Page 8

He shifts closer, and I feel the subtle heat radiating from his body.

In daylight, I notice small details: a faint scar running along his ribs, just visible through the gap in his tunic, and the swirling green undertones that accent his ebony scales.

His eyes glint with an intensity that sets my nerves on edge and stirs something more profound in my chest.

“You’re new here,” he murmurs. “And yet you move through the estate as though you seek answers.”

A ripple of alarm courses through me. “I don’t mean to pry, my lord.”

His lips thin. “Humans often have to pry, or they remain ignorant of naga ways. But ignorance can be fatal.”

My heart thuds. “I only want to stay out of trouble.”

His eyes lift to my face, lingering on mine. “You appear more observant than you let on. I see it in how you hold yourself—like you’re ready to flee or fight.”

I can barely breathe under that scrutiny. Somehow, I muster a response. “That’s how I survived up until now.”

The faintest quirk shapes his mouth, almost a ghost of a smile, but it holds no amusement. “Wise.” He inhales a slow breath. “This is my domain, but it’s not a prison, so long as you respect the rules. Should you have questions, be direct. I prefer that to skulking in corners.”

I bristle a little, remembering the rumors I overheard about him. Still, I measure my words. “Then...I’ve heard there are reasons you live so far from the capital. I won’t ask why, but I?—”

He steps closer, the tension rolling off him in waves. “You what?”

A tremor ripples through my chest. Sparks ignite along my nerves, as if my entire body hums with alarm and intrigue. “I... I only want to understand what I’m walking into. I’ve served masters who lash out without warning, and I want to avoid stepping wrongly.”

His expression darkens, yet not in the way I expect. There’s a flicker of something almost like regret. “I don’t strike without cause,” he says, voice soft and lethal. “That’s all you need to know.”

The courtyard air grows thick. I clutch the fountain’s edge to steady myself.

A swirl of conflicting emotions churn inside me.

Beneath the fear, there’s an undeniable charge in his presence.

My thoughts flash to his scaled arms, the mesmerizing pattern of black and green, how easily those limbs could crush me if he wished.

He notices my trembling grip on the fountain and reaches out, stopping just short of contact. A sharp breath hitches in my throat. He never actually touches me—his claw-tipped fingers hover inches from my arm. That near-touch might as well be a blaze.

“Calm yourself,” he orders, voice rougher than before. “I have no intent to harm you.”

The tension in my muscles refuses to uncoil.

But his words spark a strange warmth in my chest, like a gentle promise hidden beneath a harsh edge.

I lift my gaze, meeting his eyes. For a moment, I’m stunned by the depth of his stare.

The golden hue flickers with all the menace of a predator, yet I sense a loneliness there that I can’t name.

He draws his hand away slowly, as if catching himself in a lapse. A darkness passes over his features, and he turns aside. “Return to your duties,” he says, voice hollow.

I nod, stepping back. My thoughts spin, uncertain how to process the crackling tension that flared between us. I slip out of the courtyard and hurry along a passageway. My pulse drums a restless beat.

Once in the calmer corridors, I pause near a tall pillar, pressing my palm to my chest. If he truly is cursed, it’s not the kind of curse I expected.

The rumors speak of a monster with an icy heart, yet what I saw in his eyes suggests something else.

A wound that runs deep, perhaps from the betrayal I overheard mention of.

It’s as though he’s fighting a battle between his savage instincts and a desire for something gentler.

I push away from the pillar, determined to bury my confusion by returning to the chores.

On the way, I pass another servant—a woman with short brown hair, carrying folded linens.

She barely spares me a glance. It occurs to me that many in this household have adapted to life under Vahziryn’s rule without question.

Maybe they sense his strength and choose not to delve deeper.

But I’ve always noticed details. It’s how I endured in a world that snatches away the weak.

A soft rustle of fabric warns me that Sahrine has appeared behind me again. She approaches with that unerring direction, her unseeing eyes landing on me. “Mira,” she says, “I trust you finished the greenhouse tasks?”

“Yes.” I take a breath, preparing to resume a neutral mask. “I did.”

She cocks her head. “You sound out of breath.”

“I had a moment with the lord. He asked me to continue my duties,” I offer.

Sahrine’s brow furrows slightly. “You should be careful not to disturb his solitude. He chooses it for a reason.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Something about my tone causes her features to shift.

She almost seems ready to speak further, but then she closes her mouth.

Finally, she says, “Crick needs assistance in the courtyard—he’s organizing crates of supplies delivered this morning.

Help him, then finish whatever else remains on your roster. ”

I nod and slip away, heading in the direction she indicated.

While walking, I feel the manor’s quiet pressing in again—though this time, it carries a different weight.

The air holds echoes of my encounter with Vahziryn by the fountain.

