Page 2 of Naga General’s Mate (Nagas of Nirum #2)

Mila

The metal bucket clanked against Mila’s knee as she scrubbed the floor of Kurg’s grand hall. Her knuckles burned from the caustic cleaning solution, but she kept her movements steady and methodical. Head down. Invisible.

“Move faster. The master expects this done before the gathering.” The overseer’s boots stopped inches from her bucket.

“Yes, sir.” Mila shifted to the side, careful to keep her eyes on the ornate floor tiles.

The boots moved away, and she released her breath. Another day of staying beneath notice. The less attention, the better chance of protecting Priscilla.

A door slammed somewhere above, followed by Kurg’s distinctive heavy footsteps. Mila grabbed her bucket and pressed herself against the wall, making herself as small as possible. The kingpin’s bulk filled the hallway as he descended the stairs.

“Get this place spotless,” he barked at no one in particular. “I want it perfect for tonight’s party.”

Perfect meant hours more work, but Mila kept her face carefully blank. The less she reacted, the less likely she’d draw attention. She’d learned that lesson young, watching others who spoke up disappear.

When Kurg passed without a glance in her direction, Mila allowed herself a small breath of relief. She dunked her rag back in the bucket, ignoring the sting of chemicals on her raw skin. Tonight’s gathering meant more mess to clean, more chances to overhear dangerous secrets, and more reasons to stay invisible.

But staying invisible kept her alive and kept Priscilla safe. That was worth any amount of scrubbing.

Later that evening, crystal glasses clinked as Mila refilled wine for the seventh time. The sickly-sweet scent of expensive Jorvlen wine mixed with the heavy perfumes of Kurg’s guests made her stomach turn.

“Another successful venture.” Kurg’s laugh boomed across the dining hall. “The council will be pleased with our progress.”

The other kingpins raised their glasses. Their jeweled rings caught the light of the chandeliers, making Mila’s eyes water. Or perhaps it was the smoke from their cigars that curled through the air.

“To progress,” the guests echoed.

A drop of wine splashed onto the pristine tablecloth as Mila’s hand trembled, and the overseer’s eyes narrowed from across the room. She steadied herself, moving to the next guest.

“The shipping routes are secured then?” A woman in a crimson dress tapped her long nails against her glass.

“More than secured.” Kurg leaned back, his chair creaking. “Those meddling Niri won’t be a problem anymore.”

“And their… cargo?”

“Dealt with. Permanently.”

Laughter rippled around the table. Mila’s grip tightened on the wine pitcher. The same hands that ordered deaths now lifted delicate forks to their mouths, sampling the roasted meats and exotic fruits she’d helped prepare.

“Girl.” Kurg’s voice cut through her thoughts. “More wine.”

Mila approached his chair, keeping her eyes down. His cologne assaulted her senses—spice and leather barely masking something rotten underneath. Just like everything else about him.

“Careful now.” His hand brushed against hers as she poured.

The touch sent ice through her veins, but she kept pouring. Steady. Invisible. The wine reached the rim of his glass.

“Good girl.”

The words dripped like poison. Mila retreated, forcing her feet to move slowly, naturally. Not to run. Never to run.

“Speaking of cargo,” one of the kingpins said, “I hear you’ve got quite the collection of house slaves.”

“Only the best.” Kurg’s gaze swept the room, passing over Mila like she was furniture. “Though they’re all replaceable.”

The conversation moved on to trade routes and profit margins. Mila circled the table, pouring wine, collecting plates, existing in the spaces between their words. Each step brought fresh horrors to her ears, wrapped in pleasant dinner conversation.

The wine pitcher grew lighter with each pour. Three more glasses until she could retreat to the kitchen.

The market run tomorrow morning beckoned like a siren’s song—no guards, no oversight, just a simple delivery list and enough credits to cover the purchases. Freedom lay just beyond these compound walls.

“Where’s that pretty sister of yours?” The woman in crimson peered at Mila through her wine-hazed eyes.

Mila’s hand trembled. “In the kitchens, my lady.”

