Page 18

MIRA

I wake to the low hum of conversation drifting through the manor’s corridors.

It’s early, judging by the pale light that filters through my small window.

My heart thumps a little faster than usual—no matter how many mornings pass in this strange household, I never fully relax.

Too many rules and eyes are on me, not to mention the unpredictable presence of Vahziryn.

Rising from the narrow bed, I stretch my limbs.

My ankle aches faintly, but I can walk without limping now.

The memory of that night I tried to flee the estate feels distant yet vivid enough to make my pulse race whenever I recall how he carried me back in his arms. His hold was firm, neither cruel nor gentle, and the contrast still leaves me breathless when I dwell on it too long.

I dress in a simple gray tunic and trousers, tying my short hair back with the jade-and-gold comb he gifted me.

I’m still uncertain why he chose to give me something so fine.

The comb glints whenever light hits its filigree, drawing more attention than I usually want, but Sahrine insisted I keep it visible as a sign of respect to him.

In naga culture, a gift from the master is apparently significant.

A few weeks ago, I would have assumed such a gesture came with a heavy cost. Perhaps it still does. I remind myself to stay guarded.

Stepping into the corridor, I nod to a passing human servant who quickly averts her gaze.

Everyone here understands that I’m in an odd position.

I’m neither fully favored nor scorned, yet the staff watches me with wary curiosity—maybe trying to glean if Vahziryn’s attention on me will cause trouble for them too.

My first task this morning is to tend the greenhouse plants.

Sahrine gave me a small ledger listing which specimens need pruning or watering.

After I gather my tools from the supply room, I walk briskly down a winding corridor until I reach the door that leads to the greenhouse’s humid interior.

The warmth envelops me the moment I step inside, thick with the scent of loamy soil and living green things.

Columns of sunlight pierce through the glass ceiling, illuminating rows of exotic vines and blossoms. Several large potted shrubs line a central path.

I slip off my shoes to better grip the damp stone, then begin checking each plant for signs of rot or pests.

The routine is almost comforting, letting me lose myself in the rustle of leaves and the soft trickle of water from a small fountain in the corner.

I’m halfway through trimming an overgrown vine when a voice startles me. “You do look at home among the weeds, don’t you?” The words carry a teasing edge, and I spin to see Crick leaning against a large pot.

He’s a half-blood naga guard with mismatched scales across his forearms and a scar that bisects his chin.

Unlike Vahziryn, who carries an air of silent authority, Crick is more casual, prone to snide remarks that hint at an underlying distrust of nobility—naga or otherwise.

I brush stray leaves from my tunic, trying to steady my heartbeat.

“Good morning,” I say, tone wary. “I didn’t hear you come in. ”

He shrugs with a wry smile. “I tread lightly. Part of my job.” Pushing off the pot, he circles one of the plants with measured steps. “Sahrine sent me to check on a few seedlings, but I see you’re handling them. Looks like you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve learned.” I snip a dead leaf from the vine. “Besides, I don’t mind the quiet here.”

His gaze flicks to the comb in my hair. “And I see you still flaunt that little token.”

Heat warms my cheeks. “I’m not flaunting it. He gave it to me. I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”

Crick’s eyes narrow, and his mismatched scales shift in the greenhouse light. “You know how naga lords are,” he says quietly. “They rarely give something for free. There’s always a hidden string attached.”

I exhale, setting down my pruning shears. “If you’re trying to warn me of something, be direct.”

His mouth forms a humorless smile. “All right. Naga of his status only offer gifts when they see value in the recipient—maybe something they want to own or control. That comb isn’t a trifle. It’s practically a brand marking you as special to him.”

My stomach knots. Deep down, I suspected as much, but hearing it spoken so plainly unsettles me. “He told me it was just a courtesy,” I murmur.

Crick’s snort conveys skepticism. “Sure it was.” Leaning in, he drops his voice.

“You might think you’ve gained freedom because he let you roam the halls, but watch how his tail lingers around you.

Notice how often he appears when you least expect it.

A naga lord like Vahziryn is methodical—he’s not going to rush.

