Chapter 2
Serin
I press my cheek against the cool metal of the vent, holding my breath as dust tickles my nose.
Father's study sprawls below me, all polished wood and leather-bound books, the afternoon sun cutting sharp rectangles across the floor.
This isn't the first time I've wedged myself into these narrow passages, but my heart still hammers against my ribs like it might betray my presence.
The metal groans softly as I shift my weight, and I freeze, counting heartbeats until I'm certain no one has heard.
Through the slats, I watch Captain Garren Halvane stride into the room, each step precise and measured like he's counting the distance to his prey.
Even from here, I can see the cruel set of his mouth, the predatory assessment in his eyes as he surveys the room. My stomach knots at the sight of him.
My knees protest against the hard metal, pins and needles racing up my calves.
I've been here too long, but I can't leave now.
Not when they might finally say something useful about Leira.
My sister, my brave, fierce sister who took my place as the offering to the naga, who walked willingly into darkness to spare me from the fate Father had planned.
The thought of her makes my chest ache. Well over a month she's been gone, living among scaled monsters in their underground city called Vessan-Kar, and what little news trickles back to me comes filtered through Father's cold indifference.
A cobweb catches in my hair, and I carefully extract it without making a sound.
Dust coats my fingers, my palms, works its way under my fingernails.
The air in here is stale, tinged with metal and old paper from the study below.
I breathe shallowly through my mouth to avoid sneezing, though my lungs burn for a proper breath.
Captain Halvane paces before Father's desk, hands clasped behind his back.
His uniform is immaculate, a dark green trimmed with silver, insignia of a serpent impaled through the eye, gleaming at his collar, boots polished to such a mirror shine they reflect the afternoon light in sharp glints across the floorboards.
His face might be handsome if not for the eyes.
Cold. Calculating. Like he's constantly measuring the space between himself and everyone else, calculating how quickly he could cross it with a blade.
I've heard the whispers among the staff.
How Halvane personally executed three naga prisoners after extracting information, how he keeps their fangs in a pouch at his belt.
How during the last years of the Sundering, he commanded the Iron Vanguard, a strike unit known for swift, surgical assaults that left naga caverns silent as graveyards, their hearths cold and their wells untended.
The kind of silence that follows when no one remains to break it.
Not even the young were left alive. The memory of those whispers churns my stomach.
Father looks up from his papers, his quill pausing mid-stroke.
The weak afternoon light catches in the silver at his temples, making him appear older than his fifty-seven years.
Where Leira inherited his sharp features and storm-gray eyes, I received our mother's softer countenance, her warm hazel gaze.
Sometimes I wonder if that's why he finds it so easy to look through me rather than at me.
"Captain," Father acknowledges, resuming his writing. "I trust you've had a pleasant journey from the eastern garrison?"
"Pleasant is irrelevant, Lord Valen." Halvane's voice carries the perpetual edge of someone who finds most conversation beneath him. "I bring reports that require your immediate attention."
My fingers grip the metal slats tighter.
Eastern garrison. Where General Thorne commands.
Where, according to the scraps of information I've pieced together from Father's meetings, human forces have been quietly amassing near the border of naga territory.
Not for defense, despite what the peace treaty claims. For something else.
Something Father discusses only behind closed doors with his military advisors.
Something to do with Leira.
I close my eyes briefly, picturing my sister as she was the morning she left: chin high, eyes glittering with defiance and unshed tears as she embraced me one final time. "Don't worry for me, little sister," she'd whispered. "I'm stronger than they know."
She is. She's always been the brave one, the clever one, while I faded into the background, pressed myself small against walls and hidden in shadows. But what if strong isn't enough against whatever Father and these men are planning?
Captain Halvane drops a leather folio onto Father's desk with enough force to make the inkwell jump. "These arrived by courier this morning. General Thorne believes you should be made aware immediately."
Father's eyebrow rises a fraction—the closest he ever comes to showing surprise. "The general sent you rather than a simple messenger? The situation must be dire indeed."
"More than dire." Halvane leans forward, knuckles pressed against the desktop, and even from my hiding place, I can see how his lips curl back from his teeth in what only technically qualifies as a smile. "It's an opportunity. One we cannot afford to waste."
Something in his tone makes me shrink back from the vent, though there's nowhere to retreat in this narrow passage. There's an eagerness there, a hunger that reminds me of the hawks in Father's mews just before they're unleashed on prey. My breath catches in my throat, a painful knot of fear.
"Spit it out, then," Father says, setting down his quill and leaning back in his chair. "What has our esteemed general discovered that warrants such urgency?"
Halvane straightens, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to deliver a battlefield report.
"The naga leader, Varok, has displayed abilities beyond what we anticipated.
And your daughter..." His voice drops, forcing me to strain to hear his next words.
"...appears to be developing similar capabilities. "
My heart stops, then resumes at double speed. Leira? What abilities? What are they talking about?
Father steeples his fingers, his expression deliberately neutral. "Elaborate, Captain."
Halvane's lips curl into something too sharp to be a smile. "With pleasure." He begins to pace again, the floorboards creaking beneath his immaculate boots. "It seems the prophecy the scaled devils have been muttering about for centuries may not be entirely fabrication after all."
Father scoffs, but Halvane continues undeterred.
"Our operatives within their city report that the Sovereign Flame's powers are growing. And more concerning..." He pauses, turning to face Father directly. "So are your daughter's."
I press closer to the vent, dust floating around me like snow, my breath held so tightly my lungs burn. What powers? What have they done to Leira?
Captain Halvane reaches for the folio, flipping it open to extract what appears to be a report.
"General Thorne believes we must accelerate our timeline.
If the naga truly possess elemental abilities, and if your daughter is somehow accessing them as well.
.." His voice hardens. "We cannot afford hesitation. "
Father's chair creaks as he leans forward. "Show me."
As Halvane spreads documents across the desk, I shift again, trying to see better. The metal groans softly beneath me. Both men glance up, and I go completely still, my pulse thundering in my ears.
After a moment, they return to the papers, and I allow myself to breathe again, shallow and careful. I must hear what they're saying. Must understand what's happening to Leira. Must find some way to warn her when I discover what they're planning.
Halvane's finger stabs at the field report, his voice dropping to a hush tinged with reluctant awe.
"Our scout was in position at the Ashland border, arrow nocked, poison glistening on the tip.
Perfect shot at Sovereign Varok's back. Then your daughter—" He breaks off, making a fluid gesture with his hands that somehow conveys both beauty and horror.
"She sensed him somehow. Turned and unleashed... not ordinary flame. Witnesses describe it as a white-hot column, pouring through air like water, seeking our man in his hiding place. Nothing remained but ash.”
The air in the vent suddenly seems too thin.
I press my fingertips against the cool metal, anchoring myself against the vertigo that threatens to topple me.
Leira, conjuring fire? Burning a man to ash?
The notion is absurd. I've seen Leira burn her fingertips on candle wicks, curse when touching hot kettles.
The same hands that braided my hair and pressed cool cloths to my fevered forehead, suddenly channeling flames like some ancient deity? Impossible.
Halvane's eyes narrow as he points to and recounts the scene from Thorne's report.
"The naga's scales ignited like molten metal, from gold to white-hot in seconds.
Our men couldn't look directly at him. He raised his arms and fire streamed across the eastern garrison, precise as a surgeon's blade.
Tents collapsed in flames. Weapon caches detonated in sequence.
" His voice tightened. "Most disturbing was his control.
He deliberately spared our soldiers while destroying everything else. A clear message of power, not mercy."
Father leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. "Parlor tricks," he says dismissively.