My fingertips still tingle from the memory of his proximity, the near-touch that sparked an unfamiliar warmth in my stomach.

Crick is kneeling beside a stack of wooden crates in an open courtyard that serves as a receiving area. He pries off the lid of one box with a crowbar, revealing bundles of cloth. Spotting me, he motions me over.

“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “Help me inventory these deliveries. Some are for the kitchens, some for the armory. Don’t mix them up.”

I kneel opposite him. “Yes, all right.”

He hands me a small ledger, flipping to a page listing supplies. Together, we match items from the crates to the corresponding lines. An oddly companionable silence settles between us, punctuated by the rustle of packing straw and the scratch of my pen.

Eventually, Crick sighs. “You’ve met the lord properly by now?”

I keep my eyes on the ledger. “We’ve spoken a few times.”

“How’s that going?” His question carries more curiosity than sarcasm.

I set aside a bundle of cloth. “He’s...not like my previous owners.”

Crick snorts softly. “That’s one way to put it. The last half-blood I served under used to whip humans just to watch them scream. Lord Vahziryn doesn’t waste the energy.”

A lump forms in my throat. The difference between cruelty by choice and cruelty by necessity is small comfort, but I cling to it. “I suppose I’m fortunate to be here instead of some other place.”

Crick doesn’t reply, but he nods once, as though acknowledging the complexity of our existence here. We work side by side, sorting through crates of spices, bolts of fabric, steel-tipped arrows, and jars of preserved fruit. Each item has its place in this quiet domain.

As we finish, the sky above shifts toward late afternoon, painting the courtyard in a warm golden hue. Crick slaps the ledger shut, rising to his feet. “That’s enough for now. The rest can wait.”

He strides off, leaving me alone among the crates.

I stretch my back, feeling the ache of repetitive work.

Despite the labor, a buzzing energy remains in my veins—an aftereffect of my brief moment with Vahziryn.

I’m not proud of the strange excitement that lingers.

He could kill me if he wished, with that venom and those lethal claws.

Yet the fear doesn’t overshadow the flicker of intrigue.

Shaking myself, I gather the leftover packing materials and stash them where the staff disposes of waste.

Then I return to my small room, which is mercifully untouched.

The bed stands in the corner, the single dresser remains locked with my few belongings, and the window’s tiny rectangle reveals the sinking sun.

Exhaling, I sink onto the mattress. The day has been filled with unexpected moments—from hearing rumors of a curse to almost touching the warlord’s hand.

My heart feels unsteady, like a bird trapped in a cage.

Despite my best efforts, I can’t chase away the memory of his quiet gaze, nor the way my body reacted to his presence.

Could he sense it? The question leaves a fluttering sensation in my stomach.

I brush my fingers across my arm, recalling the warmth that seemed to reach me from him.

How foolish to feel anything but caution.

And yet here I am, imagining the shape of his scaled forearms, the cut of his jaw, the odd gentleness that seemed to flicker in his eyes before he shut himself off.

Night descends, and I finally light a small oil lamp.

The flickering flame illuminates the bare walls.

My entire existence now revolves around this household—an arrangement that could be my salvation or downfall, depending on how well I navigate its secrets.

I think of Sahrine’s warning, Crick’s grudging respect, and the hushed talk of curses.

Vahziryn is not a typical naga lord, that much is certain.

But is that difference a good omen for me, or a deeper threat?

A soft knock sounds at the door. I tense, then open it to reveal a younger human servant, a boy no older than twelve. He shuffles, eyes downcast. “Sahrine said you can have some dinner in the kitchens if you’re hungry,” he mumbles.

I offer a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll be there soon.”

He darts away without another word. I close the door, rubbing my arms to dispel the lingering chill. Food is a practical necessity, but part of me dreads stepping into the corridors again, unsure if I’ll sense Vahziryn’s presence, or if he’ll appear from some corner to unsettle me further.

Yet life in this manor demands courage. I slide on my shoes and head out, forcing my back straight. My footsteps echo in the corridor, carrying me toward the kitchen. Though fear clings to me, I feel a spark of something else—a quiet determination that, for once, I won’t let terror define me.

As I walk, the estate’s stillness folds around me like a shroud.

In that hush, my mind circles back to the memory of the warlord’s eyes, the flicker of raw intensity in them.

I try to imagine how he must appear to his own kind: a disgraced noble, exiled with rumors of curses and betrayals swirling around him.

Perhaps that’s why he meets my gaze with such gravity—because he, too, stands apart.

The hush closes in, and my footsteps grow more certain. One thing I know: from this day on, I can no longer ignore him. Whether it’s from fear or fascination, he’s carved out a space in my thoughts. And something tells me that might be exactly what he intended, even if he wouldn’t admit it.