Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
VAROK
Ash coats my tongue like grave dirt as I push through the curtain of smoke.
Each breath burns, but I force air into my lungs, tasting char and ruin with every gasp.
The chamber lies shattered, its keh’shali guttering like dying stars.
I call her name again, my voice raw and unfamiliar to my own ears.
The sound vanishes into the roar of flames that lick at what remains of the Serpent Crown’s great hall.
Where is she? She was just here, by my side.
I told her she would be safe inside the palace. I should have known better. Safety is an illusion. The TrueCoil’s reach is farther than I ever gave them credit for, or else the rot runs nearer, hidden in the ranks of my own Talons.
Lurok’s face flashes in my mind, his contempt no secret. But to go this far? To destroy the great hall, to risk killing the Serpent Crown himself, all for the chance to rid themselves of the Threadborn? Even their fanaticism strains belief.
And yet…prophecy whispers otherwise. Four shall wake when one is crowned. Their power stirred, their fates unbound. Fire first, the Sovereign Flame.
Would they gamble even the life of Naryth and risk setting those words in motion? And if fire comes first, then perhaps it is not only her life they mean to snuff out, but mine.
The ceiling has partially collapsed, crushing the ornate table where we just dined.
My tail slams against fallen debris, shoving it aside with desperate force.
Stone shards bite into my scales, drawing blood I barely register.
The air itself burns, a furnace of shattered flame and smoke.
Heat lashes across my exposed scales, but it does not consume me as it should.
It sears, yes, but dulled, muted, as though some deeper fire within me rises to meet it, refusing to let me break.
I press forward, deeper into the heart of destruction, where the great hall once stood.
One moment we feasted with the Crown, the next I was hurled against stone by an unseen force, the world collapsing around us.
"Leira!" I shout again, though the smoke steals half my voice.
A Talon guard lies crumpled against a twisted column, scales blackened, eyes unseeing.
I recognize him, Therin, new to the Talons.
Dead. Beyond him, another warrior drags himself along the floor, leaving a trail of blood-slicked stone behind him.
Shapes stagger and collapse. Others claw rubble aside, their voices hoarse, their scales blackened.
The scent of char and blood thickens with every breath.
And then I see her.
A glimpse of pale skin beneath a slab of stone.
“No,” the word rips from me, raw and broken. I heave the stone aside, the weight meaningless.
She lies curled on her side, half buried beneath fallen rock, unmoving.
Her flesh, so delicate, so readily bruised, blooms with angry welts where the fire has licked it.
Her hair fans out against the stone floor in a mahogany halo, the edges blackened like parchment held too close to flame, its tips dissolving into ash.
Blood seeps from her scalp, painting crimson tributaries through the glossy strands.
I drop beside her, hands hovering over her broken form, suddenly afraid to touch, to confirm what my eyes refuse to believe. But I must know. Gently, I press fingertips against the pulse point at her throat, where human life beats closest to the surface.
A flutter. Weak but present.
Relief crashes over me, so powerful I nearly collapse. She lives. But for how long? Her breaths come shallow and irregular, each one a battle. Burns cover her arms, her face. A gash across her forehead seeps blood in a lazy trickle. One leg lies at an unnatural angle beneath fallen debris.
"Leira," I say her name softly, as if volume might shatter what little life remains in her. "I am here."
With calculated precision, I clear the rubble from her body, each movement measured to avoid causing further harm.
"Prithas!" First Fang Sareth finds me among the debris, scales ash-streaked but largely unharmed. "Where is the Crown?"
"I do not know," I answer sharply. "Get healers. Now."
"For the human?" someone nearby whispers, disbelief evident.
My head snaps toward the voice hidden by thick smoke, baring fangs that could puncture stone. "For my bloodmate!"
“I have already summoned all healers in Vessan-Kar,” Sareth says, his weathered face grave as he assesses Leira's condition. “Stay with her and I will search the rubble for the Serpent Crown.”
“Yes, go,” I say, watching Sareth’s form dissolve back into the churning gray clouds.
The Temple Guardians materialize through the smoke like spirits summoned from the void.
