Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
SERIN
Iburst from the throne room, vision swimming with unshed tears as I push past startled guards.
My breath comes in ragged gasps unrelated to exertion.
Lurok calls my name. I quicken my pace, refusing him the satisfaction of my tears.
The polished obsidian floor reflects my fleeing form: a blurry shadow, a woman once again unwanted, unworthy of the naga to whom she gave her heart.
"Serin, wait!" His voice echoes through the corridor, the command in it stiffening my spine.
I don't stop. I won't. Not this time. My fingers ball into fists as I stride forward.
Each step carries me farther from the male who touched every part of me in the grotto—now he treats me like a plague.
The palace corridors stretch before me. Luminous veins of keh'shalin flow in the walls, silent witnesses to my humiliation.
Behind me comes the quick whisper of scales on stone as my guards follow, uncertain whether to stop or simply track me.
I round the corner toward my private chambers, craving sanctuary. Something solid collides with me—strong hands steady my shoulders as I nearly stumble. I blink away tears to find Leira blocking my escape, eyes wide with concern.
"Serin? What's wrong? Why are you—"
"Nothing," I cut her off, trying to step around her. "I'm fine."
She tightens her grip, fingers digging into my flesh. "You're clearly not fine." Her concern turns urgent. "We can talk at the temple, but we need to go now."
Her words cut through my emotional fog. I finally notice her tense jaw and tight shoulders beneath her silken tunic.
"What's happening?"
"An army has amassed on the eastern border," she says, already pulling me down the corridor. "They plan to attack. Varok wants all non-combatants moved to the Temple of Threads near the western tunnel, in case we need to evacuate again."
My stomach drops. "How many?"
"Varok said three hundred," she answers grimly. "Captain Halvane leads them."
The name strikes like a physical blow. Halvane. The Harbinger. The butcher who made his reputation slaughtering naga during the Sundering. The man who sat with us at dinner, planning the destruction of Vessan-Kar with cold precision.
"Three hundred is all of Clavenmoor’s soldiers," I frown. "How do you know? I just left the throne room."
"Varok hailed me on the serpentglass in our chambers." Leira tugs me forward, pace quickening. "There’s no time. Varok and the others are mobilizing every warrior in Vessan-Kar. Civilians are being moved to the temple to wait out the battle."
We rush through winding palace corridors, descending to the tunnels leading to the Temple of Threads.
Around us, the orderly flow of naga life breaks.
Now, it’s controlled chaos. Warriors, scales glinting like metal, glide in the opposite direction to the armory.
Civilian naga move with us, faces tight with fear, carrying small bundles and guiding their wide-eyed young, whose eyes reflect confusion and terror.
The keh'shalin glows brighter, as if the mountain senses the coming violence. The stone beneath our feet vibrates with the passage of hundreds of naga.
"How bad does Varok think it’s going to get?" I ask as we turn down a narrow passage that slopes downward.
Leira’s mouth tightens. "Bad. They carry weapons designed to kill naga. Arc launchers with glass projectiles filled with something dangerous, Varok called sunblight.”
"They're going to fight," I realize. "Lurok and Varok. They're going out to meet them."
Leira doesn't slow her pace. "Varok won't hide while his people die. And Lurok, as Second Fang, will follow his Sovereign."
We reach the Temple of Threads, its massive stone door open, flanked by unblinking Talons.
They nod as we pass. Inside, fragrant silence is gone, replaced by frightened whispers and urgent hisses.
Corridors overflow with naga heading to the central chamber, their scales catching the light as they pass.
Hatchlings cling to mothers’ coils, asking questions that go unanswered.
When we reach the Flame room, I stop at the threshold, overwhelmed.
The sacred chamber where I healed has changed.
Rows of empty cots line the floor; their white linens glow in the Flame’s light.
Healers move efficiently, arranging vials and bandages beside each bed.
Their faces are calm masks, but dread simmers beneath.
The space feels smaller, as if the room is holding its breath.
At the center, the Infinity Flame burns bluish-gold, untouched by chaos. Its light gleams on scales, casting eerie shadows across walls carved with naga script I can’t read.
They're preparing for the wounded. For the dead.
