Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
VAROK
The war chamber swallows sound, its vast circular expanse designed to contain both strategic discussions and the occasional explosive temper of naga commanders.
Carved from the densest obsidian, the walls are veined with luminous light, casting an ethereal glow across ancient battle maps and tactical displays etched into the stone itself.
At the center stands a massive table, its surface alive with glowing representations of Vessan-Kar and the territories above.
Sareth and Traven await me, their scaled forms motionless except for the faint flick of a tail tip, a telltale sign of tension.
Their eyes track my entrance, assessing my mood, my readiness.
I slither to the head of the table, assuming my position without ceremony, arms folded as I study the pulsing light that marks the eastern border of the Ashlands and the Serpentspine Mountains.
Even as I prepare to immerse myself in reports of borders and threats, I remain acutely aware of her presence in the palace.
Even now, as she explores the garden with Zara, her presence acts as a constant point of reference around which my thoughts orbit like moons bound by gravity's inexorable pull.
"Report," I command, my voice pitched low but carrying in the chamber's perfect acoustics.
Sareth straightens, weathered scales gleaming under the map's light.
"The OathCoil reports only routine matters.
Nothing significant since our last meeting.
" He traces a claw along the eastern border and taps.
"Malikor and Jarik have established a surveillance post at the mountain base; a makeshift hollow they have carved from a collapsed cavern.
From there, they track General Thorne's Shadow Division as it moves through the old trench networks.
Thorne's forces have not advanced, but they are maintaining position uncomfortably close to our territory. "
I narrow my gaze at the pulsing red marker on the map.
General Thorne and his Shadow Division, elite fighters with specialized training in naga extermination, have positioned themselves at the edge of our territory.
Close enough to threaten yet carefully remaining just beyond the treaty's boundary line.
A calculated provocation, perhaps, or preparation for something more sinister.
"How many fighters?" I ask.
"Two hundred males, heavy artillery support," Sareth answers. "More than a border patrol, but less than an invasion force."
"For now," Traven adds, his calm voice edged with caution. "Supplies continue to arrive daily. They build their strength gradually, perhaps hoping we will not notice the increment."
I nod, processing this information against what I know of human military tactics. General Thorne is too shrewd for random posturing; every move he makes serves a purpose. The question is whether that purpose comes from the human Council of Elders or from his own ambitions.
"And Lurok?" I ask, my attention shifting to the former Second Fang who vanished after the bombing.
"Still no sign," Traven answers, shifting his weight, his heavy bronze coils rearranging with deliberate precision. "But the guards stationed near the collapsed tunnels on the north side found this in a crevice along the wall as if dropped in haste.”
Traven reaches into a small satchel slung across his chest and pulls out the item wrapped in cloth. When he unwraps it and sets it on the table between us, the light from the war map catches on metal that is smooth, reflective, and foreign.
I lean forward, eyes sharpening. "That is not naga made."
The object that lies before us is a small cylindrical device, forged from a silver alloy. Its shape is compact, functional, almost crude, with a narrow ridge along one side and a recessed slot at the base. Human craftsmanship, without question, but its purpose...
Traven studies it closely. "It looks like a trigger," he says, "for a mechanism...like a bomb, perhaps."
"A detonator," Sareth nods grimly. "Humans use these to set off their incendiary explosive devices from a distance."
The weight of memory settles like stone in my gut.
I have seen these before, in the final years of the Sundering, these small, innocuous objects that preceded devastation.
Human soldiers would plant their explosives, retreat to safe distances, and activate them with devices just like this.
The destruction they wrought is etched into naga memory, entire cavern systems collapsed, homes destroyed, young crushed beneath tons of rock.
I study it in silence, my mind racing through implications, each more troubling than the last. "How would such an object find its way here?"
The question hangs in the air, ominous in its simplicity.
