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SEREN

T he rumors slither through the stronghold like a slow-spreading rot, curling into dark corners and whispered conversations.

She’s seducing him.

She’s making him weak.

She is his death.

They do not speak these words in my presence, but I hear them anyway.

I see it in the way they look at me.

The naga warriors have always been indifferent at best, hostile at worst. I am human, a creature beneath their notice, a fragile thing to be used, discarded. But this?

This is something else.

Disdain sharpens in their stares, suspicion woven into their movements. They believe I have corrupted him.

They believe I have tainted their leader with my presence, turned him reckless, driven him to a path of destruction.

Perhaps they are not wrong.

Xirath has been different these past days, his absence stretching longer, his eyes darker, the tension a tightening noose between us.

Something is breaking inside him, and they see it.

They see me as the cause.

They are not entirely wrong.

But they are mistaken if they think I will apologize for it.

The training ground is alive with steel and blood.

Naga soldiers clash in sparring rings, sharpening their brutality, moving with the kind of elegance only warriors bred for war possess.

I push through the tension in my limbs, ignoring the ache in my ribs from an earlier match. Training has become my anchor, a way to silence the storm in my mind.

Until he steps in front of me.

His presence is imposing, a warrior whose scars tell more stories than his words ever will.

Jhoren.

A high-ranking commander, ruthless and loyal to his people—loyal to Xirath.

He is furious.

Golden reptilian eyes burn into me, unreadable yet unmistakable in their intent.

“You should not be here.”

I roll the stiffness from my shoulders, ignoring the sharp pull of bruised muscle. “And yet, here I am.”

His upper lip curls. “You are poison.”

The words hit harder than they should.

"You think he does not see it?" Jhoren continues, stepping closer. "You think we do not see it?"

The training yard is silent now, eyes shifting toward us.

"You have no place here, human. You have no right to walk among us."

Something cold and ugly unfurls inside me.

"If that’s true, then why hasn’t he gotten rid of me?"

A sharp hiss escapes him, his tail coiling tightly against the dirt, the ridges flexing.

"Because he is blind."

A blade is placed in my hand.

A challenge.

The only answer he will accept.

It settles deep, but I do not hesitate.

I do not run.

If they want a fight, they will have one.

The strike comes fast.

Steel flashes, a deadly arc meant to cripple, not kill.

I barely dodge in time, pivoting out of reach, the force of his swing carving deep into the ground where I stood moments ago.

Jhoren is not holding back.

He wants to break me.

A second strike comes at my ribs, a feint, before his tail whips around, catching me across the back and sending me sprawling.

Dirt grinds into my hands as I brace against the impact, breath punching from my lungs.

Pain is a dull roar, but it does not stop me.

I push up, roll to my feet, blade still in my grasp.

"You should stay down," he warns, voice sharp.

I spit blood to the side and lift my chin. "Not happening."

A slow exhale. Then, he moves.

Faster this time.

The impact sends me to my knees, blade ripped from my grasp, a foot pressing against my chest, pinning me to the dirt.

The world tilts, the weight of him crushing, immovable.

Jhoren stares down, his expression unreadable. "You are nothing. A parasite feeding off a power you do not deserve."

Fingers tighten around my throat.

Pressure builds.

"You should not be breathing."

The world darkens.

A snarl cuts through the silence, sharp as a blade.

Jhoren is ripped away, thrown like a discarded ragdoll.

Xirath stands between us.

His tail lashes once against the ground, claws extended, molten gold eyes brimming with something lethal.

His fury presses down on everyone.

"Enough."

The single word is not shouted. It does not need to be.

It is a sentence. A warning. A promise of violence waiting at the edges of his restraint.

Jhoren rises from where he was thrown, his own fury crackling. "She is your undoing."

Xirath’s hand clenches into a fist, claws cutting into his own palm.

"Leave."

Jhoren hesitates.

Without another word, he steps back, tail flicking once before he turns and disappears into the crowd.

Silence stretches.

Eyes are still watching. Waiting.

Xirath’s gaze never leaves mine.

"Are you hurt?"

The question is quiet.

I wipe blood from my mouth and shrug. "I’m always hurt."

His jaw flexes.

I expect him to say something else.

Instead, he walks away.

The ache that settles in my chest has nothing to do with the fight.