Page 15

VAHZIRYN

I stand by the wide window of my study, watching moonlight transform the courtyard into patches of silver and black.

The estate feels calmer now, almost subdued, after the upheaval of recent days: my outburst with Rahlazen, the ensuing lockdown, Mira’s attempted escape.

In truth, it’s been some time since the attack, but the memory remains fresh in everyone’s mind.

The guards keep their distance unless summoned, and the staff speaks in hushed tones, tiptoeing around me as if any stray noise could spark another display of venom.

Though I pride myself on discipline, I can’t deny the storm that brews under my skin.

I want to believe I have it under control, yet certain details set me on edge: an offhand remark from one of my sentries, a faint sense that the council might soon send scouts to question me, or simply the recurring flash of Mira’s startled gaze the night I coerced her into returning to my domain.

She is too potent a presence, and I need to find a balance between ignoring her and indulging the strange pull I feel.

I drag my claws lightly across the windowsill.

The wood is smooth from years of polishing, with subtle serpent motifs carved into it.

My reflection stares back in the window’s glass—a tall figure with black scales across forearms and tail, hair the color of midnight, eyes reflecting gold.

The posture is rigid, yet tension circles my shoulders.

I pull in a calming breath, forcing my tail to loosen from its coiled stance behind me.

A sharp rap breaks the silence. “Enter,” I say, voice steady.

Sahrine glides in, silent as ever. Her pale eyes fix on my outline with uncanny precision, though she sees by heat rather than sight. She bows her head in the barest gesture of respect. “My lord, I thought you’d wish to know that Mira’s ankle has healed enough for her to move about more freely.”

I glance away from the window, trying to pretend my pulse doesn’t quicken at the mention of her name. “I see.”

Sahrine tilts her head, probably sensing the change in my body heat. “She’s been performing her chores without complaint. I believe she’s ready for a slightly expanded role within the household, if you wish it.”

I tap the windowsill with a single claw, deliberating.

The notion of letting Mira roam more than usual both intrigues and unsettles me.

But I recall the terror that darkened her gaze as she tried to flee, and the guilt that still tugs at me for binding her so forcefully in the jungle.

Perhaps providing her some measure of freedom will remind her that my protection is not solely a cage.

“Allow it,” I decide. “She may handle tasks throughout the manor, not just her usual areas. But ensure the guards remain watchful.”

Sahrine inclines her head. “As you say.” She hesitates a moment, then adds softly, “This could be a chance to ease her fears. Tension lingers in her, though she hides it well.”

I nod once. “Noted.”

She withdraws, leaving me alone with my reflection again.

My mind churns. Extending privileges is an unfamiliar practice for me, especially regarding a human servant.

But something in my chest stirs at the idea of seeing her move more freely through the halls.

I tell myself it’s merely curiosity—I want to observe how she behaves when she isn’t confined to menial corners.

Another memory flickers: her face flushed with defiance, arms locked around my neck as I carried her out of the jungle. I rub my forehead, forcing that image away. It’s best to handle this with detachment. She is my servant, nothing more.

Still, the restlessness refuses to subside.

I pace the study, tail swishing behind me.

My gaze strays to a small chest on a side table.

Inside, I keep a handful of personal items—tokens from my life before exile.

A carved amulet from my father, a few battered scrolls.

..and a jade-and-gold comb I acquired in a distant city.

I intended it as a gift for someone else long ago, but that never came to pass.

My betrothed at the time was more interested in jewels that screamed power.

The comb remained unused, gathering dust, yet I kept it for reasons I can’t quite articulate.

I open the chest, fingers sliding over the comb’s polished surface.

The jade is cool to the touch, intricately carved with serpent designs that shimmer in gold filigree.

An idea forms, and a wave of uncertainty follows.

In naga culture, giving away something that carries personal significance can suggest a claim or an intimate bond.

Humans might not read such meaning into it, but I can’t deny the weight of the gesture.

Why give this to her? The question circles my thoughts.

Because a comb is simpler than words, perhaps.

Because I’m weary of her avoiding my gaze, convinced I’m a monster waiting to strike.