The memory of Priscilla’s face this morning flashed through Mila’s mind—dark circles under her eyes from another sleepless night but still managing a smile as she braided her golden hair. So much like their mother.

“More wine here.” A meaty hand waved an empty glass.

The market square would be busy tomorrow. Busy enough to disappear into the crowd, to blend with the masses of free citizens going about their day. The spaceport wasn’t far. She’d mapped the route a hundred times in her head during previous errands.

But Priscilla would still be here, alone. Vulnerable.

The thought of her sister facing Kurg’s wrath, bearing the punishment for Mila’s escape, turned her stomach more than the kingpin’s cologne. They’d learned young what happened to slaves who ran—or worse, to those left behind.

“Getting slow, girl.” The overseer’s voice carried across the room.

Mila quickened her steps, the familiar mask of subservience settling back into place. The dream of freedom dissolved like sugar in tea, leaving only the bitter dregs of reality. She couldn’t abandon Priscilla. Not to this.

Her sister’s voice echoed from this morning: “At least the kitchen work isn’t so bad.”

Sweet, innocent Priscilla. Still finding light in the darkness. Still worth protecting at any cost.

The wine pitcher emptied. Mila backed away from the table, her head bowed and thoughts locked safely behind carefully blank features. Tomorrow would bring another market run, another chance at freedom that she couldn’t take. Another day of surviving, of keeping Priscilla safe.

Steam billowed as Mila pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door. The familiar clatter of dishes and hiss of water greeted her, along with Priscilla’s quiet humming. Her sister stood at the wash basin, her golden hair escaping its braid as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn pot.

“Here, let me help with that.” Mila grabbed a cloth and stepped beside her sister.

“The overseer won’t like you leaving the hall.”

“They’re too drunk to notice.” Mila’s fingers brushed Priscilla’s as she took the pot. “Your hands are raw enough.”

“So are yours.” Priscilla touched the red patches on Mila’s knuckles.

“I’m used to it.” The metal pot’s burned bottom yielded under Mila’s stronger scrubbing. “Did you eat anything?”

“There’s some bread left from breakfast.”

“That’s not enough.” Mila glanced at the platters of half-eaten delicacies waiting to be cleared. “Take some of the roasted vegetables when you wrap the leftovers.”

“But if they catch me—”

“They won’t.” Mila rinsed the pot and stacked it with the others.

Priscilla’s stomach growled, betraying her hunger. She ducked her head, her cheeks flushing pink. The gesture reminded Mila so much of their mother, it hurt.

“The gathering should end soon.” Mila dried her hands and started organizing the cleaning supplies. “I’ll help you finish here.”

“You don’t have to take care of me all the time.”

“Of course I do.” Mila tucked a loose strand of hair behind Priscilla’s ear. “That’s what big sisters are for.”

They worked in comfortable silence, moving around each other with practiced ease. Mila kept one ear tuned to the hall, alert for any approaching footsteps. Her muscles ached from the day’s labor, but she pushed through it. Every dish cleaned was one less for Priscilla’s tender hands.

“There.” Mila hung the last pot on its hook. “Much better.”

“Thank you.” Priscilla’s smile brightened her tired features. “You always make everything easier.”

The words squeezed Mila’s heart. If only she could make everything easier. If only she could give Priscilla the life she deserved, free from fear and hunger and endless work.

But for now, all she could do was this—steal moments of kindness between the cruelties, share what little comfort they had, and keep her sister’s spirit from breaking.

Back in the dining hall, the alcove’s marble floor reflected the dim evening light as Mila wiped away the last traces of spilled wine. Her knees protested each movement, the long day taking its toll. But the sooner she finished, the sooner she could return to Priscilla.

A shuffle of boots against stone made her pause. Kurg’s distinctive gait echoed down the hallway, accompanied by lighter footsteps. Mila pressed herself deeper into the alcove’s shadows.

Soon, Kurg and a council member’s assistant stopped just past her hiding spot, their heads bent close together. Their whispers carried an edge of urgency that made Mila’s skin prickle.

She should leave. Nothing good ever came from overhearing Kurg’s private conversations. But something in their tense postures, the way they kept glancing over their shoulders, held her in place.