Page 1 of Naga Warlord’s Mate (Nagas of Nirum #3)
Andear
Sunlight scorched the ancient stones of the training grounds. Andear’s red scales prickled in the oppressive heat as he watched his warriors train, their movements creating a symphony of clashing steel and grunts of exertion.
“Your stance is weak, Fik.” Andear’s words carried across the courtyard like a whip crack. “Square your shoulders. A real enemy won’t give you time to correct your balance.”
The young warrior adjusted instantly, his blue scales gleaming with sweat. The air hung thick with the musky scent of exertion and sun-warmed stone. The familiar smell once stirred Andear’s blood. Now, it just reminded him of endless repetition.
“Again,” Andear commanded, crossing his arms over his chest. His scar caught the light, a pale line against dark scales. “Until your muscles remember what your mind keeps forgetting.”
Two more warriors circled each other nearby, their blades singing. Andear’s keen eyes caught a telegraphed move.
“Sloppy moves, Mareth. In a real fight, you’d be dead three times over.”
“Yes, warlord.” The warrior’s response came without hesitation.
Andear slithered restlessly along the perimeter of the training ground. Each day blurred into the next—train, drill, correct, repeat. The warriors moved with precision born of fear and respect, but where was the fire? The urgency? They trained for battles that never came.
“Hold.” The word cut through the clash of metal. “Switch partners. Fik with Mareth. Show me you’ve learned something today besides how to waste my time.”
The warriors scrambled to obey, but their movements felt hollow. Mechanical. Like actors playing at war rather than soldiers preparing for it. Andear’s jaw clenched as he watched them begin again, the same dance on the same cracked stones under the same merciless sun.
As the morning wore on, Andear’s claws dug into his palms as he watched another perfect, pointless drill. The warriors before him moved like water, but his satisfaction felt hollow. These weren’t soldiers forged in battle. They were dancers, rehearsing steps they’d never use.
“Switch positions,” he ordered, his voice carrying across the sunbaked courtyard. The memory of real combat scratched at his mind, taunting him with what was lost.
Five years ago, he’d led the charge against the Darkspine Rebellion. The clash of steel had meant something then. Each blow struck had been a statement, each parry a declaration of power. Now...
“Warlord?” Fik approached, his scales gleaming with exertion. “Should we run the flanking maneuver again?”
“No,” Andear commanded. “Pair up. Full contact sparring.”
At least he could give them a taste of real combat, even if it was just an echo. The warriors squared off, their movements careful, measured. Too measured.
“You think your enemies will give you time to consider your options?” Andear slithered into the ring. “Fight like you mean it, or don’t fight at all.”
The warriors’ strikes grew fiercer but still lacked the desperate edge of true battle. Andear remembered the burning in his lungs as he’d fought through the darkspine’s ranks, the way time seemed to slow and speed up all at once. His scar tingled with the memory.
“Better,” he growled, but the word tasted bitter. These warriors would never know that feeling—the clarity that came when every heartbeat might be your last. When victory meant survival, not just another mark in a training ledger.
“That’s enough.” He turned away from the sparring, unable to watch any more of this elaborate pretense. “Cool down exercises and then dismissed.”
The sun had barely reached its peak, but he couldn’t stomach another moment of watching war turned into sport. His warriors deserved better than this endless rehearsal for a performance that would never come. They deserved the chance to prove themselves as he had.
But peace, it seemed, had other plans.
The palace corridors echoed with Andear’s heavy slithering as he approached the council’s chamber later that afternoon. The familiar scent of incense and aged stone gave way to something else—tension, thick enough to taste.
Through the ornate doors, he caught fragments of heated discussion.
“The Xirath Dominion’s proposal—”
“The moon base would be purely scientific, they claim—”
Andear’s scales bristled as he entered. The council members sat around their circular table, data screens hovering before each of them. The word “Xirath” made his blood run cold. Memories of their documented atrocities flooded his mind.
“Warlord Andear,” Elder Keth acknowledged his presence with a nod. “Perhaps you can offer military insight on this matter.”
“What matter?” Andear’s tail swept across the polished floor as he approached, though he already knew. He’d seen the Xirath’s handiwork firsthand during his travels—the broken worlds, the enslaved populations. The humans.
Councilor Merat tapped his screen. “The Xirath seek permission to establish a research facility on Nirum’s second moon. They claim it’s for deep space observation.”
“They claim many things.” Andear’s claws clicked against the table’s surface.
