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Time crawls, yet I’m oddly grateful for this mundane chore.

My heart steadies, and I slip into the well-practiced calm I learned at the academy.

Polishing surfaces with gentle strokes, making certain each area is pristine.

While I work, I think about the rumors tied to this warlord.

They say he’s vicious in battle, that he once took down an entire troop of orcs with only a handful of soldiers.

They also say he’s exiled because of something scandalous involving the High Nest, though the specifics are murky.

I wonder if any of that truly matters. Right now, I’m a servant with no plan beyond surviving. The best approach is to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

My cleaning is interrupted by the soft slither of scales.

Immediately, my gaze darts to the doorway.

A naga man stands there, though this one’s appearance is far more striking than the guard I saw earlier.

He’s impossibly tall and moves with fluid grace.

Iridescent black scales shimmer across his forearms, trailing up to broad shoulders.

The intricate patterns frame a powerful torso that suggests lethal strength.

Long obsidian hair flows behind him, nearly brushing his hips.

He’s unsettlingly gorgeous in an inhuman way. The lines of his face are sharp, with slitted amber eyes that catch the light and reflect it like a predator’s. He doesn’t speak. His presence alone makes the air feel charged, as though a storm is gathering just outside.

I dip my head in what I hope is respectful greeting. My voice is subdued. “My lord.”

He remains silent for a long moment, gaze roaming over me.

I fight the urge to shrink into myself. While I have no desire to provoke him, I can’t hide the tremor that runs through my limbs.

This must be Vahziryn. He exudes command with every breath, as if the entire manor and its inhabitants exist at his mercy.

When he finally speaks, it’s low and measured. “You’re the one they brought from the auction.”

My nod is small. “Yes, Lord Vahziryn.”

His eyes narrow slightly, studying my stance, my posture, the shape of my face. “They said you arrived only this morning. Have you eaten?”

I almost flinch at his question. Why would my well-being matter? “Not yet, my lord.”

He lifts a claw-tipped hand, gesturing in the direction of the corridor. “The kitchens will provide you a meal. Go now.”

He sounds neither kind nor cruel. Simply commanding. My thoughts swirl with confusion, but I know better than to hesitate. “Thank you.” I set aside the rag I was using and head for the door.

As I pass by, I sense his gaze tracking every step. His presence presses on my nerves, but I keep my back straight. Once I’m in the hallway, I realize my heart is pounding so fast it almost hurts.

Footsteps approach from another direction. A male voice, quiet but insistent: “Don’t linger, girl. Lord Vahziryn hates wasted time.”

It’s the guard from earlier, the one with the scar on his chin. Up close, I notice his scales are more irregular than those of a full-blooded naga. Perhaps he’s a half-blood. His tone is impatient, yet not entirely unfriendly.

I offer a small nod and keep moving. My plan is simple: do my job, remain inconspicuous, and avoid stirring Vahziryn’s interest any more than I already have. If he wants a silent servant, I’ll give him exactly that. The best way to survive is to be useful and unseen.

The corridor winds past several tall windows that frame the jungle.

I catch glimpses of red sand, thick knots of vines, and brilliant flowers shaped like trumpets.

Everything out there hums with life, some of it surely lethal.

In the distance, a bird with metallic plumage swoops low, letting out a piercing call.

For a moment, it reminds me of how big this world truly is.

The man leads me to a spacious kitchen. Here, the scents of raw meat and fresh-cut herbs swirl in the air.

A pair of human servants stand near a huge wooden counter, chopping vegetables.

They glance up at me with guarded eyes, then return to their work.

The half-blood guard instructs them to give me a plate.

Immediately, one sets aside a small portion of stew and hands it over.

I thank them under my breath, taking the bowl to a quiet corner.

The guard leaves without another word, boots thumping on the stone floor.

In that corner, I notice a low stool, so I settle there to eat.

My spoon clinks softly against the wooden bowl.

The stew is simple—root vegetables, shredded meat, and a few herbs—but it’s warm, and it grounds me.

As I eat, I can’t ignore the tension in the kitchen. Nobody speaks above a whisper. It’s as if the entire household is trapped in some unspoken rule: keep the peace, never cause a stir. Every face I see is drawn with concentration, as though each person fears the consequences of a single mistake.

I set down the spoon, appetite dwindling.

My mind circles back to what I’ve heard of this warlord.

If even half the rumors are true, it’s no surprise the staff treads carefully.

Yet my initial meeting with him was subdued.

He didn’t roar commands or menace me with a whip.

Instead, his voice, though quiet, carried an undercurrent of threat, as if violence is coiled beneath his stillness.

Finishing the last bite, I stand and deposit the empty bowl in a washbasin. One of the servants glances at me. She’s a small woman with tired eyes, her hair bound in a neat braid. “You should hurry back before you’re missed,” she whispers.

“I will,” I reply softly.

My next steps take me into the corridor once more.

A series of paintings line one wall—renderings of jungle scenes, but each with a serpentine figure emerging from vines.

I pause before one depicting a tall naga crowned with twisted horns and swirling tattoos.

A faint plaque at the bottom reads: High Warlord Kayzhar, though the letters are in the naga script, so I can only guess.

A prickle at the back of my neck warns me that I’m being watched.

Turning, I spot no one. Yet the sense lingers, prompting me to move faster.

I don’t want any reason for Lord Vahziryn or his staff to suspect me of prying.

In truth, all I can think about is returning to my modest room, the one with the locks on the outside, simply because it offers a semblance of refuge.

When I arrive, relief washes over me as I see the door is still unlocked from the inside. I slip in and close it gently, pressing my forehead against the wood. My pulse gradually settles.

This entire place feels like the hush before a storm.

Everyone acts as though something catastrophic might erupt if they dare raise their voices.

Perhaps Vahziryn’s quiet is more dangerous than any shouted rage.

The stories from the auction swirl in my head: how he once annihilated a foe with a single strike of venom, how he never forgives disobedience.

Still, I think of the way he watched me in that sitting room, the moment he asked if I’d eaten. The concern was minimal, but it existed. I can’t decide if it’s genuine or a calculated display of authority. Maybe both.

My only certainty is that survival depends on not rousing his temper, or anyone else’s.

I glance around the small room. It’s plain, but it’s mine for now, and that is enough.

Sitting on the bed, I let a deep breath escape my lungs.

Tomorrow, I’ll continue my duties and stay in the shadows.

If I remain silent and useful, perhaps I can avoid drawing the warlord’s gaze again.

That’s the lie I cling to, the belief I’ve carried for years: if I don’t stand out, then I won’t become prey.

Yet something whispers in my mind that he’s already noticed me in ways no master has before. And I can’t shake the feeling that in this household, silence might not be enough to keep me safe.

I close my eyes, forcing the thought away. I’m not about to test that theory. My life, from this moment forward, belongs to Lord Vahziryn, whether I wish it or not.

All I can do is blend into the stillness. If I’m lucky, he’ll forget I exist, and I’ll fade into the rhythms of this strange, quiet manor. I have to believe that’s possible. Otherwise, I might never find the courage to draw another breath.