Chapter 15 #2
I will not let her die in a place created by our species' mutual hatred.
With a growl that starts deep in my chest, I thrust both hands toward the pit.
The wind responds instantly, swirling around her body in a protective cocoon before lifting upward.
I focus part of my consciousness on her airways, sensing the deadly ash packed in her mouth and nose.
With a twist of my fingers, I create a gentle vacuum within her, coaxing the particles outward like poison from a wound.
Gray plumes escape from her airways as the air current gently, inexorably raises her toward the surface.
As I work, the truth of what is happening settles into my bones like shards of ice.
The air elemental awakening. The prophecy is unfolding exactly as foretold, with me cast in a role I never sought nor wanted.
Right now, in this moment, nothing matters except the limp form rising from the ash grave that nearly claimed her.
When she is close enough, I reach out with trembling hands and gather her from the air current's embrace, cradling her limp form against my chest. The moment I have her secure, my concentration breaks, and the wind dies suddenly, ash raining back into the pit with a sound like the softest rainfall.
"Serin." Her name escapes my throat in a raw, broken sound I have never heard myself make before. "Serin, breathe."
No response comes from her still form. Her body lies motionless against my scales, chest unmoving, lungs silent. Her lips, blue-tinged and parted slightly, remain frozen in that final desperate attempt to draw air where there was none.
As the ash falls away, I see what the pit has done to her.
Thousands of microscopic cuts crisscross her exposed skin, each one beading with blood to create a grotesque pattern across her flesh.
The glass shards embedded in the toxic substance have sliced her as efficiently as any torture device, death by a thousand cuts that would have been excruciating had she been conscious to feel them.
"No," I growl, the denial ripping from somewhere deeper than thought. "You do not get to die.”
I tilt her head back and press my mouth to hers without hesitation, forming a seal between my mouth and hers.
I force air from my lungs into hers, watching her chest rise with the pressure.
When I pull back, the air escapes with a soft hiss.
Again and again, I establish a rhythm, breathing for her when she cannot breathe for herself.
With each breath I push into her lungs, the copper taste of her blood seeps between my lips, mixing with my own where the ash has cut my face and mouth in my panicked search.
The flavors meld on my tongue until they become a single essence I can no longer separate.
There is symbolism there that I do not have time to examine.
"Breathe," I command between rescue breaths, my voice raw with emotion I have never allowed myself to show. "Fight, Serin. Come back to me."
Her face swims before me, overlaid with memories of her in the grotto.
Her eyes bright with desire, lips parted in pleasure, and body arching beneath mine as we defied centuries of hatred with each touch.
The contrast between that vibrant woman and the still form beneath my hands now tears at something fundamental inside me.
I press my lips to hers again, tasting ash and blood, and the lingering sweetness that is uniquely Serin. I force air into lungs that refuse to work on their own, silently promising anything, everything, if only she will draw breath again.
After what seems an eternity, something changes.
A spasm runs through her body, small but unmistakable.
A sound emerges from her throat. Not breath, but a ragged, broken sound that is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.
It catches halfway, dissolves into another bout of coughing, but it is breath.
It is Serin, fighting her way back from death's threshold.
I gather her against my chest, cradling her head against my scales as each breath comes easier than the last, though still punctuated by coughs that rack her small frame. Blood from the countless tiny cuts soaks into my scales, marking me with her essence as surely as she has been marked with mine.
"I have you," I whisper against her hair. "You are safe now."
Her eyes flutter but do not open. Consciousness has not returned fully, but she is breathing. She is alive. The relief is so intense it borders on pain, a physical sensation that makes my scales shift and my tail coil tighter around us both.
I look down at her face, no longer a gray pallor but now animate, now living. I press my forehead to hers. Her breath hitches, steadies, and continues. I gather her closer, my arms forming a fortress around her smaller form, and prepare for the journey ahead.
I slither as fast as I can toward the gate, my powerful tail muscles burning with each desperate push against the ashen ground.
