Page 6

MIRA

I wake to the soft glow of dawn creeping through the narrow window.

My bed, though simple, gave me enough rest to face another day in this labyrinth of stone corridors and hushed footfalls.

Rising slowly, I lay a palm over my heart, coaxing it back into rhythm.

I’ve dreamt of far worse places, and I’m still wary, but the fear no longer grips me by the throat.

This morning, my chores begin in the eastern wing.

Sahrine left a note on my door last night, letting me know where to report.

She uses large, confident strokes in her writing, though I know she can’t see in the way humans do.

From what I gather, her eyes register heat differences instead of shapes.

I try to imagine living like that—perceiving the world in colorless warmth and cold.

It must be quite different, but she moves with such certainty that it’s easy to forget her blindness.

Stepping into the hallway, I pass the occasional flickering lamp set into a niche.

Though the morning sun brightens the windows, certain stretches of corridor remain in shadow.

The entire estate seems designed to welcome only a measured amount of light, as if too much brightness might offend the walls.

My steps are careful, mindful that every sound echoes.

I slip into a side chamber where cleaning supplies are stored.

A trace of soap and polished wood clings to the air.

I grab a bucket and a rag, then tuck a small broom under my arm.

The slavers who sold me insisted that these quiet tasks would be my sole purpose in life.

Still, I do them with a determination that surprises even me.

Keeping busy with simple work is better than standing around, waiting for a threat to strike.

Today, I’m directed to tidy a rarely used gallery near the estate’s eastern veranda.

Once I navigate the twisting hall, I enter the gallery and stare at a row of tall windows overlooking a portion of the grounds.

Outside, the jungle thrives in vivid bursts of color—red bark, purple vines, giant leaves that droop under morning dew.

Sunlight slants in, illuminating patches of dust floating in the still air.

As I place the broom aside, I sense a presence behind me.

Turning, I spot Sahrine at the threshold.

Her white, sightless eyes fix on me in that uncanny way she has, as though she can see exactly where I stand.

This morning, she wears a simple charcoal-gray robe that conceals the lean musculature I suspect lies beneath.

Her posture has a regal quality, neither stiff nor tentative.

A single wave of her hand beckons me closer.

“How do you fare?” she asks. Her voice resonates with calm authority.

“I’m well, thank you,” I reply, dipping my head in respect.

She tilts her head as if scanning my heat signature. “Yesterday, you cleaned the sitting rooms and the main corridor. You did so quietly.”

“Yes.” A ripple of caution crosses my mind; I’m never certain if the staff here views silence as virtue or suspicion.

She steps forward, the faint whisper of her feet on the stone barely audible. “You’re adjusting faster than most humans I’ve seen brought here.”

I swallow. “I prefer to keep busy.”

She nods slowly. “The lord appreciates efficiency. Stay on his good side.” Her words drop into the hush of the gallery like stones into a deep well.

I release a breath. “I understand.”

Sahrine shifts her attention toward the tall windows. “I heard you grew up in Lurra Hollow before...the slavers took you.”

That question is unexpected, and it stings to remember my hometown—a place ravaged by a naga raid. “Yes. My family died when I was young, so I don’t recall much else.”

A hush. Then she says, “We all lose things in this world, child. Just make sure you guard whatever remains.”

Her tone, though impersonal, holds a hint of empathy I didn’t anticipate. She lingers a moment longer before gesturing at the windows. “Clean them well. The glass must be spotless.”

“I will,” I answer. My eyes follow her as she turns and leaves with unhurried steps. Her presence feels neither hostile nor kind, simply practical—yet there’s a faint suggestion she might be more protective than she admits.

Determined to follow her instructions, I collect a cloth and a small pot of cleaner, then begin wiping the windows from top to bottom.

The glass is warped in places, distorting the outside view into wavy shapes.

In the distance, I glimpse the high outline of a cliff, where twisted red ferns cling to rocky outcrops.

Beyond that lies the rest of Nagaland, I suppose—an expanse of dangerous beauty.

Stories say the naga prefer isolation, prizing their territory and turning away foreign trades, especially from minotaurs or elves.