The hems of their ceremonial robes, usually pristine white, are streaked with soot and blood where they have dragged through debris.
They move with practiced efficiency, arms laden with baskets filled with supplies, crystal vials clinking against each other, bandages rolled tight, containers of salves and ointments.
Behind them glides Eira the Elder, her scales gleaming pale opalescent against the darkness.
Her milky-violet eyes seem to see beyond the physical wreckage, focusing immediately on Leira's broken form lying among the rubble.
She places cool hands on Leira's face. The ancient’s touch is gentle but clinical, fingertips testing pulse, tracing burns, sensing life force in ways beyond normal perception.
"She clings to life, but just barely,” Eira pronounces, her milky eyes fixing on mine with terrifying clarity. "Take her to the Flame room. The Flame claimed her as Threadborn. It will help heal her, or she will not survive."
My chest hollows out. The world narrows as I gather her into my arms, cradling her human fragility against my scales. She weighs nothing. Her head lolls against my shoulder, too still. Too quiet.
Emberyn at her throat pulses weakly, its once-vibrant glow now dim and erratic. Through our bond, I feel only the faintest echo of her presence, a candle flame in a windstorm, guttering dangerously.
"Stay with me, Leira," I command, though I have no authority over death, no matter my rank among the living.
I rise with her in my arms, turning toward the chamber's exit. The path we came through burns fiercer now, impassable. I scan the room for another way out, finding a servant's passage partially blocked by fallen stone.
"This way," Eira directs, turning toward a different tunnel. “The main entrance is blocked. This tunnel will take us out of the palace.”
I clutch Leira against my chest, her breaths shallow ghosts against my scales, fading too quickly.
Smoke thickens the corridor, swallowing the air, stinging my eyes until the world narrows to shadow and flame.
Heat lashes at us from every direction, carrying the groan of collapsing stone as fire consumes what once was sacred.
I drive forward, each strike of my tail scattering rubble, clearing a path.
Eira glides ahead, her movements sure where mine are frantic, her presence the only thread guiding me through this choking labyrinth.
The passage twists, tight and suffocating, but holds.
I force myself faster. There can be no hesitation.
Not with her life seeping out in my arms.
Then the tunnel yawns wide, spitting us out of the palace and into an assembly ground alive with chaos.
Warriors and healers swarm the space, organizing rescue efforts, setting up triage as others drag survivors to safety.
They part before me like water before a blade, eyes widening at the sight of the human in my arms.
That is when I see him.
Lurok stands at the edge of the assembly, silver scales pristine in the chaos, not a speck of ash marring his metallic body.
While others bleed and burn around him, he appears untouched, as if the explosion spared him alone.
His gaze fixes on something just beyond my shoulder, then slides to meet mine directly.
His eyes drop deliberately to Leira's broken form in my arms, lingering there before his mouth curves into the faintest of smirks.
Ice replaces fire in my veins. In my arms, Leira's breathing grows more labored, each inhale a desperate struggle. The TrueCoil's mark rises in my mind, that serpentine loop carved into market pillars, burned into loyal flesh.
My gaze cuts through the chaos, searching for the Talon aside from Sareth, whose loyalty I do not question.
Bronze scales catch the firelight, a mountain rising from chaos.
Malikor. A hundred years of battles bind us, my right hand when I need to strike.
I tilt my head, the smallest gesture. He sees.
He comes. No hesitation. No questions. Just the fluid grace of a warrior who has killed at my command more times than either of us has counted.
“Malikor,” I murmur, my voice deadly quiet.
“Find Sareth. Secure Lurok… discreetly. Seal every tunnel mouth with checkpoints with only your most trusted Talons. Go den to den and check every naga, Talon and civilian alike, for the mark of the TrueCoil. Round up those who bear it. Once my bloodmate is settled, I will come find you.”
Malikor inclines his head once, his heavy, umber braid swinging lightly as he tightens bronze coils beneath him. “Understood.”
I carry her toward the temple, away from flame, away from betrayal, each coil of my body a silent vow. If she lives, then so does the fragile peace she was sent to stitch together. And those who tried to burn it down with fire and treachery will find no shadow deep enough to hide them from me.