Chapter 1 #3
“Keep moving, Offering. The Temple of Threads lies just ahead,” a warrior behind me murmurs, his tone sharp, controlled, devoid of warmth.
He leans in to deliver a deliberate whisper that grazes my ear.
“But first… you will be prepared for the ceremony.” The words slither through the air, designed to unsettle, to make me acutely aware of my own exposure, meant to make me flinch.
Prepared. The word sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the cool air.
What exactly does preparation entail in the naga custom of the Crimson Bond Ceremony?
The peace treaty documents had been frustratingly vague, both about the ceremony itself and about Varok, my intended.
I’d only managed a glimpse one night, slipping into my father’s study while he slept, the door left carelessly ajar.
The corridor widens suddenly into a circular antechamber, its walls rising into a domed ceiling veined with faint lines of glowing stone.
Seven arched doorways ring the chamber, each sealed by a smooth stone slab that fits seamlessly within the frame.
Every slab bears a unique symbol, etched deep and inlaid with faintly glowing mineral: a serpent’s fang, a continuous line, an open eye, and others I can’t yet name.
In the center stands a basin of dark stone filled with water so still it looks like black glass. First Fang Sareth gestures for me to stop.
"Purify your hands," he instructs. "Then you may enter."
I approach the basin cautiously. The water, if it is water, seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. When I dip my fingers in, it's warm, almost body temperature, and carries a faint scent of herbs and metal.
As I wash my hands, I catch my reflection in the dark surface, kohl-rimmed eyes staring back with determination that borders on defiance. Good. Let them see that I won't be broken easily.
The water ripples, distorting my image, and for an instant, I could swear I see another face beneath mine. Scales where skin should be, vertical pupils dilating.
I jerk back, water droplets spattering on stone, yet my hands are curiously dry.
I’m led to one of the seven doorways. Etched above the stone slab is a spiraling flame, its silver inlay catching the faint glow of the chamber until it seems to ripple with sentient fire.
The design begins as a narrow tongue at the base, curling upward in widening arcs that coil back on themselves, each line sharp yet fluid, like smoke caught in a perpetual spiral.
At the center, the flame narrows again to a single point of light, as if all its heat and power were drawn inward to a hidden core.
When I stare too long, the etched lines seem to shift, flickering like a flame breathing against stone.
The stone slab liquefies before my eyes, not crumbling or splitting but flowing apart, each particle of rock suspended in an impossible current that parts to either side with a soft grinding whisper, revealing the chamber beyond.
Faint, flickering light spills out, pale and blue, as though lit by something deeper than fire.
First Fang Sareth coils slightly, his massive upper body tilting toward me. The scales across his chest catch the glow from the chamber, casting shifting patterns across the floor.
“Prithas Varok awaits,” he announces.
Varok.
The name I've heard whispered in diplomatic circles for months.
Warrior. Commander. Blade of the Crown. The naga warrior, second in line of succession to the Serpent Crown who agreed to the bonding for peace after centuries of bloodshed.
My...what? Husband isn't the right word.
Owner feels closer to the truth, though the treaty uses gentler language.
“The Guardians of the Temple will prepare you now for the ceremony,” he says, voice low and edged with ceremonial weight. “You are not to speak unless spoken to. Do not resist. Do not stray.”
His slitted gaze narrows as it lingers on me, and I get the sense he’s measuring me for obedience. I silently nod, my throat constricting.
From within the chamber, robed figures emerge, faces hidden beneath delicate, veil-like hoods that drape past slender shoulders. They make no sound, only raise one hand in silent summons.
I glance once at Sareth, but he offers no further instruction.
I step forward and the stone closes behind me, sealing me within.
One of the guardians silently takes the satchel from my shoulder, setting it neatly against the wall.
Then they guide me deeper into a chamber carved from solid stone, rounded, echoing, and strangely warm.
At its center flickers a tall, twisting flame unlike any I’ve ever seen.
It glows not orange, but a pale, opalescent blue and gold, flickering in rhythmic pulses.