Page 4 of Craving Their Venom
KAELEN
T he General’s rage is a physical force.
It floods his spartan quarters, a suffocating tide of violence that smells of ozone and bloodlust. It beats against my senses, a discordant drum in the symphony of the cosmos.
But I am a rock in this torrent, my calm a shield forged in silence and vision.
My gaze is not on the snarling warrior, but on the woman he has cornered.
Amara.
The name came to me in a whisper of starlight the moment I first saw her, a name that does not belong to our tongue, yet feels ancient and true.
She stands between us, a fragile vessel containing a storm.
Her terror is a high, thin note, but beneath it, her spirit burns with the steady, unwavering light of a distant star.
It is this light I have followed back from my exile.
It is this light that the prophecy foretold.
Zahir’s crimson scales are flushed dark with fury, his powerful body coiled to strike.
His hand is still fisted in her hair. I see the faint tremor in her limbs, the pallor of her skin.
He is a hammer, and he sees only a nail.
He cannot comprehend that she is the fulcrum upon which our entire world is about to turn.
“She is not for you, mystic,” the General growls, his voice a low threat that promises pain.
“She is not for you , General,” I reply, my own voice quiet, yet it cuts through his rage like a shard of obsidian.
I take a step into the room, crossing the threshold of his territory without invitation.
The prayer beads at my wrist, carved from the fossilized bones of a leviathan, feel cool and heavy against my skin.
“She is a key, not a toy for your warriors to break.”
His golden eyes narrow, the slits contracting to pinpricks of malice. “The King promised her to me.”
“The King is not the final arbiter of fate,” I say softly. “The gods have their own designs.” I extend a hand toward her, my palm open. It is not a command, but an offering. An anchor in the storm of his fury. “Come. You will be safe with me.”
Zahir’s growl deepens, a sound from the very bedrock of the earth.
He is about to refuse, to challenge me. I can see the violence gathering in his shoulders.
But he is a creature of tradition as much as he is of brutality.
To defy a mystic invoking the gods in such a way is a taboo even he is reluctant to break.
His grip on her loosens, and with a final, guttural snarl of frustration, he shoves her toward me.
She stumbles, her eyes wide and wild. I catch her arm, my touch gentle.
Her skin is warm, her bones as delicate as a bird’s.
The contact sends a jolt through me, a current of pure, undiluted life force that resonates with the ancient power humming in my own blood.
The prophecy is not just words on a scroll.
It is alive. It is here, trembling in my grasp.
I lead her from the room, leaving Zahir to his rage. I do not look back.
The corridors of the palace feel different with her at my side.
The cold, imposing stone seems to recede, the shadows less menacing.
Her presence changes the very quality of the air.
We walk in silence, her steps light and hesitant next to my measured stride.
I lead her away from the barracks and the public halls, toward the secluded spire that holds my sanctuary.
My chambers are a stark contrast to the rest of the palace.
Here, there are no monuments to war, no displays of cruel wealth.
The circular room is lined with scrolls from floor to ceiling, their aged parchment whispering of forgotten histories and cosmic truths.
A high, domed window opens to the night sky, and the light of the million stars of Protheka spills onto the floor, a river of silver dust. The air smells of old paper, dried herbs, and the subtle, clean scent of ozone from the focusing crystals that dot the room.
I release her arm and gesture to a low cushion near the center of the starlit floor. “Please.”
She hesitates for a moment, her gaze sweeping the room, taking in the ancient texts, the glowing runes carved into the walls, the celestial charts painted on the ceiling.
This is a place of knowledge, not violence.
The tension in her shoulders eases almost imperceptibly.
She sinks onto the cushion, her movements graceful.
I do not sit. I stand before her, a silent observer. I need to understand. The prophecy is a riddle written in the language of the gods, and she is its living grammar. When three fierce serpents, born from royal blood, claim one heart of humanity…
Varos is a serpent of ambition and ice. Zahir is a serpent of fire and blood.
I am a serpent of spirit and shadow. We are the three, I know it.
I feel it in my soul and we’re all from a royal bloodline, albeit distant.
But what is this “heart of humanity”? Is it her courage? Her defiance? Or something more?
“Tell me of your home,” I say, my voice soft.
She looks up at me, startled by the question. “My home?”
“The place you were taken from. Describe it to me.” I am not making conversation. I am searching for echoes, for patterns.
“It was… quiet,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “A village by a stream. We had trees with white bark that peeled in the summer, and the air always smelled of pine.” She looks down at her hands, which are clasped tightly in her lap. “It was simple. Nothing like this.”
“And your people? What do they value?”
“Family,” she says without hesitation. “Courage. Telling the truth, even when it’s hard. And… kindness.”
Kindness. A concept so foreign in this court it might as well be a myth.
