Page 13

13

XIRATH

T he jungle is too still.

The moment I step beyond the glowing vines, something is wrong. The natural pulse of the forest, chirping insects, the distant rustling of unseen creatures has vanished. The silence is not emptiness. It is anticipation.

She is close.

Her trail is fresh, disturbed earth where her feet skimmed too quickly, the faint imprint of her fingers against the thick trunks where she steadied herself. She has been running. Not aimless, not in fear, but because something has forced her to.

Now, something forces me.

A low murmur filters through the trees. Words spoken in a guttural tongue, thick with the accent of a species that should not be on naga soil. Minotaur.

I shift my weight forward, my tail flicking against the damp moss, my claws flexing in controlled restraint. It takes no effort to remain unseen.

Another voice, deeper than the first, rumbles low. “She’s got some fight, I’ll give her that.”

A growl ripples through my chest, restrained, controlled.

They are speaking of her.

I move soundlessly through the undergrowth, my senses narrowing as I see them.

Three mercenaries stand beneath the thickest part of the canopy, where the vines pulse faintly with bioluminescent light, revealing the ragged state of their captive.

Seren is on her knees, one arm bent at an unnatural angle as she struggles against the bruising grip of the largest one. His hand is clamped around her throat, forcing her still. Her mouth is parted, breath hard, but her eyes, they burn.

No fear. Only fury.

She shifts, testing his hold, her body coiled like she’s waiting for the moment to strike.

The minotaur holding her chuckles. “The bounty said nothing about her putting up this much of a fight.”

Bounty.

The word strikes through me, a sharp and unwelcome truth.

Jalith has begun to pay for her return.

Seren growls something I can’t hear, but it makes the second mercenary laugh, nudging the third with his elbow. “Shall we tire her out before taking her back?”

That sentence seals their fate.

My blade is unsheathed before my body even acknowledges the movement. The steel hums against the thick jungle air, a whisper before the storm.

The first mercenary, the one pinning Seren, doesn’t even have time to react before my sword buries deep into his ribs.

His breath catches in a gurgled choke, shock flickering in his dull eyes before I twist the blade, wrenching it upward through muscle and bone. The release of blood is instant, warm and sickly as it spills over my wrist.

Seren collapses to the ground as his grip on her fails, coughing, gasping, but she does not hesitate. Her hand snaps to the dagger hidden at her hip, her body already shifting into a defensive stance as the other two react.

The second minotaur lunges, swinging a crude axe toward my skull.

He is too slow.

I sidestep, tail whipping around in a sharp, precise strike that sends him crashing into a thick tree trunk. The force shakes the canopy, leaves and vines raining down like shattered glass.

He groans, dazed, but not dead.

A mistake. I do not let mistakes linger.

I move before he can recover, blade slicing cleanly through the thick muscle of his exposed throat. His body slumps, blood pooling beneath his massive form.

The third hesitates.

A terrible choice.

His instinct tells him to run.

My instincts do not allow it.

I am on him before his foot leaves the ground. My claws sink deep into his chest, piercing through the weak protection of his armor, feeling the frantic, stuttering beat of his heart beneath my palm.

He gasps, his mouth forming around a plea, but I don’t let him finish.

A sharp twist, and the beat stops.

The body collapses at my feet.

Only the jungle remains.

Only the thick, wet silence of death.

Suddenly, the sound of breathing.

I turn.

Seren is watching me.

She is still on the ground where she landed after I killed the first one, her hands braced against the dirt, her chest rising and falling in sharp, measured breaths. She should be trembling. She should be afraid.

She is not.

Her gaze locks onto mine, the moonlight slipping between the vines, illuminating the blood on my hands, the carnage at my feet.

She does not recoil.

Does not cower.

Her lips part, and I almost expect a challenge, another sharp remark that will remind me of why I do not break her.

But she says nothing.

Only watches.

Only sees.

I step forward, closing the space between us. She does not move away.

My claws graze the edge of her chin, tilting her head just enough to assess the bruises along her throat. The mercenary had held too tightly. Had dared to mar what belongs to me.

A cold pulse of rage snakes through me, but I don’t allow it to control me.

“You should not have left,” I murmur.

Seren’s fingers flex at her sides, but she does not pull away from my touch. “You should have let me.”

The words are sharp, but not reckless. She is testing me again.

It is a foolish game.

“You are mine,” I say, voice steady. “That means no one else touches you. No one else takes you.”

Her breath does not hitch. She does not tremble.

She only lifts her chin higher, as if daring me to see the truth in her eyes.

I already do.

She does not hate me.

She hates what I make her feel.

But it is too late for either of us.

I turn from her, stepping over the bodies, my tail flicking behind me. “Walk, little mouse.”

She does not hesitate.

She steps through the blood, past the bodies of the men who would have taken her.

She walks behind me, back toward my stronghold.

There is no need for chains.

She already understands.

She belongs to no one.

But she is not free.

Not anymore.