Chapter 1 #2
Dust tickles my nostrils, threatening to trigger a sneeze that would announce my presence.
I hold my breath, eyes adjusting to the gloom.
The shed is small, perhaps six lengths square, with windows so grimy they barely deserve the name.
What little light filters through reveals a space frozen in abandonment.
Wooden shelves line one wall, sagging beneath the weight of clay pots and glass jars filled with substances I cannot identify.
Tools hang from pegs, human implements with wooden handles and metal ends, their purpose unclear but their edges concerning.
The air hangs heavy with the scent of forgotten things: dried soil, moldering leaves, rust creeping across metal.
On the far wall, a wooden table leans precariously, its surface cluttered with empty pots, bags spilling dark soil, and bundles of dried plant material tied with twine.
Beneath it, pressed against the weathered boards, lies a space just large enough for a wounded naga to conceal himself, if he does not mind the cobwebs and the dirt.
I do not hesitate, sliding beneath the table as the voices draw nearer.
My hair catches on the rough underside of the tabletop, and I bite back a curse.
Pain lances through my wounded flesh as I force my tail into a tight spiral, each scale scraping against the next.
My injuries scream in protest, but I continue compressing myself into the smallest possible target to disappear in the shadows.
The gaps in the wooden slat walls serve as my windows to potential danger.
I press one eye to a space between boards, watching as human legs appear in my limited field of vision.
Two pairs: one clad in dark fabric that ends at the knee, the other in lighter material that reaches the ground.
Their feet are encased in leather, and I sneer at their inefficient method of motility.
How weak they are, these humans, balanced precariously on two limbs like saplings in a storm. How vulnerable their soft flesh, unprotected by scales, exposed to every danger. No wonder they fear us. No wonder they hate what they cannot match in strength or beauty or resilience.
The pair of males pauses near the shed, close enough that I can hear their words clearly now.
"—check the greenhouse tomorrow. If the frost didn't kill them, we might salvage some of the seedlings."
"We should've brought them inside. The almanac predicted an early cold snap."
Their trivial concerns grate against my ears.
While my people learned to survive in a subterranean city, forced beneath the Serpentspine Mountains and scorched earth by human aggression, these creatures debate weather patterns and seedlings.
Not a word of battle strategy, politics, or the sacred teachings that preserve our culture despite their attempts to erase us.
The humans move on, their voices fading as they return to the larger structure. Only when silence returns do I allow myself to exhale, my body sagging against the dirty floor as tension drains alongside strength.
I should feel nothing but hatred. These are the descendants of those who slaughtered our clutches, who forced us underground, who even now conspire with naga traitors to finish what their ancestors began. I should want their blood on my claws, their screams in my ears.
Yet unbidden, the human female's face appears in my mind.
Leira. The Threadborn. Her chin lifted in defiance as she addressed me without flinching.
"Not all humans are your enemy, Lurok, as not all naga are mine.
" Then standing before my cell with fire dancing in her palm, melting the lock that held me prisoner.
I had sneered at her words then. What did she know of centuries of suffering?
What did she understand of watching your people driven to darkness?
Yet, she had freed me when she could have left me to die.
She had protected the youngling, Zara with a fierceness that reminded me of our own clutch-mothers.
And she had been betrayed by her own kind as surely as I had been by mine.
The realization disturbs me more than I care to admit. The clear lines between enemy and ally blur like smoke in wind. If Zaethir, who I fought beside, can turn against me while Leira, who should be my natural enemy, fights to free me... where does truth lie?
I ponder the old proverb , but the words ring hollow in this dusty shed, far from the certainties of my former life.
The elders always taught us that peace is the lull before slaughter, yet here in this abandoned shed, with moonlight catching dust motes that dance like memories, such wisdom feels as brittle as shed scales.
My wounds pulse with each heartbeat, blood pooling on. the dirty wooden floor. The edges of my vision darken, reality shrinking to a pinpoint. I should fight this weakness. Should remain vigilant. Should...
Leira’a words follow me into darkness, "Not all humans are your enemy, Lurok…"
The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is a thin beam of moonlight breaking through a dirty window, illuminating my scales with the same silvery light that once guided our ancestors across open plains, before we were driven below.
Before we learned to hate.