Page 19

The statement feels like an invitation, although I can’t imagine why.

Trying to quell the sudden jolt of nerves, I turn my attention back to the statue, rubbing a soft cloth over the carved stone.

He remains there, watching in silence, his presence intense enough to make me hyperaware of every movement I make.

Eventually, I gather my courage. If I’m to test how far I can speak my mind, this might be a chance. “My lord, may I ask something?”

He arches a brow. “Speak.”

I pause, steadying myself. “I appreciate the freedom you’ve granted me to move about, and the gift you gave. But... I don’t want any misunderstandings. I need to know if there’s an expectation beyond simple gratitude.”

The corridor feels heavier, as if the walls themselves hold their breath. His tail curls tighter, a sure sign of tension. “You suspect I want something in return,” he states quietly, turning the question into a statement.

I force myself to meet his gaze. “I’ve been warned that naga lords rarely do anything without expecting a debt to be repaid.” My voice trembles but remains steady enough.

He regards me with an unreadable expression for a long beat. Then he exhales, the breath hissing past parted lips. “Is that what you fear? That I’ll demand your body, or your servitude, as recompense for a trinket?”

Heat flares under my skin. “I... was told such things happen,” I admit, recalling Crick’s caution.

A flicker crosses his face—anger, perhaps, or frustration. “Be assured, if I wanted that from you, I wouldn’t need to bribe you with a comb,” he says, each word measured. “I’m a warlord, exiled or not. If I wished to claim you in that way, do you think you could stop me?”

My stomach twists at the bluntness. “No,” I whisper, heart pounding. “I couldn’t stop you.”

His eyes narrow. “Then let that suffice. I gave it because I chose to, not to extract some twisted debt. Is that clear?”

I swallow, the finality of his tone echoing in my ears. Despite the cold logic of his words, I sense an undercurrent of something more complicated. “Yes,” I say softly. “Thank you for clarifying.”

He inclines his head once, then steps back, letting some space between us. My pulse thrums at the subtle relief. Yet part of me feels a pang for reasons I can’t articulate—did I want him to show some flicker of personal interest, or is that just fear twisted into curiosity?

Before I can dwell on that, he speaks again, voice low. “Finish your work. I won’t interrupt further.” Then he walks away, tail sliding across the floor with a faint rasp.

I stand there for a moment, cloth in hand, heart racing.

The small exchange leaves me off balance.

His reassurance that he won’t demand my body in exchange for the comb should soothe me, but it also highlights how easily he could bend me to his will.

He wants me to know he doesn’t require manipulation or bribes if he ever decides to push the boundaries.

Oddly enough, that mixture of threat and grudging respect unsettles me more than outright cruelty.

I wrap up the polishing, my mind spinning with unanswered questions. Once I finish, I carry the supplies back to the storage area. My steps are brisk, trying to outpace the sense of restless energy that lingers after talking to Vahziryn.

A short while later, I find myself in the kitchens, helping a few human servants prep vegetables for the midday meal.

The clank of knives against wooden boards and the hiss of simmering pots weave together in a comforting rhythm.

I slip into the easy repetition of chopping carrots and onions, letting the mundane task steady my nerves.

Crick enters the kitchen, wearing his usual faint smirk. He glances at the cluster of servants, then strides over to me. “You seem rattled,” he murmurs, leaning against the table. “Something happen?”

My knife pauses mid-chop. I look around to ensure no one else is paying attention, then lower my voice. “He cornered me again. That’s all.”

Crick’s brows lift. “And?”

I tighten my grip on the knife, annoyance flaring. “Nothing. He said I owe him nothing. But he made it clear that if he wanted something, he’d take it.”

A snort escapes Crick. “Classic. At least he’s honest about it.”

I sigh, setting down the knife. “Your warning is noted. I’m trying to keep my guard up, but... it’s confusing. He acts like he wants me to feel safe, but his presence is suffocating.”

Sympathy flickers in Crick’s eyes before he masks it with a shrug. “Use that confusion to your advantage. If you’re uncertain, he might be too. Naga lords like him don’t often deal with complicated attachments.”

Attachments. The idea that Vahziryn might see me as an attachment makes my heart lurch in my chest. “I don’t know if that’s what he feels,” I admit, voice hushed. “It might just be a twisted sense of ownership.”