I watch the way the starlight catches in her dark hair, the way her chest rises and falls with each soft breath.
I note the crescent birthmark at the base of her neck, a sliver of a moon against her pale skin.
It is a symbol of the Lunar Goddess, a deity of cycles and hidden truths.
A coincidence? There are no coincidences.
“You have a name,” I state.
She looks up, surprised again. “Amara.”
“Amara,” I repeat, testing the shape of it on my tongue. It feels right. It resonates. “You were not afraid, in the throne room. Not in the way you should have been.”
“I was terrified,” she corrects me, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. “But fear is not a cage, unless you let it be.”
Her words are a perfect, polished stone of truth. They settle in my mind, and I see another piece of the prophecy fall into place. Her strength is not in defiance for its own sake. It is in her understanding of her own inner world. She is a master of her own fear.
I begin to pace slowly, my tail a silent shadow on the floor.
“The threads of fate are tangled, Amara. A darkness gathers within Nagaland, a rot that gnaws at the heart of the kingdom. I was exiled for seeing it. I have returned to stop it. And the moment you arrived, the threads began to glow. They all lead to you.”
Her eyes are wide, filled with a confusion that is entirely understandable. “Me? I am… nothing. A human.”
“You are the eye of the storm,” I say, stopping before her.
I crouch down, bringing myself to her level.
It is an intimate gesture, one that goes against every instinct of naga dominance.
But I must see her clearly. “I do not yet understand why. But the prophecy is clear. Your presence here will either save us or be the catalyst for our utter destruction.”
I reach out, my fingers hovering just above the back of her hand. I do not touch her, but I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “I need to understand you. I need to observe you, to learn what it is about you that can sway the fate of a kingdom.”
“So I am to be a subject of study now, instead of a pet?” she asks, a flicker of her earlier bitterness in her tone.
“You are to be a guest,” I say, and the word feels true, even as I know it is also a lie. She is a guest, but she is also a prisoner of destiny. “You will not return to the menagerie. You will not be given to the General. You will stay here, with me, under my protection.”
It is a declaration. A claim. Not of the body, as Zahir would have it, or of status, as Varos might. It is a claim on her fate.
Before she can respond, a sharp, authoritative knock sounds at my door. A royal guard.
“Mystic Kaelen. The King summons you to the throne room. At once. You are to bring the human.”
I close my eyes for a moment, the prayer beads cool against my wrist. Zahir has not wasted time. The game has been escalated.
“It seems,” I say, rising to my full height, “that your fate is not mine alone to decide.”
I lead her back into the cold, unforgiving corridors of the palace.
When we enter the throne room, the scene is one of frozen tension.
My father sits upon his throne, his cruel eyes glittering with amusement.
Zahir stands before him, a pillar of contained rage.
And Varos is there, standing beside the throne, his golden scales catching the light, his face an unreadable mask of cold calculation.
“Mystic,” my father hisses, his voice dripping with mock cordiality. “The General informs me you have taken an interest in his… property. He seems to believe you have stolen it.”
“The woman is not property, Your Majesty,” I say, my voice calm and steady. “She is a nexus of fate. A prophecy I shared with you in confidence, a warning you chose to ignore, now walks in our halls. She must be protected, studied. The future of Nagaland may depend on it.”
“The future of Nagaland depends on the strength of my warriors!” Zahir snarls, taking a step forward. “And my warriors were promised a reward. A promise made by the King himself!”
“Enough,” my father commands, and the single word cracks like a whip, silencing the General.
The King leans forward, a slow, reptilian movement.
He looks from me, to Zahir, and then to the silent woman at my side.
A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face.
He is enjoying this. He is enjoying the sight of his General, his Mystic, and by extension, his heir, all vying for this one, insignificant creature.
“A creature of such… importance,” he says, drawing out the word, savoring it. “Cannot be left to either of you. The General’s appetites are too base. The Mystic’s rituals too obscure. This has become a matter of state.”
He shifts his gaze to Varos. “The human will be placed under the direct charge of the Crown Prince. He will be her keeper. He will ensure her… safety.” The King’s eyes lock with his son’s, a silent, unmistakable order passing between them. “The matter is settled.”
The words fall like stones into a deep well.
Zahir is seething. I feel a cold knot of dread form in my stomach.
The king has not solved the problem; he has merely moved the pieces on the board.
He has placed the heart and soul of the prophecy into the hands of the one serpent whose ambition is as cold and sharp as a winter shard of ice.
I look at Amara. She stands amidst the three most powerful naga in the kingdom, a pawn in a game she cannot comprehend, her fate decided by the whims of a tyrant.
And I, who returned to guide the threads of destiny, find that they have been snatched from my grasp and woven into a tapestry of pure, political cruelty.