The chamber grew quiet. Everyone knew the stories—how the Xirath used human females as surrogates, how they justified their slavery with carefully worded treaties and false promises.
“Their reputation precedes them,” another councilor murmured.
“Their reputation?” Andear’s laugh held no humor. “I’ve seen their slave markets firsthand.” His scar seemed to burn with the memory. “They don’t build ‘research facilities.’ They build footholds.”
The data screens flickered with images of the proposed base—sleek, modern, innocent-looking. But Andear saw past the glossy exterior to the weapon it truly was—a cancer that would spread from the moon to Nirum itself, if given the chance.
“The Xirath are conquerors wearing diplomatic smiles,” he continued. “They’ll start with a base. Then they’ll need supply lines. Security forces. Before long, they’ll have a military presence in our system, and we’ll have invited them in.”
The leather of Andear’s training gloves creaked as he clenched his fists. The council chamber’s polished walls seemed to close in around him as the political dance continued, each word another step toward potential disaster.
“The economic benefits cannot be ignored.” Councilor Merat’s tail swished across the marble floor. “Their technology alone—”
“Technology built on the backs of slaves,” Andear cut in, his scales bristling. The memory of human auction blocks made his stomach turn. “Or have we forgotten what our own ancestors did? The breeding programs? The subjugation?”
Elder Keth raised a placating hand. “Times have changed, warlord. We are not our forebears.”
“No?” Andear’s dark gold eyes narrowed. “Then why do I see the same hunger in your eyes when they mention profit? The same justifications our ancestors used?”
“You overstep, warlord,” another councilor warned.
“I speak truth,” Andear retorted. “The Xirath will drag us back into darkness, one ‘reasonable’ compromise at a time. First a base and then trade agreements. Then what?”
The chamber fell silent. Andear could smell their uncertainty, their fear—not of the Xirath, but of losing the wealth they promised.
“The warlord’s concerns have merit,” a younger councilor spoke up. “The Xirath’s history—”
“Is just that. History.” Merat’s scales flickered with irritation. “We cannot let old prejudices—”
“Prejudice?” The word exploded from Andear’s chest. “I’ve seen their slave pens with my own eyes. They haven’t changed. They’ve just gotten better at hiding their true nature behind diplomatic smiles and economic incentives.”
The council shifted uncomfortably, but Andear saw the greed hadn’t left their eyes. They’d sell Nirum’s soul for a profit, just as their ancestors had once sold their honor for power. His muscles coiled with the urge to shake sense into them, to make them see the precipice they danced upon.
The leather of his gloves protested as his claws threatened to tear through. These politicians, these peace-fat councilors, had never seen war. Never watched worlds burn or heard the screams of the conquered. They saw numbers on screens and opportunities for advancement.
They didn’t see the trap.
Andear stalked from the council’s chamber, his scales bristling with barely contained fury. The polished marble floors echoed his heavy movements as he made his way toward the palace gates, his mind still churning with images of Xirath slave markets and the council’s willful blindness.
The late afternoon sun caught his attention, drawing his gaze to the palace gates—and to her. A human female stood near the ornate metalwork, her golden hair catching the light like spun copper. She was tiny, even by human standards, yet something in her made her seem taller.
She wasn’t cowering or averting her eyes like most humans did in the presence of Niri. Instead, she studied a detailed carving on the gate’s arch with open fascination, her head tilted back, completely absorbed in her observation. The sight triggered something in him—a flash of recognition that made no sense followed by a surge of irritation at her presumption.
“The gardens are not open to the public today,” one of the guards informed her, his tone clipped.
“Oh, I know.” Her voice carried clearly across the courtyard, light but firm. “I’m actually here for the art program. The university said—”
Andear’s scales prickled as he watched her gesture animatedly, explaining something to the guard. The strange pull he felt toward her only fueled his annoyance. He had more important matters to attend to than some human who didn’t know her place—like preventing the council from selling their souls to the Xirath.
Yet he found himself slowing his pace, his keen eyes catching details he wished he could ignore: the way she held herself like someone who refused to be diminished, the subtle scars on her forearms that spoke of a darker past, the flash of green eyes that held neither fear nor submission.
“Warlord?” A messenger approached, clutching a data pad. “The training schedules you requested—”
Andear turned sharply away from the gates, forcing his attention back to his duties. But even as he strode away, that sense of recognition—and the irritation it brought—lingered like an itch beneath his scales.