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VAHZIRYN

T he corridors of my estate lie swathed in silence this morning, exactly as I demand.

A dim stretch of sunlight seeps through tall windows, illuminating floating specks of dust. I stand at the far end of the main hallway, near a tall column carved with coiling serpents.

My gaze tracks the newest addition to my household staff: the human named Mira.

She is barely visible from this distance, kneeling on the polished floor to wipe away footprints left by the night patrol.

I catch her slight movement, the careful drag of a cloth against stone.

Her posture remains subdued, shoulders bent inward, as though every breath must be hushed.

It should please me—I purchased a servant known for her silence and unobtrusiveness.

Yet that very quality draws my attention more than any amount of chatter would.

I tense my claws at my sides. My fingernails are thick and tapered, each with a dark sheen that hints at my naga heritage.

Scales cover my forearms in a pattern of black edged with midnight green.

Those scales continue up past my elbows, merging into skin near my biceps.

Beneath my robes, I feel the shift of my powerful tail, coiled around my waist to keep it from dragging.

I have the legs of a man, but the elongated tail extends behind me, muscular and serpentine, granting me extra balance and speed when I need it.

In my youth, I stood nearly seven feet when fully upright, with a slender, athletic build.

Over the years, training and the realities of war have carved muscle into my frame, leaving me broad in the shoulders and trim at the waist. My hair is black, falling thick and loose halfway down my back.

Most often, I bind it in gold clips or let it drape freely, as it does now.

My face is sharp-featured, with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes that reflect an amber gleam in low light.

At the moment, my eyes remain fixed on the human.

She wears a dull gray shift beneath a plain apron.

I notice how her hair—coiled close to her scalp—catches the morning glow, giving it a soft sheen that contrasts with her deep brown complexion.

She reminds me of a small creature always prepared to flee.

Yet there’s an efficiency to her movements that betrays hidden discipline.

I shift my stance, and my tail sways, producing a subtle rasp against the stone.

Mira’s head lifts. For an instant, her gaze sweeps across the hallway, and I sense her wariness like an electric current.

She sees me, though I remain partially hidden behind the carved column.

Her eyes dart away quickly, returning to her task with renewed focus.

Why do I linger here, observing her instead of tending to more pressing matters?

I have orc incursions to study and reports to review.

There’s also the matter of resupplying certain potions my venom-brewer has been perfecting.

Yet my feet refuse to move away. I grit my teeth, unsettled by the compulsion that roots me in place.

For a heartbeat, I recall the day she arrived: the hush that fell over my household when she stepped through the doors, looking frightened but strangely resolute.

I asked if she had eaten, and the softness in her answer cracked something inside my chest. She seemed surprised I bothered to inquire.

No servant in my domain starves, but humans I’ve encountered seldom believe that until they experience it.

I exhale quietly. Attachment is a weakness—one I vowed never to entertain again. My exile from the capital taught me that caring leads to betrayal. Yet here stands a human who moves in near silence, offering me no reason for suspicion beyond the fact I notice her too frequently.

I roll my shoulders, forcing myself to step forward. I must pass by her to reach my study. The air shifts as I approach. She senses me, though she pretends focus on her scrubbing. When I’m close enough, I speak, keeping my voice low.

“You can continue that later. There are tasks in the eastern wing that need your attention.”

She flinches at the sound, then gathers her rag and rises to her feet. Her eyes remain directed at my chest, not quite daring to meet my stare. “Yes, my lord.”

That voice is almost a whisper, but it carries an edge of composure.

She doesn’t quake like many humans do. Nor does she speak out of turn.

I nod, stepping aside to let her pass. The swirl of air around her carries a faint scent of soap and the warmth of her skin. It lingers even after she moves away.

I stand there longer than necessary, caught in the remnants of that scent. Then I shake my head and make my way to the study, determined to bury myself in more productive concerns.

My study occupies a large chamber flanked by two windows that overlook the jungle beyond.

