Chapter 7 #2
"Come," I say finally, gesturing toward the market path. "We should continue if we are to have suitable attire made for you before our audience with the Serpent Crown."
As soon as I uncoil my tail from around her waist, a violent ache strikes me as if a vital piece of me has been ripped away.
My scales contract, seeking the warmth they have lost. The blood bond, I tell myself.
It must be the blood bond, nothing more.
What naga would feel byrn for a human? Yet here it is, winding through my body like a second spine, making my muscles twitch with the need to pull her close again.
The magnetic yearning, this relentless heat that coils tighter with each breath she takes, as rare as it is undeniable.
I fight it, telling myself these feelings are impossible, unnatural, and dangerous.
She is human. She should inspire caution, diplomacy, wariness, not this reckless fire.
But every time I catch her scent, the pull sharpens, relentless.
Byrn. I know its name. I know its significance.
And I know I must master it or I am mastered by her.
She steps from the alcove first, her small form filling the tunnel with her defiance.
I follow, my scales prickling at each shadow, each whisper of movement in the stone corridors.
The air between us crackles, dangerous as lightning before a storm, and I taste her scent on my tongue with each flick, sunlight and salt and something uniquely hers that makes my venom sacs ache.
Later, when the stone walls of my den shield us from prying eyes, I will tell her of the TrueCoil's whispers, of daggers that seek her throat in darkness.
For now we move through the tunnels, my tail twitching with the maddening urge to coil around her once more. I continue to position myself as a barrier between her and every passing naga, but as a companion and not as the jailor she thinks I am.
The market cavern opens before us like the maw of some ancient, luminous beast. Ceiling vaults arch hundreds of feet overhead, draped with cascading fungi that glows in waves of gold light.
Merchant stalls line curved pathways that spiral inward toward a central plaza, each one alive with color and texture against the dark stone.
The scents of spices, exotic oils, and living crystal hit me in a familiar rush, but my attention snaps immediately to the fresh markings carved into a supporting pillar near the entrance: a serpentine loop formed by two intertwined coils, shaped into an infinity symbol but with pointed ends like fangs.
At the center where the loops cross, a small spiral represents the hidden heart of the TrueCoil’s purpose.
The insurrectionist signature, brazenly displayed where all can see it.
My muscles tense involuntarily, tail thumping the stone floor in agitation. The marking is fresh, the edges too sharp, the stone dust still visible at its base. This is no ancient graffiti but a recent statement. A warning. A declaration. A line drawn in the sand.
Zara's warning whispers through my mind like a cold draft, Watch the shadows, Prithas, for they are watching you.
"What is that symbol?" Leira asks, her sharp eyes missing nothing, her expression curious rather than fearful.
I hesitate, conscious of the crowds flowing around us, of ears that might catch words meant only for her. "Nothing of import,” I say quietly, guiding her past the pillar, keeping my body between her and the carved threat. "I will explain later.”
The market throngs with serpents of every caste and coloration.
Merchants call their wares in the sibilant tones of our ancient language, while buyers coil before stalls to examine glowing potions, woven silks harvested from cavern-spiders, and jewelry crafted from vibrant crystals.
Baskets of phosphorescent fungi release spores that drift like golden motes through the air.
Vendors roast cave-dwelling creatures over small flames, their aromas rich and savory.
As we move deeper into the market, heads turn.
Conversations falter. Eyes narrow or widen depending on the viewer.
Some bow their heads respectfully at the sight of my warrior bands with Prithas sigil, only to freeze when they notice the human at my side.
Their reactions range from naked curiosity to poorly disguised contempt.
Yet Leira walks beside me with her head high, her stride measured and confident.
She meets their stares without flinching, neither challenging nor submissive.
Pride rises within me, flooding my chest with warmth.
Many would quail under such concentrated scrutiny, yet this human female moves through it as if born to face down predators.
"The weavers’ district lies ahead," I tell her, nodding toward a section where stalls overflow with shimmering silks and delicate weaves in colors no surface-dweller has likely seen. "Furra is the finest seamstress in Vessan-Kar. If anyone can create garments suitable for your form, it is her."
Furra's stall stands apart from the others, larger and more elaborately decorated with hanging samples of her craft.
The fabrics catch and transform under the light, seeming to shift colors as we approach.
The merchant herself coils behind a polished stone counter, her copper scales gleaming like burnished metal.
When she sees me she straightens, professional interest lighting her amber eyes…
until her gaze falls on Leira. Her pupils contract to thin slits, her mouth tightening.
"Prithas Varok," she greets me, her voice honey over gravel. "What service can I provide for you today?" She deliberately ignores Leira's presence, as if speaking directly to a human might contaminate her.
"My bloodmate requires garments," I say, emphasizing the word bloodmate with deliberate precision. "Appropriate for an audience with the Serpent Crown this evening and for daily wear thereafter."
Furra's scales ripple, the only sign of her discomfort. "Human proportions may prove...challenging," she says, eyeing Leira with undisguised distaste. "The bifurcated lower limbs require significant pattern adjustments."
"Then it is fortunate you excel at challenges," I reply smoothly. "I have brought her to the best, after all."
Furra slithers from behind her counter, tape measure in hand. She circles Leira like a predator assessing prey, her movements fluid but tense. "I will need to take measurements," she says, not addressing Leira directly.
"Of course," Leira answers anyway, her voice steady. She stands perfectly still as Furra's fingers press against her shoulders, her waist, the curve of her hip.
I watch the process with unnecessary intensity, aware of every place the merchant's hands touch my mate.
The possessiveness that surges through me is unfiltered in its intensity.
I have never been territorial over a female, yet something about the clinical way Furra handles Leira, like a specimen rather than a living being, makes my scales tighten along my spine.
"These fabrics are beautiful," Leira says, reaching out to touch a shimmering length of silk that shifts between sapphire and emerald as the light changes. "I've never seen colors like these before."
Furra makes a non-committal sound, neither acknowledging the compliment nor engaging with Leira directly.
"Select whatever pleases you," I tell Leira, surprising myself with the generosity. "Choose fabrics for several garments, not just for tonight."
Her eyes widen slightly. "That's not necessary—"
"It is." Something in me wants to see her draped in the finest Vessan-Kar has to offer, wants to erase the memory of her in those travel-worn leathers.
She has endured so much these past days: the journey here, the bonding ceremony, the hostility of my people.
This small comfort feels insufficient yet necessary.
"Select what you like. Furra will create garments worthy of your form.”
Furra begins draping various fabrics over Leira's shoulders, across her arms, holding swatches against her skin to assess how they complement her complexion.
"Perhaps something less revealing," Furra suggests with a curl of her lip, adjusting a length of translucent silk that falls improperly across Leira's chest. "Humans lack the proper scale protection. All that exposed skin is rather...primitive."
Heat flares beneath my scales, an anger I had not anticipated. "My bloodmate's form requires no commentary," I snap, my voice carrying the edge that makes young warriors tremble during training. "Your expertise lies in fabric, not species judgment."
Furra flinches visibly, her copper scales darkening with fear. "Of course, Prithas. I meant no disrespect."
Leira glances at me, surprise evident in her expression. I had not meant to defend her so vehemently, yet the words emerged unbidden, protective and fierce.
"I require the first garment completed by midday," I continue, my tone cooler now, professional. "My den keeper will collect it. The others can follow in the coming days."
"As you command, Prithas." Furra bows her head, properly chastened.
I notice Leira's lips curve in the slightest grin, quickly suppressed. Something warm and unfamiliar uncoils in my chest at the sight. I should not care that my defense pleased her. I should not feel this strange desire to see that smile again, broader and unguarded.