But don’t doubt he’s observing every move you make. ”

I swallow, recalling the times Vahziryn seemed to materialize in corridors or by the balcony, the weight of his stare sinking into my skin. “I won’t deny he watches me,” I whisper. “But that doesn’t mean?—”

Crick shakes his head. “Oh, it absolutely means something. Maybe he’s deciding if you can be trusted, or maybe he’s inching toward claiming you in a more intimate sense. Either way, I don’t want to see you blindsided.”

A shiver races down my spine, half trepidation, half something else. Claiming me? The idea sends heat racing through my face and a jolt of alarm into my chest. “I appreciate the warning,” I say quietly, turning away to hide my unease. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

He grunts, arms folded. “Good. You’re not stupid. Stay that way.” Then, clearing his throat, he nods at the watering can. “Let’s finish quickly. I’ve no desire to linger in this steam bath.”

We tend the plants in a tense silence, punctuated by the shuffle of soil and the trickle of water.

I do my best to appear calm, but Crick’s words spin relentlessly in my head.

Did Vahziryn truly gift me the comb just to brand me as his property?

The thought stings. Yet a part of me recalls how carefully he forced that comb into my hands, as though reluctant yet determined.

That memory doesn’t exactly reassure me.

When we finish, Crick heads out without another word, and I remain behind for a moment, letting the greenhouse’s warm air envelop me.

The hush here feels protective, almost soothing.

I breathe in the smell of wet leaves, trying to steady the conflicting emotions that roil inside me—gratitude for Vahziryn’s unexpected kindness, fear that I might be dancing toward a snare I can’t escape.

At last, I gather my tools and leave. My next chores take me through the main corridors, dusting statues and polishing the wooden banisters.

The estate’s architecture looms around me—arched ceilings adorned with intricate serpentine carvings.

I catch glimpses of other servants hurrying about, each wearing the subdued expressions typical of this hush-bound domain.

As I work, my thoughts keep drifting to the idea that Vahziryn might be waiting around any corner. Occasionally, I hum softly—a tune from childhood, though I barely remember its source. Humming helps me focus on the present instead of letting my mind spiral with Crick’s warnings.

Midway through polishing a statue’s base, I notice a subtle shift in the air, like a faint ripple of tension.

A prickle moves along my arms, and I turn to see Vahziryn standing at the corridor’s far end, watching me.

My heart leaps into my throat. He’s tall, with black scales glinting faintly where the midday light touches them, his obsidian hair framing a face carved in stark lines.

The gold in his eyes seems to catch the lamplight, making them glow with predatory interest.

He doesn’t speak. He simply regards me with that intense quiet he wields better than any blade.

I recall Crick’s words about naga lords never giving something for free, and a surge of nervousness grips me.

Yet a flicker of something else sparks—an inexplicable thrill at his attention, which I promptly try to bury.

Lowering my gaze, I dip my head in greeting. “My lord.”

His footsteps echo as he approaches, each one measured. When he stands close enough for me to sense the warmth of his scaled arms, my breathing hitches. His tail lingers near my feet, not touching but certainly marking his proximity. I force myself not to back away.

“You were humming,” he says quietly, voice low. “Do you always sing when you work?”

The question catches me off guard. “Not always,” I reply, careful to keep my tone calm. “It helps pass the time.”

He tilts his head, his slitted pupils narrowing. “I didn’t realize humans found music in menial tasks.”

I almost want to laugh, but I hold it in. “We find ways to cope, my lord. Even in small joys.”

He’s silent for a moment, observing me as if I’m a peculiar specimen. “That tune...it’s unusual. I haven’t heard it in the capital’s courts or among other human servants.”

I shrug. “It’s from my hometown, long gone now.” The memory is hazy, but I cling to remnants of its lullabies. “There’s nothing special about it.”

His tail glides a fraction closer, nearly brushing the edge of my foot. “If you say so,” he murmurs. “Though it caught my attention.”

My pulse flutters at the admission. Caught his attention.

Everything about him catches my attention if I’m being honest, from the ripple of his powerful tail to the quiet authority in his voice.

Yet I recall Crick’s warning, so I keep my guard up.

“I can hum more quietly,” I offer, stepping back a pace to continue polishing the statue.

He doesn’t move away. “No need,” he says, voice dark with some hidden amusement. “Your tasks are yours to handle as you see fit.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “You shouldn’t feel compelled to hide your voice.”