Page 16

Tonight, however, I can’t fully banish the memory of her wide eyes or the curve of her lips as she accepted the comb.

The subtle vulnerability she displayed pricks at me, reminding me how easily I could crush her if I chose.

The thought sparks an odd surge of protectiveness.

With each thrust of the spear, I try to dispel these tangled feelings, but they remain, coiling tighter.

My tail flicks around, braced to snap at whoever dares interrupt—until I spot the telltale shimmer of Crick’s half-blood scales in the torchlight. He stays a careful distance, arms crossed. His voice carries a hint of wry humor. “You’re practicing alone again, I see.”

I lower the spear, breathing heavily. “I prefer solitude.”

He steps onto the gravel. The uneven pattern of his scales on his arms glints as he nears. “You used to train with your guards. Now they say you don’t invite them anymore.”

I grunt, rubbing sweat from my brow. “My guards are busy. Besides, I need no sparring partner for these forms.”

Crick studies me, slitted eyes narrowing. “You’ve been different lately. Jumpy. More prone to hush the staff or bark orders. And then, this surprising generosity with the new maid...”

He trails off, but I hear the unspoken question. My grip tightens on the spear. “What are you implying?”

He shrugs, tail twitching behind him in a half coil. “Just that you never gave gifts to any other servant. Not that I know of. So either you’re going soft, or you have some scheme in mind.”

A low growl forms in my throat. “My reasons are my own.”

Crick lifts a hand in a placating gesture. “I’m not judging, just curious. The staff notices. People are talking, you know.”

My jaw clenches. The idea that my attempt at a small kindness is already fueling rumors needles me. “She remains a servant,” I say darkly, voice dropping. “That’s all.”

Crick looks unconvinced but doesn’t press further. Instead, he jerks his chin at my spear. “If you want a sparring round, I’m free. If not, I’ll let you brood.”

I glance at the weapon in my hands, then toss it aside, frustrated. My focus is shattered anyway. “I’m done here.”

He nods slowly, stepping aside as I pass. “Don’t lose your edge, my lord,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “We might need that soon.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. Tension thrums in my chest like a coiled spring as I make my way back inside. If the staff senses my distraction, it won’t be long before the entire household starts speculating. The last thing I need is gossip about me coddling a human.

I slip through the halls, ignoring the murmurs of a few passing servants.

Eventually, I drift into the library, hoping the hush of scrolls and books might calm my thoughts.

The library walls are lined with old tomes describing the history of Nagaland, ancient rituals, and even a few volumes that delve into rumored magic.

A tall lamp stands by a reading table, casting warm light across the parchment.

Settling at the table, I unroll a scroll that details the lineage of naga warlords.

My eyes skim the text, but I fail to absorb its words.

The image of Mira’s hesitant acceptance of my gift keeps intruding.

Why does it matter so much if she’s comfortable here?

Because an unsettled servant is a liability, I tell myself.

Yet I recall how my chest tightened when she looked uncertain.

That reaction suggests motivations far beyond pragmatic concerns.

A soft voice startles me from the doorway. “My lord?”

I glance up, heart giving a small lurch. Mira stands there with a tray holding a carafe of water and a single glass. She meets my gaze for a moment before focusing on the desk. “Sahrine told me you often spend late hours here. I thought you might want a drink.”

She steps forward, placing the tray on a corner of the table.

The lamp’s glow highlights the gentle contours of her face and the soft coil of her hair, now neatly pinned back with the comb.

My pulse flutters at the sight of that jade glint in her dark curls.

It feels more intimate than it should, seeing something so personal nestled against her skin.

I clear my throat. “Thoughtful,” I murmur, forcing composure. I pour the water, ignoring the slight tremor in my hand. “You’re moving well, I see.”

She touches her ankle reflexively. “It’s better now.”

Silence hovers, laden with unsaid truths. I sip the water, sensing her eyes on me. The air between us hums. A corner of my mind notes how her posture is both wary and intrigued, as if she can’t decide whether I’m friend or foe. Then again, I’m not sure I know which I prefer to be.

Eventually, she summons the courage to speak softly. “You gave me more freedom. I appreciate it.”

My response emerges clipped. “It benefits the household if you can handle more responsibilities. Less waste of your skills.”

She seems to weigh that, then nods. “Understood.”