Crick exhales, glancing at the other servants who remain focused on their tasks. “Be careful. And if you ever need to talk without him eavesdropping, find me. I’m not a fan of the council or any highborn naga, but I dislike seeing humans caught in their games even more.”

He gives a brief nod and walks away, leaving me with the half-chopped vegetables.

It’s a strange comfort, knowing someone else sees the danger as clearly as I do.

Even so, confusion tugs at my thoughts. Vahziryn insists he expects nothing in return, yet his intensity is undeniable.

That combination keeps me teetering between cautious respect and an odd, smoldering tension I can’t fully name.

Afternoon arrives, and with it a message from Sahrine requesting my help in the laundry area.

A new shipment of linens requires sorting and labeling before they’re placed in different guest rooms. I bustle there quickly, passing guards and a few stoic naga staff who rarely speak to humans.

The laundry chamber is warm from the massive copper tubs used for washing.

Steam drifts upward in lazy curls, while a couple of human servants scrub garments at a long table.

Sahrine stands near a stack of freshly laundered sheets, her blind eyes directed vaguely in my direction. “Mira,” she says as I enter. “Fold these and arrange them by color. We want them ready for distribution by nightfall.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I roll up my sleeves and set to work, carefully folding the linens into neat squares, sorting them into piles for each hallway. The repetitive motion lulls me into a calm state.

After a while, the sound of Sahrine’s cane tapping the floor draws my attention. She steps close, voice low enough that only I can hear. “You appear unsettled today.”

I hesitate, glancing at her clouded gaze. “I... I’m fine. Just busy.”

A faint hum escapes her throat, skeptical. “You wear his gift, yet you look like you expect it to burn you.”

My hands falter on the linen I’m folding. “Sahrine, I don’t know what to think about it,” I confess softly. “He says it means nothing. Others say it means everything.”

She sighs. “The truth lies somewhere in between. A naga warlord doesn’t bestow tokens lightly.

But neither does it guarantee the future.

” She taps her cane, the slight sound echoing.

“If I were you, I’d keep your eyes open for the little ways he tries to claim your presence, not your body.

Power has many forms. And your greatest strength is learning to navigate each one. ”

The advice sends a chill through me. “I’ll remember.”

She nods once, then returns to overseeing the other workers.

I resume folding, thoughts swirling. The notion that Vahziryn might be exerting control through subtle acts—lingering glances, silent appearances, a gifted comb—leaves me both uneasy and strangely drawn.

Part of me imagines a life where I remain invisible, never again singled out by a master.

Yet I can’t deny the flicker of curiosity that stirs whenever he addresses me or when I catch him watching.

By evening, the linens are sorted, and I find myself unexpectedly free of tasks for a short while.

Sahrine approves my request to go outside for fresh air, so I slip into a quiet courtyard seldom used by the staff.

The stone walkway is lined with a few twisted shrubs, and overhead, the sky dims into a tapestry of stars.

The hush is a balm, letting me breathe without constantly peering over my shoulder.

I perch on the edge of a low stone wall, letting the night breeze brush my skin. A faint hum escapes my lips again—my old lullaby. The tune is soft, carried by the gentle wind. My eyelids drift shut, just for a moment, savoring this fragile sense of peace.

A gentle rasp on the stone behind me makes me startle. My eyes fly open to see Vahziryn standing a few paces away, his imposing form half-lit by a torch mounted on the courtyard wall. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he watches me with that cool intensity, tail coiling once around his ankles.

“My lord,” I say, rising swiftly, heart hammering. “I didn’t realize anyone else came here.”

He regards me, silent for a moment. “I patrol my domain,” he answers, stepping forward. The gentle torchlight glints off his scaled arms, highlighting the powerful lines of his body. “You find the courtyard to your liking?”

I fold my hands, trying to steady my nerves. “It’s quiet,” I reply. “I wanted some air.”

He nods, tail sliding across the stone in a languid movement. For a beat, neither of us speaks, and a tension crackles in the silence. Then he gestures to the low wall I was perched on, indicating I might sit again. Hesitantly, I resume my seat, forcing my hands to rest in my lap.

He stands before me, posture regal, yet there’s a subtle restlessness in the way his tail tip flicks. “You hum that song often.”

My cheeks warm. “It’s the only one I remember from... before. It calms me.”

He inclines his head. “It suits you. Soft, yet persistent.”