Chapter 8 #2
I watch her face carefully as she works, noting how she avoids meeting my gaze directly. The fog continues to recede from my mind, allowing me to take in my surroundings with greater clarity. Something feels off.
The chamber around me is dimly lit by keh’shalin, casting everything in a soft blue-green glow. But the pattern of the veining is wrong. The Temple's healing chambers are marked by intricate spirals of flowing arteries. Here, the veins run in jagged, almost haphazard lines.
The air, too, carries unfamiliar notes. The Temple of Threads always smells of sacred incense and healing herbs, the distinctive perfume of age-old rituals. This place smells of raw stone and something sharper, almost metallic.
"This is not the Temple of Threads," I say, the words dropping into the silence between us.
The healer's movements become more brisk, her manner shifting subtly. "You should rest," she says, not addressing my observation. "The surgery was extensive."
I try to raise up, to see more of my surroundings, but my body barely responds.
Not from weakness or sedatives this time, but from something else.
I glance down and see the reason for my immobility.
Thick bands of polished basilyx lead encircle my wrists and the midpoint of my tail, anchoring me in place.
Shackles.
The last time I found myself held captive was caged by worms.
Fury rises within me along with panic, hot and sudden as a flame catching dry timber. "What is this?" I demand, jerking against the restraints with as much strength as I can muster. The lead holds firm, cutting into my scales with each movement.
"It is for your safety," the healer says, stepping back from my thrashing form. "Until you are fully healed."
"My safety does not require restraints," I snarl, the fury giving me strength I should not possess in my condition. "What is this place? Where is Serin?"
A shadow falls across the platform, and I turn to see Salvor slithering into view beside the healer. His scales gleam in the dim light, his expression as controlled as ever. But something has changed in his bearing, a subtle shift that I failed to notice earlier through the haze of sedatives.
Salvor's voice flattens into the emotionless cadence of command. "You should not agitate yourself, Lurok. Lethira has only just managed to stabilize your condition.”
"Remove these shackles, worm," I command, my voice dropping to a deadly hiss. "Now! And tell me where Serin is."
Salvor studies me, his peridot gaze unreadable. After a moment, he gestures to the healer, Lethira, who bows slightly and retreats from the chamber, leaving us alone.
"Where is this place, Salvor?" I demand again, forcing my voice to steadiness despite the rage pulsing through me. "This is not the Temple."
"No," he agrees, his tail coiling and uncoiling in a gesture of consideration. "It is not."
"Then where?"
He meets my gaze directly, and what I see there freezes me to the bone despite the heat of my anger. There is no apology in his eyes, no regret. Only cold certainty.
"Within the labyrinth of the TrueCoil,” he says simply.
The words land like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs.
TrueCoil. Not merely traitors like the worms who serve the human general, but zealots who believe in naga supremacy above all else.
Fanatics who view any association with humans as a corruption of bloodlines that must be purged with fire and steel.
"You..." I breathe, the full implication settling over me like a shroud. "You are one of them."
Salvor tilts his head, neither confirming nor denying, but his silence is answer enough.
“What of the worms who plan to collapse Vessan-Kar?” I struggle in vain against my bonds. “Two days remain until they detonate their explosives. Surely you are not stupid enough not to heed the warning.”
"The Sovereign Flame has been apprised of the worms’ plans. Despite the fact that he has been compromised by the human to whom he is bound, his judgment can be trusted in this,” Salvor says, his words carrying layers of disgust.
My thoughts race as I piece together this new reality. If I am a captive of the TrueCoil, then Serin—
Ice floods my veins. Sweet Ancients, Serin! A human among those who hate her kind with religious fervor.
“You had better not have harmed her.”
"The human is alive," Salvor replies, his tone suggesting this is a mercy I should appreciate. "For now."
I stare at him, this Talon I thought I knew, this comrade whose blade I once trusted at my back. "She saved my life," I say, each word precise and sharp as broken glass. "She risked everything to warn Vessan-Kar."
"Yes," Salvor agrees, his expression unchanged. "And that information was valuable to us.”
They are worse than worms. Worse than humans. The TrueCoil does not merely seek advantage or territory. They seek purification through elimination. They will not rest until every drop of human blood is spilled, until every trace of human influence is erased from naga existence.
To them, Serin is disposable. With her gentle hands and unexpected courage, she has been delivered directly into the hands of her enemy.
Because of me. The realization settles in my gut like molten lead, heavy and burning. I stare at Salvor, at the naga I once called brother-in-arms, and see only a stranger wearing the scales of a comrade.
