Page 15

15

XIRATH

T he stench of arrogance enters before the emissary does. I’m still thinking of Seren running away, and is in a bad mood.

The emissary seems to be a good way to release my fury.

I do not rise from my throne as the dark elf strides into the chamber, his silver robes flowing behind him in a display meant to impress. The fabric glimmers with enchantment, embroidered sigils glowing faintly against the obsidian weave. His hair, sleek and bound in braids too intricate for a soldier, marks him as one of the chosen lapdogs.

A disappointment.

I had expected someone worth killing.

The naga escort flanks him on either side, their grips tight on their spears. Their expressions remain unreadable, but their tails coil slightly, a silent warning to the dark elf that he stands among predators.

He does not seem to care.

His crimson eyes flick lazily over my warriors, over the walls of my stronghold, and finally, over me.

His smirk is slow, deliberate.

“Is this what passes for a throne in this backwater nest?” His voice is silk-drenched venom, the accent of his kind a lilting mockery of true power. “I had expected something more… civilized.”

The two naga guards shift, but I do not signal them.

He is testing me.

How far can he press before I rip his tongue from his throat?

I lean back slightly, tilting my head. “You have traveled far to insult your betters.”

The elf’s smile widens, flashing sharp teeth. “Ah, so the naga still cling to their old delusions of grandeur.” He takes a slow step forward, his boots clicking against the polished black stone. “I was sent with a simple message, but I must admit, I did not expect the infamous Xirath Va’Therin to look so…” His eyes flick down the length of my coiled tail, lips twitching. “Domesticated.”

A low rumble of displeasure stirs in my chest, but my face remains impassive.

He expected a reaction.

He will not get it.

“I imagine your master sent you to deliver more than an attempt at provocation,” I say, voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. “Speak your message before I grow bored.”

The emissary grins.

He enjoys this.

Enjoys the belief that he stands untouchable in my halls.

The fool.

His hands clasp behind his back, spine impossibly straight. “Lord Jalith wishes to be merciful.” He rolls the words out slowly, savoring them. “He understands that you have taken in a runaway, a piece of property that does not belong to you. He is willing to forgive this… transgression.”

I arch a brow. “Forgive.”

The elf nods, lips curving into something smug.

“In his generosity, he will even allow you to send her back intact.” He tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Though, of course, if she is damaged, we will have to renegotiate. Jalith does not take kindly to having his belongings mishandled.”

My claws dig into the armrest of my throne, the scrape of talons against stone the only sound in the vast chamber.

I had anticipated an envoy.

Had known that word would reach Jalith eventually.

What I had not anticipated was this level of idiocy.

The dark elf’s grin grows. “Or, if returning her is too difficult a task, I suppose my master could come himself. Burn this place to its foundations. Take back what is his from the ashes.”

The room sharpens.

The warriors in the chamber do not move, but the air shifts, tension coiling like a struck chord.

I rise slowly, my tail unfurling, the weight of my presence filling the space between us.

The elf has the good sense to step back.

Just slightly.

His expression falters for half a breath.

“Tell your master,” I say, voice a quiet promise of ruin, “that he will not need to waste his magic on a fire.”

The emissary’s smirk begins to return. “Ah, so you will?—”

I move before the words can finish.

The dark elf barely registers the strike, claws flashing, slicing through the fragile flesh of his throat in one clean motion.

He staggers, eyes wide.

The smirk has not yet left his lips as his body collapses onto the stone, blood spilling in an expanding pool beneath him.

His head remains in my grasp.

The chamber is silent.

I turn it slightly, letting the still-shocked expression face the remaining guards.

The two naga warriors who escorted him do not look away. They had known this was coming.

I flick my tail in dismissal. “Send his body back to Jalith.”

One of the warriors inclines his head. “And the head, Lord Xirath?”

I glance at the lifeless face, the arrogant smirk still lingering, frozen in time.

The perfect message.

The perfect warning.

“Mount it on the gates.”

The warrior bows.

The body is dragged away, leaving only the crimson stain of a fool who had thought himself untouchable.

Jalith will receive his answer.

He will come.

I welcome it.