Page 48

MIRA

I can’t stop smiling as I stand beside the oldest serpent tree behind the jungle manor, one hand braced on its massive trunk, the other resting on the gentle swell of my belly.

The tree’s bark twists in sinuous patterns, etched with ancient runes that time and vines have half-consumed.

Thick roots sprawl across the damp earth, forming natural arches where tiny flowers bloom in the shade.

Overhead, the lush canopy filters sunlight into dappled gold, transforming this secluded clearing into an almost otherworldly sanctuary.

My heart thrums with anticipation. We’re back at the manor we once fled, but today it feels more like a haven than a cage.

Vahziryn paces a few steps away, exchanging low words with Talli and Crick.

His broad shoulders and black scales reflect the noon sun, every carved line of muscle powerful yet subdued.

He no longer wears the warlord’s insignia—he renounced it publicly in the capital’s glare, swearing never to bow to the council again.

Now he’s simply Vahziryn, the naga who risked everything for us.

My mate. My chest warms at the truth of that word.

Today, we hold our private mating ceremony, recognized by old naga tradition and nurtured by our own hearts.

I shift my weight, feeling the child move inside me.

My belly has grown noticeably since the venom challenge—time passing in relief rather than fear.

The disheveled courtyard we once saw is partially cleared, a testament to the handful of allies who remain loyal: Crick, Talli, even Sahrine in her quiet, watchful way.

The staff that didn’t abandon us have helped restore a corner of the manor to livable condition, and now they discreetly linger around, ensuring we have everything we need for the ceremony.

I run my fingertips across the trunk’s ridges, recalling how Vahziryn used to speak of this particular serpent tree, rumored to be centuries old, maybe older than the nest itself.

He said the ancients once made vows under these branches, forging pacts that no council could break.

A breeze stirs overhead, rustling the leaves, as if the tree breathes with anticipation.

“Ready?” a soft voice asks at my side. I turn to see Talli, staff in hand, tattoos along her arms glimmering with faint color. She surveys my face, her unusual eyes hinting at a hidden well of knowledge. “The others are waiting by the trunk. It’s time to begin.”

I nod, nerves fluttering in my stomach. Although we survived the capital’s condemnation, forging a recognized bond, this ceremony is something personal, a vow we choose of our own will.

My pulse races as I press a hand to my abdomen again, steadying myself.

The baby shifts under my touch, a gentle reminder that we’re forging a future not just for Vahziryn and me, but for the life we created.

Talli gives me a small, confident nod and glides away, returning to a cluster of watchers near the tree’s broad roots—Crick in his ragged scales, Sahrine with her clouded eyes, plus a few staff members who insisted on witnessing.

Sahrine stands tall, blind gaze directed by some arcane sense, her cane tapping faintly on the soil.

Crick stands near her, arms crossed, tail flicking in suppressed excitement.

He catches my eye and winks, a gesture of camaraderie that makes me grin.

I recall how he once called me “softhearted” for bonding with Vahziryn. Now he stands here as if proud of me.

Vahziryn finishes his conversation and turns, stepping across the grass.

My breath hitches at the sight of him. He’s tall, hair a cascade of obsidian black down his back, high cheekbones accentuating gold-flecked eyes.

Black scales rim his forearms and the length of his powerful tail, shimmering faintly in the bright daylight.

He wears no formal regalia, only a simple dark robe left half-open at the chest, revealing glimpses of scaled muscle.

My heart flutters. His expression softens when his gaze settles on me.

He closes the distance, tail swishing across the grass. Despite his calm facade, I sense a trace of nervousness in the stiff tilt of his shoulders. “Mira,” he says, voice low, “are you comfortable? If you need to sit, or if the heat is too much?—”

I laugh lightly, warmth blooming in my chest. “I’m fine. Overprotective naga,” I tease, though my tone brims with affection. My belly feels heavier these days, but the flutter of excitement overrides any discomfort.

He exhales, tail brushing my ankle. “I can’t help it. Seeing you carry our child... I’d tear down the entire nest again to keep you safe.” His voice dips to a reverent hush. “But Talli says the ceremony must start promptly.”

I nod, realizing that the small gathering around us has grown silent, expectant.

