Chapter 6
Chapter Six
LEIRA
Ijolt awake to gold eyes hovering inches from my face.
Not the warm yellow of Varok’s, but a colder shade.
Metallic and unblinking. A female naga looms over my nest, her russet scales catching the dim light of the heartstone.
Her mouth twists in unmistakable contempt as she studies me, and I realize I've been watched in my sleep, examined like a curious specimen by someone who clearly finds me lacking.
My heart hammers against my ribs, sleep-addled brain failing to process the sudden intrusion. I scream—a short, sharp sound that tears from my throat before I can stop it.
The female recoils, scales tightening around her mouth, nostrils flaring.
"Dramatic," she mutters, the word dripping with disdain. "The Prithas requested you be fed," she announces, her voice clipped like shears snipping dead stems. "The morning meal awaits in the dining chamber."
Without apology or introduction, she turns and glides from my chamber, her serpentine lower half making no sound against the stone floor.
I press a trembling hand to my chest, feeling the hard outline of Emberyn beneath my robe. It pulses warm against my skin, synchronized to my racing heart. The familiar weight is somehow comforting in this moment of disorientation.
I push myself upright, the nest materials shifting beneath me.
Morning, if such a concept exists underground, has arrived, and with it the stark reality of my new life.
The ceremonial robe I slept in clings to my skin, wrinkled and still smelling faintly of temple incense.
I glance toward the neatly folded clothes I set aside last night.
Dressing feels like donning well-worn armor.
I leave my worn panties aside, sliding only into my leather trousers before tugging on my boots and simple sleeveless tunic.
The familiar texture of worn leather against my skin provides a momentary connection to home as I lace my boots with fingers still clumsy from sleep, despite my longing for my satchel of clean garments.
The ceremonial robe I fold neatly, hiding my discarded panties within its folds.
I cross to the washroom and catch my reflection in the mirror above the basin.
The disconnect is jarring. I look like a traveler, not a diplomat's daughter, certainly not the bloodmate to the Serpent King’s right hand naga.
My hair falls in tangled waves around my shoulders, silver beads from yesterday's ceremony still woven through the dark strands.
I am neither one thing nor another in this place. Not quite prisoner, not quite free. Not human diplomat, not naga mate. Just...lost.
With a deep breath, I step into the main chamber of Varok’s den, confronting the day’s first challenge.
The female naga I presume is Severa, Varok’s den keeper, moves efficiently around the dining area, her tail gliding in smooth arcs as she arranges platters on the tall stone table.
She wears a close-fitting sleeveless tunic that shimmers softly against her scaled flesh, tailored to accommodate her sinuous form.
I stand awkwardly at the edge of the dining space, unsure of my place. As I move toward the table, Severa quickly glides to the living area and continues her work without acknowledging my presence, as if I might contaminate her with my humanity.
"You are Severa," I say, my voice unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber.
She pauses with her back to me. "Yes," she answers without turning. The word falls between us like a hammer striking an anvil.
“I’m Leira.”
When it’s clear no reply is coming, I turn my attention to the dining table.
Its height perfect for naga to coil beside yet awkward for me without Varok’s tail as an impromptu seat.
I move closer, studying the strange spread Severa has prepared of glowing fungi, roasted roots in deep purples and browns, and a bowl of tangy-smelling paste beside what might be bread, though its blue-green hue hints at subterranean origins.
“Where’s Varok?” I square my shoulders and ask, trying to keep my voice neutral, composed so as not to give away my unease.
Varok said the serpent stone would warm when he is near.
Emberyn remains cool against my skin so I know he is not close by, and without him here, the air feels sharper, the weighty tension between Severa and me like an unspoken challenge.
"The Prithas was summoned to the palace." Her tone is clipped, each word measured as if speaking to me costs her something precious. She refuses to meet my eyes.
I hover uncertainly by the too tall table. I'll have to stand to eat, an awkward prospect that only emphasizes my outsider status. I reach for what looks most familiar, a piece of the bread-like substance, and tear off a small piece.
"This is interesting," I say, attempting small talk as I taste it. The texture is spongier than bread, with a faint mineral aftertaste that's not unpleasant. "What is it made from?"
