Chapter 15 #3
We emerge into a large chamber adjacent to the Temple of Threads. Luminous glyphs etched into the vaulted ceiling cast a gentle glow across rows of empty cots lining the walls. The sharp scent of healing tinctures hangs in the air, pungent and medicinal.
"Rythe," Traven calls, his voice carrying easily in the chamber's perfect acoustics. "Melira."
Both healers rush in from the adjacent room, expressions of surprise when they see me, and take in my appearance.
"Second Fang," she acknowledges, already moving toward us. Her gaze falls to Serin, and her eyes widen fractionally. "A human?"
"The Threadborn's sister," I explain, moving to the nearest empty cot. "Ash pit. She was not breathing when I pulled her out."
Understanding dawns immediately. Rythe has treated ash pit victims before and knows the damage such exposure can cause to lungs and airways. I lower Serin carefully onto the cot, my arms reluctant to release her even to a healer's care.
Melira joins us, her younger face showing less restraint as she hides her shock at seeing a human in their sacred healing chamber.
But she's professional enough to set aside questions, her fingers already uncorking a vial of luminous amber liquid while she reaches for a flat matte container from her belt pouch.
"How long was she submerged?" Rythe asks, spreading a thick greenish salve across Serin's throat with practiced precision, the pungent herbal scent cutting through the mineral air.
"A couple of minutes, maybe less.” Yet, each second had felt like an eternity.
Rythe nods grimly. "Her lungs will be compromised.
" She uncorks a vial of amber liquid that catches the light of the heartglass torches.
The tincture flows over Serin's chest in deliberate patterns as Rythe's skilled fingers guide it into the proper channels.
"We will start with the airways, then address the lacerations. "
I move back, giving them space to work, but remain close enough to watch Serin's face.
Already her color improves slightly as Melira applies a greenish salve from a matte metal container to the worst of the wounds.
The countless tiny cuts across Serin's skin begin to seal wherever the medicine touches, leaving behind clean, unblemished flesh in the wake of the healers' methodical work.
My own wounds remain unattended, but I feel no pain from them. All I feel is the storm still brewing within me, the elemental power awakened in desperation that now hums beneath my scales like a second heartbeat. I am changed. Irrevocably, fundamentally changed by what transpired in the Ashlands.
And with that change comes knowledge I cannot escape, truth I can no longer deny. The prophecy speaks of four elementals awakening, and now air stirs in me.
I watch as ash and blood stain the sacred stone beneath my tail, evidence of our journey through death to reach this sanctuary.
The Temple's firelight casts dancing shadows across Serin's face as the healers work, highlighting the human curve of her cheek, the soft line of her jaw.
Features so different from naga, yet now more familiar to me than my own reflection.
If I do not yield to what binds me to her, if I refuse what the Threads are weaving, perhaps the prophecy can yet be denied. Perhaps the Season of Naga can be stopped, and whatever doom denied.
Rythe draws a small vial from her belt. With practiced precision, she uncorks it and whispers ancient words that transform the liquid into a luminous mist hovering above Serin's face.
"She breathes," the healer murmurs as the healing vapor descends, drawn into Serin's damaged lungs with each shallow inhalation.
"But the ash has done damage. This will help, but she needs time. "
I brush a strand of hair from her forehead as her chest rises and falls in shallow, irregular rhythms. This human female who dragged my broken body through darkness, tended my wounds with gentle hands, surrendered herself to me in that hidden pool beneath the mountain.
The same fragile creature who just nearly died in the Ashlands, my ancestors once called paradise.
"She is strong for a human," Melira observes, not unkindly. "Most would not have survived."
I say nothing as words feel inadequate.
Traven's eyes narrow, taking in my position at the human's bedside, the protective curve of my tail around her cot, the way my hand lingers near hers. He reads the situation with the tactical precision that earned him his rank, though he says nothing of what he observes.
"Serin needs to be evacuated,” he informs me. "Our people have been moved to the western caverns. She will be safer there."
I nod once, and the healers begin to prepare her for transport west to join the others.
"Severa and Salvor are TrueCoil as well as the healer, Lethira," I tell him, voice steady. "They took us captive, but Severa gave Serin a key to help her escape."
"They will be dealt with." His expression hardens. "Do you know how many devices the worms have planted?"
"I do not." I look once more at Serin, her face peaceful in unconsciousness, unaware of the choice I have already made.
My tail twitches with the urge to follow her west. Instead, I force my scales to settle flat against my flesh, yet the air stirs around me, a reminder of the elemental power now awakened. A power that binds me to the prophecy that will end in doom.
I must remain behind to help with the search, but also to begin severing what fate has tried to weave between us. The Season of Naga cannot come to pass. Not through me.