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XIRATH

P ower is an illusion when bound by the will of others.

I have spent years commanding warriors, leading my people with an iron grip. Every decision I have made has been dictated by strength, by the certainty that my word was law. But the lords of Nagaland remind me today, power is not absolute.

The council chamber looms before me, a vast cavern of carved obsidian and gilded banners displaying the sigils of the ruling houses. Torches line the high walls, casting flickering shadows that stretch like silent sentinels bearing witness to what is about to unfold.

Duke Athir sits at the raised dais, a predator at ease in his throne, watching me with that insufferable mix of amusement and condescension. His cobalt-blue scales gleam under the torchlight, his golden eyes unreadable yet piercing, waiting for my next move.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“You will take in the new batch including a group of female naga,” he says, his voice carrying through the chamber like the final toll of a war drum. “And you will do your duty, Xirath.”

The words are spoken as if I have not spent years doing exactly that, testing, searching, failing.

A muscle in my jaw tightens, but I don’t let the irritation show on my face. “You speak as if I have not already entertained this farce enough.”

The lords seated around him exchange glances, their expressions ranging from detached amusement to calculated neutrality. None of them speak, not yet. They are waiting. Watching. Measuring the weight of my defiance.

Athir leans forward slightly, fingers steepling beneath his chin. “You have spent too long chasing shadows, Va’Therin. Years wasted testing weak-blooded humans for a mate that does not exist. Your curse remains, and so does your… problem.”

My claws flex at my sides, the sharp points digging into my palms as I exhale through my nose. The problem, they mean her.

Seren.

They are growing impatient, and my refusal to rid myself of her has not gone unnoticed.

Athir continues, his voice taking on the careful edge of a blade pressing against fragile flesh. “We tolerated your… indulgence because we believed it was temporary. A passing curiosity. But you do not seem eager to correct your mistake.”

My head lifts, golden eyes locking onto his. “Is that what you believe?” My voice is even, calm. Lethal.

Athir does not flinch.

“Your position is not untouchable,” another lord interjects. Veyzar stands beside him, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with the familiar weight of brotherly disappointment. “We have allowed your games long enough. The council’s patience is thinning. You will welcome the new females. You will do your duty.”

"You dare dictate my decisions?" My voice is a slow drag of steel against stone, the room growing heavier with my rage.

Athir meets my glare with an expression too sure of himself. “Do it before it is too late.”

He does not need to elaborate.

The threat is clear.

Comply, or be replaced.

The air between us thickens. The weight of my name, my reputation, my rule, it is not enough.

Not against them.

Not against the law they wield like a blade against my throat.

I have two choices.

Bend.

Or break.

The corridors feel smaller as I leave the chamber, the walls pressing in as though I have walked into a cage I did not see closing around me.

My steps echo in the silence, but my thoughts are louder.

The noble lords have forced my hand, backed me into a corner where my only escape is through the destruction of everything I have tried to avoid.

Another batch of humans will arrive within days.

Another endless line of hopeful offerings, each one believing they might be chosen by fate itself.

I have done this ritual too many times to count. The process is cold, detached, a duty I have fulfilled with indifference.

But it is different now.

Because Seren is still here.

When she hears of this, she will not be indifferent.

She will see it for what it is.

A betrayal.

A reminder of exactly what she is to me in their eyes, nothing more than a temporary possession.

That thought alone is enough to send frustration clawing up my spine. I rake a hand through my hair, tail flicking sharply behind me as I push into my private wing of the stronghold.

She is nearby, moving within my walls, breathing within my reach, and yet I have never felt further from her than I do now.

I stop outside my chambers, palm pressed against the cold stone of the door. I do not enter.

Instead, I turn and leave.

I cannot face her.