Page 26

VAHZIRYN

M orning light pierces the thin curtains of my private chamber, rousing me from restless half-sleep. I lie on a broad bed with linen sheets that feel more constricting than soft. My tail curls in uneasy loops across the mattress, and my mind buzzes with the memory of what happened mere hours ago.

Mira sleeps beside me, her body wrapped in my coils.

I can’t recall pulling her so close, but my tail cradles her like she’s made of spun glass.

Warmth radiates from her form, stirring a fierce, conflicting surge of protectiveness and alarm.

I watch her face as she breathes, each exhale a soft puff against my arm.

The lamplight from last night is gone, replaced by the soft glow of dawn.

Dust motes drift in the air, turning golden near the window.

My pulse quickens. I cannot deny the gravity of what we did.

The vivid details still blaze in my mind: her parted lips, the catch of her breath, the way she clung to me as though I were her only sanctuary.

A swirl of desire curls low in my gut at the recollection, but a chilling wave of realization follows.

I have broken the unspoken laws that govern naga society.

Humans can be bedslaves, maybe even tolerated as concubines for lesser lords, but the line I crossed is far deeper, an intimate claim that I never intended.

A coil of panic squeezes my chest. In naga law, there are rites and rituals for taking a mate, especially if that mate is not purely naga.

I have performed none, have sought no permission from the council.

If the rumors of my brazen actions reach them, it could lead to condemnation—exile is the least of the punishments they can impose.

And yet, as I try to recall the exact moment I decided to toss such caution away, I find no single point in time.

Only the recollection of her trembling lips and the raw need in my chest.

I tense, tail shifting, and Mira stirs. A quiet murmur escapes her as she burrows closer against my side.

The gentle press of her body sends a flare of guilt laced with yearning.

With cautious care, I unwind my tail and slip away, doing my best not to rouse her further.

She sighs, adjusting in the bed but remaining asleep.

Barefoot, I pad to the door, robe cinched around my waist. My black scales reflect faint morning light, the edges tinted greenish gold.

I can almost feel a brand across my skin from last night—like I’m marked by that moment.

My heart thuds in my ears, and a clammy sweat dots my brow.

I press my palm to my chest, trying to steady my breath.

This hush is different from the tension that once dominated my life.

It is heavier, tinged with the knowledge that I’ve crossed a threshold no naga lord is supposed to cross without public sanction.

I slip into the corridor, shutting the door behind me.

It’s early enough that most staff remain in their rooms, leaving the halls empty.

My tail moves in restless arcs behind me as I wind through the stone corridors, mind spinning.

A single word echoes like a dire chant in my thoughts: consequences.

I refused to follow the formal paths, and now I must reckon with the fallout if word spreads. And it will, eventually.

My first stop is the library, but I don’t seek the scrolls.

Instead, hidden within a locked chest in the back is a small ledger containing the names of specialized apothecaries.

One in particular stands out—a venom-brewer famed for concocting suppressants that can dampen a naga’s physical drives and keep emotional impulses in check.

A desire-dulling brew, rumored to quell everything from unseemly lust to dangerously possessive urges.

I recall scornfully dismissing such potions in the past. Now, panic pushes me to consider them a lifeline.

I retrieve the ledger, scanning the cramped script.

My tail lashes the floor, agitated. If I can dull this maddening hunger for Mira, perhaps I can regain clarity.

Force myself to keep her at arm’s length until I find a safer arrangement.

Or until I decide it’s best to send her away—somewhere hidden, where neither the council nor I can reach her.

The notion of letting her go stings like a fresh slash.

I despise how a mere human has become so entwined with my every thought.

My father’s lessons ring hollow. He believed in calculated displays of dominance, never letting emotions rule.

Yet I found myself undone by the press of her lips, the warmth of her body, the soft whimper she made when I touched her.

I slam the ledger shut, cursing under my breath. My life is no longer tidy. She is part of me now, whether I accept it or not.

Breathing hard, I tuck the ledger under my arm and head for the corridor that leads to my personal study.

That room is smaller, more private, where I can send for a messenger discreetly.

But on the way, I nearly collide with Sahrine, who steps out from a side hallway.