The reality of what's coming slams into me with sudden clarity.
This isn't just another political maneuver or border skirmish.
This is war coming to the doorstep of Vessan-Kar.
And somewhere beyond these walls, Lurok prepares to face it.
The male I shared my body with in the grotto then looked at me with cold eyes and said it meant nothing.
A small sound escapes me, something between a laugh and a sob. How absurd that in the face of impending battle, my heart still aches for him. That while an army approaches intent on slaughter, I still feel the phantom touch of his claws against my skin.
"Serin." Leira's voice pulls me back to the present. "Our guards were called out to fight, so stay close to me. Not all here approve of us. I can protect you with my fire.”
I nod, unable to form words as the tension in the room wraps around me like a physical weight.
The frightened whispers of the gathered naga blend into a sound like rushing water, punctuated by the occasional sob or sharp command from a Temple Guardian.
Fear hangs in the air, thick enough to taste, metallic and sharp.
Minutes crawl by as I stand beside Leira in the crowded Flame room.
Each breath is harder; the air is thick with fear, and too many bodies pressed into sacred space never meant to hold them.
But it's not just the crush of naga that makes my chest tight; it's the questions burning inside me that can’t wait for safer times.
Lurok's cold dismissal, his determined distance despite everything we shared... I now know there is a reason beyond simple cruelty. If death waits beyond these walls, I deserve to understand why the male who once held me with such tenderness now looks through me as if I'm nothing but a ghost.
I turn to Leira, grabbing her arm, perhaps too roughly. "You need to explain something."
She looks startled by my sudden intensity. "What?"
"The prophecy," I say, lowering my voice. "The Threadborn Prophecy that Lurok fears. I need to understand."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Now? Serin, there's a battle about to—"
"Yes, now." My fingers tighten on her arm. "I'm tired of being kept in the dark, of being protected from truths that shape my life without my knowledge or consent. If I'm part of whatever's happening here, I deserve to understand it."
Leira studies me, her expression shifting as she sees my determination. "It’s complicated. Not something for open discussion."
I notice then that several nearby naga have indeed turned their attention toward us, scales shifting in subtle patterns that betray their interest despite efforts to appear inquisitive.
A female with copper-flecked scales makes no attempt to hide her disdain, her slitted eyes narrowing as she watches us speak in hushed tones.
Others show open curiosity, their gazes flicking between us with undisguised fascination.
Leira sees it too. Her eyes scan the crowded chamber before settling on something across the room. "Zara's over there,” she says quietly. “We can talk privately in her chamber that’s nearby.”
She grabs my hand and guides me through the press of bodies, murmuring apologies as we navigate around tightly coiled forms. I follow in her wake, feeling the weight of countless eyes tracking our progress.
Some glances are sharp and filled with animosity, razor-like and cold.
Others are merely curious. Perhaps most are too consumed with their own fear to care about the humans in their midst.
We reach Zara, whose tail is curled in a tight spiral beneath her. She coils near a side passage; her lavender scales dulled with anxiety. Her small face brightens momentarily when she sees us.
She offers a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Ny'Leira... Serin." Her gaze flicks between us, her scales rippling with anxiety as distant shouts echo through the stone corridors.
"Zara, may we use your chamber for a moment?" Leira gestures toward the arched doorway behind her.
She nods, understanding dawning in her unnervingly perceptive eyes.
Without another word, she uncoils and leads us through the doorway into a small but comfortable space.
Unlike the grand chamber I was given in the palace, Zara's room reflects her youth and her simple furnishings: a modest nest lined with soft fabrics, shelves holding what appear to be children's treasures rather than ancient artifacts.
Small glowing crystals embedded in the walls cast a gentle lavender light that matches her scales.
Once inside, Leira turns to Zara. "Would you mind giving us a moment alone? We need to discuss something in private."
Zara hesitates, her gaze flicking between us with that strange, knowing quality that makes her seem far older than her apparent age. "I will stand guard," she decides, positioning herself at the threshold. "No one will disturb you."
When she's settled at the doorway, her back to us but clearly intent on providing privacy, Leira reaches into a pouch at her waist. She withdraws a small scroll case made of what appears to be polished bone inlaid with silver thread.