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XIRATH

T he stench of blood thickens the training grounds, iron and sweat mixing in the humid night. Torches burn high on the stone pillars that surround the pit, their golden light flickering against the gathered warriors. The crowd hums with quiet anticipation, naga watching from the raised platforms, their scaled tails coiled in observation.

Their curiosity is warranted.

A human fights tonight. They challenge her hours ago, saying she has no right to be stand by my side. That I’m going weaker because I’m protecting a human.

My human.

Seren stands in the center of the pit, breath steady, muscles taut beneath her skin. Her grip on the sword remains firm, the bruises from yesterday’s training still dark along her forearms. She is small among us, fragile in comparison.

Yet she does not look fragile now.

The naga standing across from her looms tall, muscle and scale, his tail coiling against the dirt like a whip ready to strike. Orith is not the strongest warrior in my ranks, but he is lethal, his strikes precise, his speed unmatched by most.

He bares his fangs at her. “I expected you to run.”

Seren lifts her blade, rolling her shoulders like she is shaking off his words. “I expected you to be taller.”

The gathered warriors hiss with amusement. Orith snarls.

Good. Let him be angry. Let him underestimate her.

The fight begins with a blur of movement.

Orith strikes first, tail whipping forward, meant to take her legs out from beneath her. She moves before impact, sidestepping with sharp agility, blade already arcing toward his ribs.

Steel clashes against scales, the impact reverberating through the pit. She moves fast, faster than she should, adjusting mid-strike, blade shifting to meet his claws as he lunges.

Her instinct is good. Her footwork still clumsy.

Orith sees the opening before she does.

A brutal backhand sends her skidding across the sand.

The gathered warriors laugh, hissing their amusement.

Seren’s body stills where she lands, her dark hair falling across her face, the blade still gripped tight in her fist.

She should stay down.

She does not.

She presses her hand into the dirt, pushing herself upright, spitting blood onto the stone. Her tongue flicks over her lip where his strike split it open.

She smiles.

It is not sweet.

It is feral.

Something cold curdles inside me, something sharp and unfamiliar.

She enjoys this.

Orith sees it too. He sneers, but there’s hesitation in the way his tail flicks behind him, uncertainty curling beneath his bravado.

Seren wipes the blood from her chin with the back of her hand and raises the sword again. “Is that it?”

Orith growls, lunging forward, claws out.

She lets him get close.

Too close.

She shifts at the last second, twisting her body low, bringing her blade up in a sharp arc, not to kill, but to wound.

The sword slices clean through the flesh of his bicep.

A sharp, violent spray of red bursts against the sand.

The gathered warriors go silent.

Orith reels back, clutching his arm, hissing through his fangs. He looks at the wound like he cannot believe it exists.

She cut him.

She bled him.

Seren straightens, blood dripping from the tip of her sword. “You should have hit me harder.”

My pulse is no longer steady.

Something deep in my chest, a hunger, a pull that should not exist coils tighter.

She is not destined for me.

I have tested her.

Have touched her. Have waited for the bond to spark, for my curse to break, for my body to accept her as fate demands.

It never has.

She moves through the fight like she belongs to it.

Like she belongs to me.

Orith lunges again, tail snapping toward her like a coiled whip, but she’s already there, blade meeting his strike with a brutal, unforgiving precision.

The fight is not elegant.

It is not calculated.

It is raw, ruthless, violent.

Blood streaks her cheek, not her own.

Her lips part, breath heavy, but her eyes shine.

The bloodlust hums beneath her skin, a quiet, dangerous thrill she cannot hide.

I have seen humans fight to survive.

I have seen them beg, bargain, crawl to escape their fates.

Seren does not beg.

She does not bargain.

She does not want to escape.

She wants more.

Orith snarls, but his movements slow, his wounds weakening his strikes. She sees it.

She smells it.

I see the exact moment she decides to end it.

A quick sidestep, a calculated pivot, and she is behind him, blade pressing against his exposed throat.

A heartbeat of silence.

Her voice, soft and sharp at the same time.

“Yield.”

The gathered warriors watch, waiting.

Orith's claws twitch, hesitation pulsing between them like a tether waiting to snap. His jaw clenches, his tail thrashing once before he releases a sharp, bitter hiss.

He steps back.

He yields.

Seren lowers the blade, but she does not look relieved.

She looks hungry.

My throat is dry, the edges of my thoughts fraying, unraveling into something I don’t to delve deeper in.

She should not make me feel this way.

But I want her to be mine anyway.