They consider humans an afterthought—weak and useful only as property.

As I polish the final window, movement catches my attention near a cluster of stone arches that form a side entrance to the manor.

A figure stands there, half in shadow. My heart gives a small leap when I recognize the tall shape, the broad shoulders, and the inky-black hair brushing his waist. Vahziryn.

I grip the cloth tighter. He’s speaking with someone—Crick, if I’m not mistaken.

The half-blood guard, scaly in uneven patches, stands with folded arms. His posture reflects a casual irreverence.

Vahziryn, by contrast, holds himself with quiet authority.

The tilt of his chin, the subtle shift of his tail, even the way he breathes exudes control.

Something about him unsettles me, yet I can’t look away.

His scales—deep onyx outlined faintly with green—catch the morning light.

They trace patterns across his forearms, up over his shoulders, and vanish beneath the neckline of his dark robes.

He’s tall, impossibly so, and he moves with a measured grace that suggests lethal power lies just beneath that placid surface.

Most naga I’ve encountered radiate arrogance or sadistic glee.

He is different. His calm is more dangerous than any sneer.

Crick glances up at him, mouth twitching with a remark I can’t hear through the glass.

Vahziryn replies in a low, rumbling tone.

I notice the slight flaring of Crick’s nostrils, as though he’s testing the boundaries, but he eventually backs down, stepping away to head deeper into the estate.

Vahziryn lingers near the archway, scanning the courtyard beyond with a brooding intensity.

A jolt of heat washes through me. Part of me wants to close my eyes and block him out, but I can’t.

My pulse throbs in my ears. It’s not just fear, though that’s certainly present.

Something else pulses beneath, a strange flutter of curiosity.

I recall the day he asked if I had eaten, the day he studied me in that corridor.

His voice was quiet, the words simple, but they carried a weight that made me feel both small and inexplicably seen.

Why would a naga lord, rumored to have a cursed past and a violent temper, bother to show any concern for a human servant? The riddle gnaws at me.

Focusing on my work, I force myself to wipe the last streaks from the window. When I dare glance outside again, he’s gone.

My chores in the gallery take a little over an hour.

Afterward, I gather my supplies and head into a small side corridor to return them.

I pause near a wide wooden door that stands ajar.

A cluster of voices drifts from within, prompting me to stop and listen.

I’m not proud of eavesdropping, but the estate’s hush magnifies every snippet of conversation, and my curiosity gets the better of me.

I recognize one voice—Crick’s. He’s muttering something about territory disputes. Another voice, belonging to a female servant, interjects. “...told you, they say he’s cursed. That’s the rumor. Why else would the council send him away?”

Crick scoffs. “The council didn’t send him away because of a curse. That’s just what the noble families want you to believe. He turned his back on their cruelty, and now they spin stories about him.”

The woman lowers her tone, forcing me to strain to hear. “Maybe so. Still, I heard there was betrayal involved, something to do with his betrothed plotting to kill him. They say his heart’s ice now, that no warmth will ever thaw it.” She laughs nervously.

Crick replies, “He’s dangerous, no question. But there are worse lords out there who flaunt cruelty for fun. At least Vahziryn keeps to himself. I’ve served him a year now, and he hasn’t once lashed me for speaking my mind.”

The woman snorts softly. “Maybe. But that kind of quiet is the scariest of all.”

Their footsteps shuffle, and I realize they might emerge at any moment.

Heart pounding, I step back, hurrying down the hallway before they catch me eavesdropping.

My mind reels with the weight of what I overheard.

Vahziryn might be exiled because of some confrontation with the naga council.

He had a betrothed who attempted murder.

Is that why the staff mentions curses? Some old superstition about betrayal marking him for life?

My footsteps quicken, carrying me away from the conversation.

Part of me feels foolish for prying, but I can’t shake the sense that I need to understand the man who bought me.

If he’s truly as cold as rumor claims, then I must learn how to navigate his moods to stay safe.

Yet the glimpses I’ve seen suggest he’s not the type to relish suffering.

He moves as though he’s carrying a burden far heavier than mere arrogance.