Every second counts now. The entire way, I pray to the Ancients that a healer remains with the Talon who must still be combing the city for explosive devices.
If not, Serin's life may slip away in my arms before I can find where they have evacuated.
After an eternity, the obsidian gate looms ahead, its polished surface catching the first tentative rays of dawn, the black stone seeming to swallow the pale light rather than return it to the ashen sky.
Serpentine figures wind across its face, not mere decorations, but a language written in stone that speaks to something primal in my blood.
Coiled guardians protect carved eggs while others rear back in threat displays, their obsidian forms frozen mid-strike.
Between these ancient sentinels, symbols older than memory pulse with a faint luminescence that grows stronger as I approach.
Serin lies cradled against my chest, her breathing shallow but steady, her skin of blood and microscopic cuts that form a grotesque map across her exposed flesh.
My own wounds mirror hers. Countless glass-slices across my scales where I dug through the deadly substance to reach her.
I reach the gate and shift her weight to one arm, keeping her secure against my chest. With my free hand, I press my bloodied palm against the obsidian surface.
No incantation is needed, no spoken password.
Only blood. Naga blood, carrying the ancient markers that identify me as one who belongs within.
My bloodied palm meets obsidian, and the gate does not simply open; it transforms. The glossy black surface ripples like disturbed water, dimpling before flowing outward in viscous rivulets.
Stone liquefies with fluidity of sentient stone, answering the silent command of my bloodline with dark, glistening obedience.
I do not wait for the opening to reach its full width. The moment the gap allows passage, I slip through with Serin clutched against my chest, my tail barely clearing as the obsidian begins solidifying behind us.
The corridor descends into the earth, walls alive with the ethereal glow of heartglass torches. Beneath their surfaces churns a molten core shifting from sapphire to emerald in slow, liquid swirls, each pulse radiating gentle heat. The light breathes and responds with my presence.
Cool, clean air washes over us, carrying the scent of mineral water and distinctive healing spices, a jarring contrast to the dead wasteland behind us.
The usual bustling activity of the entrance tunnels is absent.
Vessan-Kar feels hollow, abandoned. The city has been evacuated as I suspected it would.
For a moment, panic zings through my blood until Traven appears from a side passage, his onyx scales gleaming in the soft light, his posture alert but weary. When he sees me, he freezes mid-glide, shock evident in his posture.
"Second Fang Lurok," he breathes, the words echoing softly against stone walls. His gaze drops to the female in my arms, and shock gives way to something harder, more assessing. "You live."
“Second Fang…” I scoff, noting the band with my rank around his arm. They did not wait long to replace me. "Where is Varok?"
Traven's eyes narrow slightly, taking in our condition of blood and countless tiny wounds. His tail shifts in the subtle movement that signals readiness among Talon guards.
"Evacuated with the civilians," he says, his tone carefully neutral. "A warning about explosive devices planted by worms reached the Sovereign’s ears. A Talon squad remains behind to complete the search of the city. It is not safe for you or this human—”
“This human is Serin Valen, and she is the one who gave the warning,” I cut him off. “She needs a healer. Now."
Recognition dawns in Traven's eyes as he studies Serin's face before his gaze returns to me. "The Threadborn's sister. Serin?"
I nod once, adjusting her slight weight in my arms. Her breathing has grown more labored in the last few minutes, a worrying rattle developing in her chest.
“We do not have time for explanations or reunions.”
"This way," Traven says, pivoting on his tail and leading me through a side passage I recognize as a shortcut to the sacred chambers near the Temple of Threads. "The healers established a triage chamber in case of an explosion.”
I follow without question, my focus entirely on the female in my arms and the shallow rise and fall of her chest. The passage twists and turns, familiar yet strange in its emptiness.
Vessan-Kar was never designed to be abandoned.
Its tunnels and chambers should echo with voices, with movement, with life.
The silence feels wrong, as though the city itself holds its breath in anticipation of destruction.