Traven and Sareth exchange uneasy looks. Traven's tail constricts beneath him in a defensive posture. "There are no humans in Vessan-Kar save one," he says carefully. "Even if one tried, they would never get past the guards posted at the obsidian gates.”
"Unless," Sareth cuts in, "a naga brought it through."
The silence that follows is heavier than stone. I gaze at my two most trusted commanders, the truth settling between us with cold finality.
“One of our own carried this in," I say, the words bitter as venom on my tongue. I think of Lurok after the bombing, and how the male was completely unscathed.
"It is possible," Sareth replies, his voice deliberate yet cautious. "The TrueCoil moves in shadows, and if they believe the humans share their goal of keeping us divided, perhaps they have joined forces for a common cause."
My claw taps the detonator, a hollow sound that echoes my suspicions.
"What if there is another faction entirely? Naga who have aligned with human extremists, both seeking to destroy any chance of alliance. Lurok has never hidden his hatred for the humans and yet he does not bear the TrueCoil’s brand.
" The realization settles like ice in my veins.
Lurok's voice echoes in my memory, that day in the grooming chamber before my Crimson Bond ceremony: "And yet you will find no twinned fang brand upon my scales.
" His pride in the admission now takes on a darker meaning.
Sareth's jaw tightens, scales rippling with tension along his throat as he cracks his knuckles. "Collaborating with the enemy for a common goal. That has Lurok's stench all over it." His eyes narrow to amber slits. "Now we just need to find the treacherous serpent.”
"Lurok is here somewhere," I growl, my tail lashing at the air. "He did not simply vanish into thin air."
"Yet Malikor lost his trail along the western tunnels," Traven points out, leaning forward over the war table. "And he is one of our best trackers."
"He is being hidden away by the enemies among us," Sareth says, his scales catching the map's glow as they ripple along his heavy shoulders. "It is only a matter of time before we find him and the ones loyal to him."
I straighten to my full height, the carved lines of my face hardening into the mask of sovereignty. "This must be the detonator that set off the bomb in the great hall.”
"If this new faction wants to end the prophecy, why kill the Serpent Crown knowing you would be next crowned?" Traven questions, his blue eyes gleaming with the cold clarity of a strategist. "That only moves the prophecy forward."
The question is incisive, cutting to the heart of the mystery that has plagued me since Naryth's death. The TrueCoil seeks to maintain naga purity, to prevent the dilution of bloodlines through human contact. But this other faction, this shadow within shadows... what do they truly want?
"What if the bomb was meant to kill not only Naryth but Leira, perhaps even me?" I suggest, voicing the fear that has haunted me since pulling her broken body from the rubble.
Understanding dawns on Sareth's weathered face. "With the Threadborn gone, that would certainly put an end to the prophecy."
I nod, the pieces falling into place with terrible logic. The target was not just the Serpent Crown, but Leira, and by extension, the future the prophecy foretells. The Season of Naga, the awakening of the elementals, the unification of our species with humans...all of it hinges on her survival.
I lean forward, jaw tightening. "Double the efforts in the search for Lurok and his faction of loyalists; the serpent cannot be acting alone.
And review every guard rotation at the gates over the past moon cycle," I order, my voice lowering to a dangerous hiss.
"Search for the twinned fang mark of the TrueCoil, or any unfamiliar brand that could identify this new faction. "
Sareth and Traven bow low, acknowledging the command. "At once, Sovereign," they say as one.
"And Sareth," I add, my tone hardening to a warning growl, "do not just inspect their scales. Interrogate them. I want to know if their loyalty truly lies with the Crown."
He nods once, sharply, and departs with Traven, the weight of my command settling like cold metal in the air they leave behind.
Left alone with the war table and its glowing representations of territories and threats, the chamber seems larger.
The silence more complete. I press my palms against the edge of the table, leaning my weight into the ancient stone.
Reports of border movements, detonators near collapsed tunnels, human forces gathering at our threshold, each piece of information slots into a pattern of encroaching danger.