If a small kindness can lessen her fear, it may prevent further attempts at escape. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Decision made, I slip the comb into my robe pocket. Warmth spreads through my chest, and I brush it aside as a fleeting indulgence.

Stepping from the study, I stride through corridors lined with stone arches.

Braziers glow here and there, illuminating the serpent-carved pillars and throwing shadows across the floors.

A few staff members step aside, bowing their heads, and I nod in return.

Even from them, I sense the hush that has settled on the estate.

My domain rarely bustles like the royal courts anyway, but these days, caution lingers in every corner.

I find Mira in a side chamber near the greenhouse.

She’s rearranging a stack of supplies—gardening tools, pots of soil, and crates of seeds.

Her figure is slight, though she carries herself with a quiet grace.

A simple gray tunic and trousers replace the dress she wore before, allowing for freer movement.

I suppose Sahrine arranged a more practical outfit now that Mira’s assigned to tasks beyond scrubbing floors.

She notices me instantly, pausing in her work. I watch her stiffen, uncertain whether to kneel or stand. Eventually, she dips her head, voice soft. “My lord.”

I fold my arms over my chest, reminding myself to keep my tone measured. “I hear your ankle no longer pains you.”

She nods, avoiding my eyes. “It’s healed enough to walk without trouble.”

A part of me wants her to look directly at me, to gauge her true expression. Instead, I gesture at the crates. “Do you enjoy tending these supplies?”

The question seems to catch her off guard. She glances at the stacked pots, then shrugs. “I don’t mind. It’s orderly work.”

I step closer, noticing the faint tension in her posture as I approach. “Sahrine mentioned you might manage tasks around the estate more freely. You won’t be restricted to your quarters when you aren’t working. But if you abuse that freedom...”

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t shrink back. “You’ll punish me,” she finishes quietly.

My tail gives a subtle twitch. I hate that she phrases it so bluntly, yet it’s not untrue. “I’ll keep you from harming yourself,” I correct, voice low.

She lifts her gaze for an instant, and our eyes meet. The swirl of defiance and gratitude in her expression stirs something I can’t name. Then she lowers her gaze again, setting a small trowel aside.

I clear my throat. “I have something for you.” My pulse thumps, though I present the comb with a neutral expression. “Take it.”

A flicker of surprise crosses her face when she sees the jade shimmer. She hesitates, obviously unsure if accepting is wise. Slowly, she extends her hand, brushing her fingertips along the comb’s polished curve. I note the faint tremor in her wrist—she’s more nervous than she wants to reveal.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, voice hushed. “Why...?”

I keep my tone casual. “You’re too often disheveled, especially when working. Consider it a courtesy, so you can keep your hair neat.”

She runs a thumb over the gold filigree, eyes lingering on the serpent motifs etched into the jade. “This is too fine,” she says softly. “Are you certain?—?”

“Yes.” The single word emerges firmly, cutting off protest. I won’t let her question it. “Use it.”

She nods, swallowing hard. “Thank you, my lord.” She almost sounds sincere, though confusion still shadows her features.

A beat passes in which neither of us speaks.

My tail curls slightly behind me, betraying my own unease.

Why does a simple gesture feel so charged?

Finally, I step back, keeping my posture stiff.

“There is no need to repay me. Just continue your service without further attempts to throw yourself into danger.”

Her shoulders straighten at that, and she meets my gaze once more, a faint spark in her eyes. “I’m not trying to be reckless,” she whispers, “but living here...is complicated.”

I let out a quiet exhale, forcing my expression to remain unreadable. “I know,” I say, startling myself with the honest admission. Then I add more brusquely, “Return to your tasks when you’re done admiring the gift. I have business to attend to.”

Without waiting for a reply, I pivot sharply and leave, though my pulse thrums. The image of her cradling the comb in her hands stays with me, refusing to slip away.

Later, I retreat to the training courtyard behind the manor.

A hush envelops the open space, where the moonlight filters down between sections of the roof.

I pick up a spear from the weapons rack, letting its weight settle in my hand.

My breath flows in a steady rhythm as I launch into a series of practiced forms—strikes, feints, parries.

Sweat gathers along my scaled arms, the physical exertion soothing the turbulence inside my head.