Her gaze slides across the library shelves, lingering on the ornate spines of ancient books. “I never imagined reading would be so prized here. The slavers taught us humans that naga rely on venom and force, not knowledge.”

A faint smirk tugs at my lips. “You believe we have no interest in scholarship? We shaped entire cities from jungle stone. That demands more than brute strength.”

She places a hand on the nearest shelf, trailing fingers over a battered tome. “I can see that now.”

A spark of curiosity flickers in her eyes, and she looks at me again. “Do you—” she starts, then hesitates. “Is there a reason you keep so many scrolls?”

I arch a brow, intrigued despite myself. “I was once heir to a lineage that valued both war and wisdom,” I admit, voice low. “Knowledge is a power of its own, if you wield it correctly.”

She nods, absorbing the words. For a moment, we stand in a quiet bubble where the hush of the library cocoons us. My eyes land on the comb in her hair, noticing how it nestles securely in her dark curls. Satisfaction pulses through me at the sight, though I maintain an unreadable expression.

Mira shifts her weight. “Thank you...for the comb,” she says again, softer this time. “It’s more than I deserve.”

A prickle of frustration surfaces. “Deserve?” I echo. “You speak as if you are unworthy of small kindnesses.”

She flinches slightly. “I’ve never been given anything so...fine without a heavy cost.”

Her words sink into my mind. I recall Crick’s caution about how naga lords rarely offer gifts freely. She likely expects a hidden price. Resentment flickers—have I truly done such a poor job showing that I won’t exploit her? Yet in fairness, the lines between us remain tangled.

“You owe me no debt for the comb,” I say, managing to keep my tone calm. “It pleases me that you use it.”

She studies me with a guarded expression, as though trying to decipher whether I’m lying. Then she lowers her gaze. “I’ll remember that.”

I turn back to the scroll, feigning absorption in the text. “You may go,” I murmur, unable to deal with the swirl of emotions any longer.

She bows her head, stepping away from the lamp’s circle of light. But before she vanishes into the corridor, she pauses. “If you ever need anything else... If I can assist, please let me know.”

Our eyes lock for a heartbeat. Then she slips out, leaving me with the rustle of parchment and the quiet sense that something intangible shifted between us.

Air slips past my lips, unsteady. The tension in my chest feels both exhilarating and maddening, like standing on a precipice I never intended to approach.

Unable to focus, I roll the scroll shut and abandon the library.

I find myself wandering through the manor, tail flicking in restless arcs behind me.

The staff I pass dip their heads, but I barely acknowledge them.

My thoughts circle back to the interplay of her voice, the tilt of her head, and the glint of jade in her hair.

She seemed genuinely moved by the gift, yet I sense her caution.

Eventually, I end up in one of the smaller sitting rooms. A mural spans the wall here, depicting a stylized serpent coiling through a lush jungle scene.

I recall commissioning it soon after I took control of this estate.

I’d wanted a reminder of the power and isolation that define my domain.

Now, I stare at the painted serpent, the green vines twisting around its scaled body, and I question how that solitude is changing.

Footsteps sound behind me, and I pivot to see Sahrine. She inclines her head as always. “My lord, you look troubled,” she says. “I saw Mira leaving the library. Did something happen?”

I keep my back straight, refusing to betray confusion. “Nothing worth noting.”

Sahrine’s blind gaze never wavers. “I notice your generosity toward her. Others notice too.”

“Let them whisper,” I say tersely.

She sighs, stepping closer. “If you show favor to a human, the council may see it as a challenge. You know how they treat those who break naga tradition.”

A flare of anger rises. “I am not breaking tradition. I gave her a comb—hardly an act of rebellion.”

Sahrine’s voice softens. “A gesture can carry weight, especially when it comes from you. I only caution you to be mindful.”

I run a claw over the mural’s surface. “I’m aware.”

She hesitates, then bows. “Very well, my lord.” With that, she leaves me alone again.

Hours slip past in uneasy contemplation.

I eventually retreat to my chambers. The lamp in my bedroom casts dancing shadows along the walls adorned with muted serpent patterns.

I remove my robe and sink onto the bed, letting out a long breath.

Memories swirl of the day’s interactions—the slight bow of Mira’s head when she took the comb, the way her voice trembled with gratitude, the concern etched across her face as she offered a drink in the library.