Page 4

Mira kneels near the baseboards, dusting meticulously.

From my vantage point, I observe her profile: the gentle slope of her cheek, the focused set of her mouth.

Her arms are slender, yet I notice a subtle firmness in her movements that betrays years of labor.

She glances up, perhaps sensing me. The moment her eyes meet mine, she drops her gaze and shifts her weight, as if fighting the urge to bow.

Instead of stepping into the room, I remain in the archway. “You work quickly,” I remark.

“I only wish to do what’s required.” Her answer is soft, delivered without hesitation.

Something about her voice stirs me. I move closer, letting my tail curl around one of the chair legs. “Sahrine says you reorganize tasks. You take initiative.”

She sets her rag aside. “I’m sorry, my lord, if that offends. I was trying to lighten the burden on the others.” There’s a cautious note in her tone, a desire not to provoke.

I study her posture. “You haven’t crossed any lines yet. But be aware that stepping too boldly beyond your station may cause friction.”

She lifts her chin a fraction, though still avoiding my eyes. “I understand.”

My scrutiny roams across her face, lingering on the faint burn scar visible on the side of her thigh when she shifts.

The cloth of her dress rides up an inch, revealing uneven flesh, presumably from an older wound.

She notices my attention and pulls her skirt down quickly.

I catch a flicker of embarrassment in her features, then it vanishes behind a composed mask.

The silence grows thick. I sense the flutter of something in my chest, an inconvenient awareness of how alone we stand in this small room, with no one else present.

I breathe more slowly, reining in whatever impulses churn beneath my exterior.

I’m the master here, not a suitor, and certainly not a caretaker for her wounds.

I release the chair from my tail’s grasp and step aside. “If you finish early, see to the corridor near the kitchens. The scullery maids have left footprints of flour again.”

“Yes, my lord.” She collects her things, and I see the faint tremor in her fingers. Whether it’s fear or tension, I’m not certain.

I leave without another word, determined to keep my distance.

Yet my path leads to the courtyard at the center of the estate, where I often pace among the vines and carved pillars to clear my head.

Stepping outside, I inhale the damp air.

The courtyard is open to the sky, though partially shaded by broad-leafed plants twisting around stone arches.

A cluster of red ferns borders the path, their leaves shaped like elongated fingers.

Beyond them, a statue of Feher, the naga god of land and water, stands guard.

His carved serpent tail wraps around a sphere, symbolizing the planet’s bounty.

As I walk, I note the hush that cloaks my home.

Occasionally, the hum of insects or the squawk of a jungle bird breaks the stillness.

No laughter, no idle conversation. It’s how I’ve lived for years, free of prying eyes.

Once, this solitude was a blessing. Now, I suspect a restlessness stirs in me, something Mira’s presence has amplified.

I slip past a large fountain adorned with serpentine figures.

Water trickles through their stone mouths, forming a shallow pool that reflects the overhead canopy.

My reflection ripples on the surface, revealing my tall frame.

The lines of my face appear leaner than they used to be, my expression guarded.

Exile has a way of carving out vulnerabilities, leaving behind only what ensures survival.

A sudden memory stings: a scene from the day I turned on the council’s command.

I refused to execute a human child who had ventured too close to the High Nest’s sacred archives.

That act led to an uproar, culminating in a near-fatal betrayal by my betrothed.

The scars on my ribs serve as a permanent reminder.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the memory pass like a thorny vine gliding over my skin.

Then I continue along the courtyard’s path, eventually circling back into the manor through a different doorway.

The corridor here leads to a set of private quarters and a smaller library.

I often find respite among the old scrolls, where documented history and half-forgotten knowledge hold more honesty than most naga I once knew.

Stepping into the library, I spot Crick leaning against a shelf. His mismatched scales and rebellious grin mark him as a half-blood. He straightens and inclines his head in a greeting.

“My lord,” he says, voice laced with that familiar edge. “I’ve been checking the perimeter. Nothing unusual.”

I give a terse nod. “Good.”

His gaze flicks to me, then away. “You seem on edge,” he remarks. “Is something vexing you?”

