Chapter 2
Chapter Two
SERIN
Iinch backward with agonizing slowness, distributing my weight evenly to prevent the metal duct from groaning beneath me.
Halvane's gaze remains fixed on the vent, his eyes cold and searching like a predator who's caught the scent of prey but can't quite pinpoint its location.
Each movement I make is calculated, deliberate, and the product of weeks of practice navigating the house's forgotten skeleton.
All those childhood years spent trailing after Leira through forgotten passages and hidden tunnels had prepared me for this. Her lessons in stealth during our secret games now serve a serious purpose of intelligence gathering.
When I'm far enough from the grate that the light from the room no longer touches me, I allow myself to move a fraction faster, careful to keep my breathing shallow and silent.
The duct widens at a junction, allowing me to turn and crawl properly rather than slide backward.
Dust tickles my nose, and I press my sleeve against my face to stifle an impending sneeze.
The last thing I need is to announce my location with an echoing explosion of sound.
I take the left passage, mapped over weeks of exploration. These ducts honeycomb the house, a remnant of an ancient heating system, replaced but never removed. I found and memorized them in those desperate days after Leira left.
The memory washes over me as I navigate a tight corner, my hands and knees now moving with practiced confidence despite my racing heart.
After she took my place. Father spoke of her only in political terms: the offering, the treaty seal. Never my daughter. Never Leira.
It had only been a couple of days after she left, and I had stood outside his study, fist raised to knock, when I heard General Thorne's voice filtering through the heavy oak door.
"The worms confirm the detonation was successful. The Serpent Crown has fallen." A pause, thick with satisfaction. "Prithas Varok ascends as Sovereign Flame."
My father's reply rolled in as cold as a winter storm. "And what of the offering?”
"She survived.”
My knees buckled at those two words. She survived, and I slid down the wall, my breath escaping in a shuddering gasp. But survival wasn't enough. I hungered for every scrap of information about my sister, about her life in the depths of Vessan-Kar, where no human was meant to tread.
That night, I found a small grate behind a tapestry in my room.
Curiosity had me pry it open, revealing the forgotten ductwork.
Through trial and error, I mapped the system, learning with skinned knees and bruised elbows to move silently.
I discovered which passages led where and, most importantly, which vent reached Father's study and the High Council’s chamber.
Others called me soft-spoken and timid, but Leira saw the quiet observer. "You see things others miss, Serin. You listen while others talk. That's its own strength." I never believed her until necessity forced me to use it to gather scraps about her fate.
I pause at another junction, listening intently. The house around me creaks and sighs as evening slides toward night. From somewhere distant, I hear the muffled voices of servants preparing the dining room for the evening meal. No sounds of pursuit. No urgent orders to search the passages.
The vertical shaft looms before me, a two-story drop that connects to the cellar level.
This is always the most dangerous part. I edge forward, peering down into the darkness.
The metal handholds I discovered on my third exploration are still secure, though slippery with dust. I swing my legs into the opening and find the first hold with my bare foot before transferring my weight.
Climbing down in near-darkness demands absolute focus.
My feet probe blindly for each rung, testing its strength before I commit my weight.
Halfway down, my foot slips, and for one sickening instant, I dangle by my fingers, legs flailing in emptiness.
I swallow a cry, muscles taut as I reclaim the rung.
The thought of Leira pushes me onward. Leira, whom Father discussed her murder as casually as changing dinner plans. She might be developing strange powers. She needs to be warned.
At the shaft's bottom, I enter a horizontal passage to the wine cellar. Here, the ducts, older and brick-built, replace metal. I step more confidently, knowing this stretch rarely carries sound. The exit lies just ahead, through a grate behind a line of dusty, unmoved casks.
With practiced fingers, I loosen the simple latch and ease the grate open, wincing at its soft creak.
The cellar beyond is dim, illuminated only by what little light filters through narrow ground-level windows.
I slip through the opening and land in a crouch on the packed earth floor, immediately closing the grate behind me.
