod. They need to find the children he sired with shifters and monsters.”
The eldest-looking one crossed his arms over his chest. “What for?”
Hektor spoke up. “We believe they are in danger. No, we do not know from whom or what. But whoever they are, they have already struck before. They send evil beings from another world or perhaps another realm, assassins we call hunters to execute their plan. These hunters can take on different shapes and attack at any moment. They nearly killed another of Zeus’s children back in the Upperworld. ”
“What do they want?” another asked.
“There was a prophecy,” the Drakkon continued.
“The intent or meaning wasn’t clear, but it states that the half-creature child of Zeus will either free him from his prison and restore him to the throne or take his place.
Either way, whoever wants the children of Zeus dead doesn’t want that to happen. ”
Liora watched the basilisks closely as the words settled over them.
Unease flickered across their faces. Some exchanged glances.
Others shifted restlessly, tails tightening against the stone.
A murmur passed through the group before one basilisk moved forward.
His scales bore the dull sheen of age, and his presence carried a quiet authority that silenced the others without effort.
His gaze swept over the triplets, thoughtful and measured, before he introduced himself as Makron.
“We don’t know who our fathers are,” he said at last.
The admission hung in the air.
“Our mothers,” Makron continued, “are away on a mission beyond Solkaris. They will not return for several days.”
His slit-pupiled eyes settled briefly on her, as if sensing the watchful awareness behind her quiet stance.
“If you seek answers,” he finished, “you will find none from us.”
The basilisk who had caught her eye earlier slipped quietly from the group.
Deep green markings traced intricate patterns along his scales, sharp against their darker base, and his strikingly red hair fell loose around his shoulders like living flame.
There was an ease to him, a careless self-assurance that set him apart from the others’ uncertainty.
He didn’t look afraid. He didn’t look surprised. He looked…amused.
While the others continued speaking with Pythorus and Hektor, he drifted back toward the small bar tucked into the corner of the lounge, reaching for a bottle with casual familiarity.
She watched him for a moment. Then, without giving much thought to it, she followed.
The stone floor was cool beneath her steps as she crossed the room. Up close, she noticed the subtle strength in the way he carried himself, the controlled precision of someone accustomed to his own power, someone who had never learned to shrink or apologize for existing.
He poured himself a drink without looking at her. “I was wondering how long it would take,” he said lightly, voice edged with quiet amusement.
Liora stopped beside the bar.
He finally turned, golden eyes sweeping over her with open curiosity.
“All this talk of prophecy,” he continued, swirling the liquid in his glass.
“Divine blood. Storm gods.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
“You arrive in our home, tell us we may be in terrible danger, and expect us to simply nod along.”
He took a slow sip. “Very dramatic,” he added. “Impressive, even.”
She studied him, meeting his gaze without hesitation. There was something restless beneath his humor, something guarded, probing, waiting to see how she would respond.
“You don’t believe us,” she said.
His smile sharpened slightly. “I didn’t say that.”
The distinction hung between them.
She tilted her head, watching the subtle tension in his posture, the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly around the glass. His expression shifted again, the flippant amusement softening into something more thoughtful, more guarded.
“Danger,” his gaze returned to her, searching.
“And you,” he said, voice quieter now, “walk into Solkaris claiming you can see truths no one else can.”
She didn’t deny it. Didn’t look away. She had spent most of her life hiding what she was. Here, in Vale Crossing, she no longer felt the need to pretend.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Well,” he said, reaching for his drink once more, “this just became far more interesting.”
The quiet intensity in his gaze pressed too close to something real, something dangerous. And she had never been one to linger in seriousness when she could choose something lighter. Something easier. Something fun.
A slow, playful smile curved her lips. He was exactly the kind of trouble she enjoyed, confident, sharp-tongued, entirely too sure of himself. The sort of male who expected to control every conversation, every moment. The sort who didn’t realize how easily he could be undone.
And after everything, the upheaval of leaving the Upperworld, the relentless urgency of their mission, the constant tension of searching and warning and surviving, she needed this. A distraction. A game. A reminder that she was more than prophecy and responsibility.