The glass is warped in places, evidence of older craftsmanship.

Through the panes, I glimpse thick vines and crimson bark, a hallmark of this region’s vegetation.

Kaynvu’s forests are lush and untamed. Predator calls echo at dawn and dusk.

The isolation suits me, far removed from the ceaseless intrigues of the naga royal court.

I settle behind a heavy wooden desk. On its surface lie parchments detailing watch reports, supply inventories, and other mundane necessities.

Sahrine’s neat handwriting notes that we received fresh produce from a nearby orchard.

Another line item shows the arrival of certain medicinal herbs used to refine my venom.

My mind wanders, drifting back to the swirl of quiet that follows Mira wherever she goes.

I pick up a quill and scratch my signature on one of the parchments, approving a shipment of preserved meats for winter.

My tail flexes around the chair legs, a sign of agitation.

I push the feeling aside and focus on the next item: an update about orc raids.

My scouts warn of small bands creeping closer to naga territory.

Typically, we can repel them with minimal effort, but if their numbers grow, it may require my personal attention.

After reviewing the details, I grab the next report, only to discover my gaze flicking toward the door. Am I waiting to sense her presence again? Frustration builds in my chest. My claws click lightly against the edge of the parchment.

I recall a single memory from my time at the High Nest, back when I was engaged to Lady Velna.

She once told me that compassion for humans signaled a fundamental flaw in my character.

I believed her for a while, letting guilt fester each time I spared a human slave from harsh punishment.

Her betrayal—conspiring with assassins to claim my inheritance—showed me how twisted that line of thinking was.

That fias—no, that calamity still throbs like an old wound.

No, I won’t allow the memory of her cruelty to control me.

I refocus on the lines of text. Eventually, I force myself to immerse in the strategic updates, scribbling notes for my guard, Crick.

He’s a half-blood, cunning and loyal enough, though he doesn’t hide his scorn for the naga elite.

That might be one reason I tolerate him—he despises hypocrisy as much as I do.

Time drips by until a knock sounds at the door. It’s not timid, yet it lacks aggression. “Enter,” I say, voice curt.

Sahrine steps inside, her sightless eyes directed toward me.

She wears a deep green robe that conceals her serpentine limbs.

A single scale glimmers near her collarbone, aged and pale compared to mine.

She inclines her head. “My lord, the new maid is settling well. She’s thorough in her cleaning, quiet, and hasn’t disrupted the household. ”

I set down my quill. “Good. That’s exactly what was promised.”

Sahrine pauses, hands folded. “Indeed. Though the staff remarks that she seems...observant.”

I arch a brow. “Elaborate.”

“She misses nothing. She notices small details, reorganizes tasks for efficiency without being told. She remains meek in words, but I sense a keen mind behind her silence.”

A faint current of irritation stirs. I do not need a clever servant. Obedience and competence suffice. And still, some quiet part of me wonders why that offends me. “Does she meddle?” I ask, carefully controlled.

“Not in any problematic way, my lord. She simply adapts quickly. The others find her a little unsettling, because she speaks so rarely yet accomplishes so much.”

I tap a claw against the desk. That’s precisely what I wanted from the slavers—a servant who would not trouble me. Curiosity only becomes an issue if it leads to disobedience or prying. “Keep watch, and ensure she understands her limits.”

Sahrine inclines her head again. “As you wish.”

She steps back, closes the door, and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

For a while, I wrestle with the tension in my shoulders.

Then I push away from the desk and decide to inspect the estate personally.

My tail swishes behind me as I stride into the hallway, passing a series of wall sconces that remain unlit during the day.

I head toward the eastern wing, following the same route Mira took earlier.

Muted footsteps reach me before I see anyone. I slow my pace and peer around a wide archway into a smaller sitting room. This chamber has a simple fireplace along one wall, a few straight-backed chairs, and a large painting of the capital city, Kario, pinned above the hearth.