Her pale eyes fix on me, despite her blindness, as though she sees the turmoil emanating from my body.

“My lord,” she says softly. “You are awake early.”

I grit my teeth. “I need to send for an apothecary. Summon a messenger.”

Her brow furrows. “An apothecary? Are you ill?”

I glance away, unsettled by her uncanny ability to sense tension in my posture. “Not exactly.” Then, impatience wars with caution. “This is no concern of yours, Sahrine.”

She shifts her cane, the tap echoing on the stone floor. “You’ve never asked for a venom-brewer’s contact before, my lord. Something has changed.” She tilts her head. “Is it because of her?”

A flicker of warning surges. “Do not pry.”

“I only ask because I sense your conflict,” she says gently. “You’ve become different since Mira arrived.”

Anger and guilt churn, but I keep my voice steady. “I must quell certain impulses for both our sakes. Sending for a suppressor is the wisest course.”

She exhales slowly, lips pressed thin. “Suppressing your desire will not erase the bond you’ve begun. Sometimes attempts to smother it only make the wound fester.”

I clench my jaw. “Spare me your counsel. This is my decision.”

A tense hush reigns, though I catch a flicker of sympathy on her features. Sahrine has served me for years, and despite her bluntness, she remains loyal. “Very well,” she says quietly. “I’ll arrange a messenger. Do you want the brewer to come here, or for them to send the potion via courier?”

“Have them send the potion discreetly,” I answer, chest tight. “I won’t risk an outsider seeing too much.”

She inclines her head. “As you wish.” Turning, she takes a few steps before hesitating. “My lord, if I may— pushing Mira away now might protect you from the council, but it may hurt you more than you realize.”

I bristle, tail snapping the ground. “If it keeps us alive, so be it.”

Sahrine bows her head, then continues on, cane tapping in a slow rhythm.

I stand there, ledger in hand, breath unsteady.

The corridor feels stifling. I weigh the risk of letting my desire for Mira continue unchecked.

If the council learns I’ve bedded a human without the formal bond or declared concubine status, they’ll swoop in, brand me a heretic or a traitor, strip me of my lands, or worse.

I recall Rahlazen’s sneer as he threatened to expose me for simply defending Mira. This is far more damning.

Frustration builds, hot and sharp. My mind conjures the memory of Mira’s sleeping form, how her cheek pressed against my shoulder as if she found genuine peace in my arms. I tear my thoughts away, bury them. Emotion is a trap. There’s no space for softness when our world punishes such weakness.

Steeling myself, I proceed to my study, where I scribble a quick note for the brewer, detailing the formula I need—something to blunt my physical urges and calm the roiling desire that threatens to sabotage my caution.

Before sealing it, I pause, tail flicking.

A twisted part of me rebels, not wanting to quell the searing flame that erupted between us. But the voice of survival is louder.

I sign the letter with precise strokes, fold it, and leave it on the corner of my desk. By the time I emerge, Sahrine has likely dispatched the messenger. My chest feels hollow, an echo of the conflict raging inside me.

Trying to distract myself, I spend the next few hours overseeing household matters.

I speak to Crick about border patrols, glower at Rahlazen’s ranting from his locked chamber, and ensure the staff remains vigilant.

A hush clings to the corridors, as though the entire estate senses my agitation.

Occasionally, I catch glimpses of human servants darting away, presumably to avoid my notice.

Mira is nowhere in sight, and I can’t decide if that’s relief or disappointment.

The coil of longing deep in my belly doesn’t fade, no matter how sternly I remind myself of the consequences.

Each time I think of her, my mind drifts back to the library table, the taste of her kisses, her trembling acceptance of my unusual form.

Guilt flares. She trusted me not to harm her.

Did I betray that trust by letting my lust overshadow her safety?

I force myself to keep moving. Duty is my shield. That’s how I survived exile, how I built this territory into a fortress. Emotions threatened that once, and I nearly lost my life. I won’t repeat those mistakes.

By late afternoon, I learn from Sahrine that the brewer’s package arrived—two vials of thick, opalescent liquid that I can ingest to dull my physical cravings.

She sets them on my desk with a quiet caution.

“They must be taken carefully, my lord. Too high a dose can hamper your ability to fight or reason.”