I step forward, guiding Vahziryn’s hand to rest lightly on my abdomen.

He blinks, then a gentle smile curves his lips as he feels the child shift.

My pulse speeds. This is the moment we proclaim our union—beyond the forced recognition of the capital’s laws, a vow that is ours alone.

Talli signals with a raised staff. She begins chanting softly in an old naga dialect, each syllable weaving around us like a faint melody.

I don’t know all the words, but I recognize the shape of them from Vahziryn’s stories: phrases that evoke the jungle’s ancient spirits, calling upon the silent watchers in these trees.

The serpent tree overhead creaks, leaves swaying as if acknowledging the rite.

He and I stand face to face, the hush so profound I can hear my own heartbeat.

I tilt my chin, meeting his gaze. Amber eyes watch me intently, as though memorizing every detail of my face.

Carefully, I place my hands on his broad shoulders.

He lowers his head, gently pressing his forehead to mine in a gesture of closeness.

The crowd around us forms a ring, but I barely sense them.

In this moment, it’s just the two of us—scales and skin, heartbreak and triumph.

Talli’s chanting fades, replaced by a waiting stillness. She steps back, allowing us to speak. My throat constricts with emotion. I recall how we once danced around our feelings, how I believed he found me worthless, how he believed he could never break the nest’s cruelty. Now, we stand united.

Vahziryn touches my cheek with a scaled palm, tail coiling near my legs.

His voice emerges soft but resonant, carrying to those gathered.

“Mira,” he says, eyes never leaving mine, “I offer no grand titles, no pledge of territory or rank. All I can give is myself, bound in love and devotion. For every wound inflicted by my race, for every sorrow that bruised your heart, I vow to heal it, protect you, and stand by you. Always.”

Tears spring to my eyes. We no longer fear condemnation.

I let them fall, exhaling a trembling breath.

“Vahziryn,” I say, voice catching, “when I arrived in your domain, I expected only cruelty. You showed me something else—a deeper compassion hidden behind walls. We overcame venom and prejudice, forging a bond that stands beyond any council. Now, I vow to walk beside you as your mate, your equal, your home.”

A hush drapes the clearing. Talli inclines her head, murmuring an invocation. Then she gestures for us to exchange words in both tongues—human and naga. My heart races. We practiced a few phrases, enough that I can speak them without stumbling. I swallow and begin, my voice soft:

“In the name of love, I claim you,” I say in my human language. Then, in halting naga, I attempt the archaic vow. “Moshka’ss larhin essva,” which Vahziryn taught me to mean: you are my anchor, my choice. My accent stumbles, but his tail tightens in recognition.

His eyes glisten with a hint of tears as he replies, first in the naga tongue, then in my language. “Ashkiir nathza, I accept your bond,” he whispers. “You are my heart, my forever.”

A wave of relief and joy surges through me.

The watchers around us—Crick, Talli, Sahrine—bow their heads in approval.

The hush cracks with a smatter of gentle applause, hushed reverence more than celebration.

Sahrine murmurs something about the serpent tree blessing the union, her cane tapping the earth as if reading the vibrations.

Vahziryn breathes out, tail sliding around my waist in a final show of ownership and devotion.

For a moment, we stay like that, foreheads touching, arms wrapped in an embrace that transcends language.

My tears flow freely, though they taste of happiness, not sorrow.

I sense the child move again, as if stirred by this swirl of emotion.

Crick steps forward, expression uncharacteristically soft.

“Congratulations,” he says, voice gruff.

“Never expected to see the day a half-blood like me would witness a ceremony forging a path for half-breeds. But here we are.” He inclines his head to me, a subtle sign of respect that warms my heart.

Talli smiles, tapping her staff lightly. “May your union bring new beginnings to this land,” she says. “You defied old boundaries, but forging something fresh is never easy. Lean on each other.”

Sahrine’s sightless eyes fix on our direction.

“The vines once threatened to crush you both,” she murmurs in a cracked voice, “yet you pruned them away. Let the serpent tree stand witness to your vow.” She lifts a hand, groping for me.

I take her palm, and she squeezes gently. “Be kind to each other, always.”

Emotion wells in me. “Thank you,” I say, voice thick. “All of you.”