The air down here smells of damp stone and aged wine, with undertones of the root vegetables stored in the adjacent room. I brush dust from my clothes, my hands coming away gray and grimy. My knees sting from crawling, and my palms bear the imprints of metal grating.
And now I know the truth, or at least part of it.
Father sent Leira to the naga with ulterior motives.
Not just as a bride to seal peace, but as some kind of catalyst for the nagas’ destruction.
And now he and his military advisors are planning something terrible.
Something involving collapsed tunnels and buried cities.
I lean against the cool stone wall, allowing myself one moment of trembling fear before straightening my spine with newfound resolve. Timid Serin, the forgotten sister, the quiet one. I need to find a way to warn her. And I need to do it before Father realizes I know.
I push away from the wall, gathering myself. The cellar's gloom feels suddenly stifling, the weight of what I've learned pressing down like the house above me.
With a quick brush of my palms, I straighten my knee-length tunic, which hangs over simple cloth pants.
Hardly the silk finery expected of a diplomat's daughter, but ideal for crawling through dusty ventilation shafts.
The light green fabric shows every smudge of dust from the vents, making me look like I've been rolling in ash.
I brush at the worst of it, then give up.
Cleanliness is the least of my concerns now.
From the small storage nook behind the wine racks, I retrieve my soft-soled shoes, designed for moving silently across the creaking floors of Valen House.
Leira had them made for me years ago, claiming they were for midnight kitchen raids.
I slip them on, feeling a pang at the memory of her conspiratorial wink as she presented them to me.
The wooden stairs from the cellar groan beneath my careful tread. I pause, listening for footsteps above, but only the usual evening sounds continue: distant clatter from the kitchen and the faint chime of the manor clock.
At the top of the stairs, I ease the cellar's exterior door open just enough to peer through.
The kitchen garden beyond lies empty in the fading light, bordered by hedges that cast long shadows across the stone path.
I slip through and close the door behind me with a soft click, then make my way along the garden wall, keeping to the shadows where my footsteps on the flat stones are muffled by patches of moss.
The sun hangs low on the horizon now, painting the western sky in shades of amber and gold. I keep to the shadows cast by the tall hedgerows, moving swiftly along the stone path that leads toward the old groundskeeper's cottage at the edge of the property.
To my right stands the potting shed, its weathered boards silvered with age, windows clouded with years of dust and neglect.
It hasn't been used since the new greenhouse was built closer to the main house, but I've always found something comforting about its abandoned dignity.
Sometimes, when Father's cold indifference became too much to bear, I would hide there among the empty clay pots and dried herbs hanging from the rafters, pretending it was my own small kingdom.
Now I hurry past it without a glance, thoughts consumed by plan B: explosives, collapsed tunnels. An entire subterranean city to be brought down on the heads of its inhabitants. Including Leira.
The casual cruelty makes my stomach turn.
Not just the willingness to sacrifice my sister, but the extermination of an entire civilization.
How many would perish if Vessan-Kar fell?
Hundreds? Thousands? Naga warriors, yes, but also children, elders, healers.
People like us, despite their scales and fangs.
I have no illusions about my own power in this situation. I have no armies at my command, no political influence. Just my wits, my knowledge of the Valen house's secrets, and a desperate need to prevent a massacre.
Somehow, I have to reach Leira. Impossible as it seems, I have to find her before Father's terrible plans can unfold.
I've almost reached the edge of the formal gardens when something catches my eye.
A dark smear on the pale stone path, glistening wetly in the fading light.
At first, I think it might be oil leaked from one of the gardener's tools, or perhaps mud from the recent rains.
But as I draw closer, my steps falter. Blood.
Fresh enough that it hasn't fully dried.
I crouch down, careful not to touch it. It's deeper in color than human blood, almost black in the waning light.
A chill races up my spine. Not ordinary. Not human?
I straighten and follow the trail with my eyes. It leads away from the main path, cutting across a strip of grass back to the old potting shed I just passed. The very building I'd glanced at with fond nostalgia moments ago, now transformed by these dark smears into something ominous.