“Merely the usual tasks,” I reply, keeping my tone dismissive. I have no intention of sharing the fact that my new maid occupies my thoughts too often.

Crick smirks, crossing his arms over his scaled chest. “If you say so, my lord. I’ll be in the barracks if you need me.”

He brushes past, footsteps echoing as he departs. Despite his attitude, he’s loyal enough and competent in guarding my land. Still, his perceptiveness grates on me. I don’t want any speculation about how a human servant might be distracting me.

Once alone, I scan the shelves. Scrolls detailing ancient naga rites line one section, while another holds treatises on venom research.

I run my claw over a tome about the old bonding rituals, back when humans were occasionally taken as mates.

The text references archaic ceremonies, now considered taboo by many.

I suppress an internal sneer. The hypocrisy of the council never ceases to amaze me.

They condemn any naga who expresses more than cold disdain for humans.

Yet in private, some keep concubines or amuse themselves with so-called pets.

I withdraw the tome, flipping a few pages.

Illustrations show serpentine males coiling around human brides, performing rites under sacred trees.

The text describes a spiritual exchange of venom, the forging of a connection that transcends physical bonds.

My chest tightens. I close the book abruptly, pushing it back onto the shelf.

Such things have no place here, not in my life.

Leaving the library, I return to the corridor that borders the sitting room.

Mira is gone now, presumably scrubbing away flour near the kitchens.

I find myself irritated by the swirl of tension inside my head.

Deciding to resolve something more concrete, I head toward the training courtyard behind the manor, where a smaller yard is used for combat practice.

Sunlight strikes my face as I emerge outdoors again.

This courtyard is simpler—just a flat space lined with gravel.

Weapons hang from a rack along one wall: spears, swords, and a few well-crafted bows.

I shrug off my robe, revealing a sleeveless tunic that leaves my scaled arms bare.

With a spear in hand, I move to the center of the yard.

My routine begins. Feet planted, tail coiled behind me for balance, I thrust the spear forward, pivot, and pull back.

Each movement is rehearsed from years of drills.

My muscles remember the sequences even if my mind wanders.

I envision an orc or some shadowy foe, and I spin, bringing the spear around in a precise arc. Gravel crunches under my boots.

As I practice, sweat clings to my skin. The tension in my chest recedes, replaced by the clean focus of physical exertion.

I lunge, driving the spear toward an imaginary target.

It slices the air with a sharp whoosh. Then I pivot, tail snapping around to brace myself.

Once upon a time, training was how I escaped the labyrinth of thoughts.

Eventually, my breathing grows ragged. I lower the spear and stand upright, letting the humid air wash over me. Closing my eyes, I chase away the swirl of anxiety that’s been haunting me. It’s foolish to let a quiet human get under my scales. She’s just another servant.

I take a moment to center myself, then slide the spear back into the rack. My torso glistens with perspiration, and the black scales on my arms catch the sun’s reflection. I reclaim my robe, shrugging it on. As I do, I hear footsteps at the courtyard’s edge.

Mira stands there, clutching a small tray with a pitcher of water. She’s paused, as if hesitant to approach. I narrow my gaze. Did Sahrine send her, or did she come on her own?

She steps forward, crossing the gravel. “My lord, Sahrine mentioned you might want refreshment.”

Her voice remains soft, but I notice she meets my eyes for a fraction of a second before lowering her gaze. Her cheeks hold the slightest flush, perhaps from the heat or from seeing me in this state of partial disarray.

I nod, holding out a hand. “Set it down.”

She places the tray on a low stone bench.

The pitcher is ceramic, along with a single cup.

I pour water for myself and drink deeply.

The liquid soothes my throat, chilled just enough to be pleasant.

Mira takes a step back, waiting. Her posture is cautious, yet I sense the flicker of curiosity in her expression.

I lift the cup again. “Your name.”

Her eyes widen slightly, as though she didn’t expect me to ask. “It’s Mira,” she answers, barely above a whisper.

“Mira,” I echo. Something about speaking her name aloud tastes strange, like a note of music out of place. “You’ve carried yourself well so far. Continue to do so, and you will find no trouble here.”

She bows her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, my lord.”