"What does the TrueCoil want with her?" I demand, fighting to keep the desperation from my voice.
Salvor's lips curve into what might pass for a smile, though it never reaches his eyes.
"What TrueCoil wants with all humans, and her purpose is coming to an end.” His tail shifts in a casual sweep across the stone floor.
"She delivered both you and the information to us.
Once we feel we have extracted all we can from her, she will no longer be necessary. "
My scales bristle along my spine, a primal response to the threat in his words. I imagine Serin shackled like me, surrounded by those who see her as less than nothing. A contamination to be purged.
"She is under my protection," I growl, my voice deepening with fury.
Salvor tilts his auburn head, regarding me with something between pity and amusement. "Protection? You who lie bound and wounded?" His verdant scales glint in the soft glow of keh’shalin as he moves closer. "Look at yourself. You cannot even protect your own skin."
"Where is she? What have you done with her?" I strain against the basilyx restraints, ignoring the fresh pain that blossoms in my healing wounds.
“I am disappointed in you, Lurok. All this concern for the welfare of a human.” Salvor scowls, his eyes burning with disgust. “You should be more concerned about what will become of you.”
I bare my fangs in a silent snarl. “Then speak. Or are you so accustomed to hiding behind shadows that even your threats must be whispered?”
A flicker of annoyance ghosts across his face. “You mistake silence for weakness,” he replies. “The TrueCoil does not bluster. We fight to preserve the pure bloodlines of our species.”
“By sabotaging peace and starting a five-hundred-year war? The TrueCoil burned every bridge with the humans before it could stand. Made certain every treaty died in shadow. You did not preserve us. You taught us to bleed forever while you hid like cowards.”
I fight to control the rage threatening to overwhelm my senses. If I am to have any chance of helping Serin, I must think clearly.
Salvor circles my platform with predatory grace, his movements deliberately slow, showcasing his freedom against my restraint, his tail tracing a lazy arc across the stone as he circles, his gaze never leaving mine.
“I believed you would find your way to us in time,” he says. “Your view of the Threadborn Prophecy aligns with ours. You understand that the Season of Naga is not a dawn, but a blade poised over our throats.”
He stops beside my head, close enough that I can smell the faint tang of metal and oil on his scales. It is the odor of whetstones and blade polish, the familiar scent that every Talon carries. On Salvor, it translates as the stink of betrayal.
“But you let a human touch you,” he continues quietly.
“Let her bleed into your thinking. Get under your scales.” A curl of disdain lifts one corner of his mouth.
“You are no different than the Sovereign Flame. Soiled by human influence, softened by their scent. One whiff of her cloaca and you forget what you are. You are as compromised as Varok.”
"You dare speak of soiling?" I hiss, straining against the basilyx restraints, the metal cutting into my scales. The pain is nothing compared to the rage consuming me. "You, who betrayed your oath as a Talon. Who conspires with zealots while claiming to preserve our kind?”
Salvor's expression hardens, but I continue, each word a blade I wish I could drive into his traitorous heart.
"Serin Valen dragged my broken body through miles of darkness when she could have left me to die. She risked her life, her future, everything she had, to save a species that would kill her on sight."
“As I said, compromised,” Salvor exhales a long, exhausted sigh and crosses the room to the open doorway. “Such a waste.”
The moment he slithers from the chamber, I begin a methodical assessment of my prison.
The shackles themselves are basilyx lead, a metal as unyielding as TrueCoil doctrine.
But as I strain slightly against them, I notice a subtle give, not in the cuffs themselves, but where they connect to the stone table beneath me.
A faint scraping sound, almost imperceptible.
The anchoring bolts shift by a hair's width when I pull at precisely the right angle.
I go still immediately, careful not to betray my discovery with too much movement.
My injuries, though still painful, have improved dramatically over the three days of healing.
The internal bleeding has stopped, and my dislocated shoulder is properly set.
Even the deep gashes along my flank have begun to close, new scales already forming at their edges.
Naga heal quickly, much faster than humans.
Already, I can feel strength returning to my limbs.
I cast my gaze around the chamber, cataloging every feature. The entrance where Salvor disappeared. The keh'shalin veins running in those unusual patterns.
An image of Serin rises unbidden in my mind, surrounded by those who see her as nothing but vermin to be disposed of. If I do not escape soon, Serin will die.
I close my eyes, appearing to surrender to exhaustion while my mind races with calculations and plans. When I next open them, it will be to begin our escape.