Severa plumps a pillow on one of the loungers surrounding the heartstone with unnecessary force. "It is cultured from the fungal groves beneath the eastern caverns. Nothing dangerous, human." Her emphasis on the last word makes it sound like a classification rather than an identity.
"Thank you for preparing this," I try again, selecting what appears to be fruit that glows faintly along its ridged surface.
"I follow the Prithas's orders." She casts me a nasty look over her shoulder. Her scales tighten around her jaw, a ripple of tension visible along her throat. "His commands include ensuring you are adequately maintained."
Maintained. Like equipment. Like a burden.
I eat in uncomfortable silence, standing awkwardly beside the table. Severa moves around the den straightening and plumping, never coming closer to me than necessary, as if I'm an obstacle to be navigated.
She makes it abundantly clear I am unwelcome in her domain.
When she passes near the heartstone at the chamber's center, it flares brighter, responding to her naga energy in a way it hadn’t for me. The biotech thrums with her presence, accepting her as part of this living system while I remain foreign, disconnected.
"Varok mentioned the heartstone responds to naga energy," I say, watching the play of light across her scales. "It's fascinating how your technology integrates the stone into living systems."
Her eyes flick to me briefly, disgust tinted with renewed coldness. "It is not technology as your kind understands it. The stone remembers what we are to each other. It always has."
The subtle emphasis on we excludes me completely.
I fall silent again, focusing on the food, which, despite its strangeness, satisfies my hunger.
The fungi have a texture like meat but taste earthy and rich.
The roasted roots carry sweetness beneath their charred exterior.
Even the tangy paste, spread thin on the fungal bread, has a complex flavor that reminds me distantly of fermented honey.
Severa moves to collect my empty platters, her efficiency speaking of centuries of service. "The Prithas will return by midday," she says without prompting. "You will remain here until then."
Not a request.
I watch her rise up on her tail to reach a high shelf in the cookery, her serpentine grace emphasizing everything I am not in this place.
Her russet scales gleam in the heartstone's light, each one overlapping the next in perfect symmetry.
When she turns, I catch the edge of what might be a faded tattoo on the underneath side of her tail, some symbol or marking hidden when she straightens it behind her.
"Thank you for the information," I say, trying once more for civility. "And for the morning meal."
Her eyes narrow slightly, vertical pupils contracting in the chamber's light. "It is my duty to the Prithas." The scales around her mouth tighten again, a sign I'm beginning to recognize as displeasure. "Nothing more."
Severa collects the final platter and glides back to the cookery, her back rigid, her movements precise. I am left alone in the dining chamber, a stranger in my enemy’s home.
As the silence stretches between us like a drawn bow, all I can think of is escaping the den to put some distance between myself and Severa so I can take a full breath.
"I need to retrieve my satchel from the Temple of Threads," I say, keeping my voice steady as Severa puts utensils away. "It has my belongings, including clothing more appropriate than these riding leathers."
Severa turns slowly, gold eyes narrowing. "The Prithas left explicit orders," she says, each word clipped and cold. "You are not to leave the den without an escort."
"Then perhaps you could escort me?" I grudgingly suggest, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. My few possessions suddenly feel like lifelines to a world I'm rapidly losing touch with.
"I am busy attending to the Prithas's den." Her scales ripple in a way that might be amusement or contempt. "Your human trinkets can wait until he returns."
"They're not trinkets," I counter, heat rising in my cheeks. "They're my only possessions."
Severa slithers past me, the tip of her tail sweeping the stone floor in a brisk gesture I realize is dismissal.
“Then perhaps you should have brought them with you instead of leaving them at the temple.” She pauses at the entrance to what appears to be a large food pantry.
“I have far more important things to do than indulge your pathetic whims, human.”
The stone door flows closed behind her, leaving me alone. I stand still for the tick of a second, listening to the subtle pulse of the rock around me.
This is my chance!
Heart pounding, I move quietly toward the entrance. What Severa doesn't know is I've been mapping every twist and turn since I arrived. The path from the temple is etched in my memory, each junction and corridor carefully noted.