Page 34

34

SEREN

T he stronghold whispers, and this time, I am not deaf to it.

Their voices slither through the corridors, through the training grounds, wrapping around me like the tightening coils of a snake waiting for the perfect moment to crush.

They converse to each other.

But they know I can hear them.

And they want me to.

Their amusement is in the way they don’t bother lowering their voices, how their words are spoken loud enough to reach me but not directed at me, as if I am not even worth acknowledging.

"The new batch arrives in two days."

A voice, rough with satisfaction, carries across the training yard.

Another chuckles. "He'll have to make his choice this time. He cannot afford to ignore his duty forever."

Steel clangs against steel as warriors spar, movements fluid, effortless, as though my entire existence isn’t being dissected in the open.

I keep my focus on my own training, gripping the wooden blade in my hands, but my arms tremble slightly, betraying me.

A third voice, louder, more mocking. "Imagine it—Lord Xirath taking a proper mate at last. One of our own. Not some human who doesn’t even belong here."

Laughter follows.

My grip tightens until my knuckles ache, but I do not turn.

I do not give them the satisfaction of my anger.

But I am listening.

They know it.

"Five noble daughters," one of them continues, his voice edged with smug amusement. "Gifted to him to undo the mistake he’s been toying with."

A coldness curls through me.

Five naga females.

Not just human offerings, not just a batch of disposable women meant to serve as test subjects for a bond that will never form.

Five noble-born naga women.

Warriors. Heiresses. Daughters of powerful houses.

Not just meant for testing.

Meant for claiming.

Meant for bearing heirs.

The truth sinks in, sharp and unforgiving.

Xirath did not tell me.

Not a word. Not a warning. Not even the decency of a lie.

The breath in my lungs turns to stone.

I want to pretend it doesn’t matter, that I never cared what he did, what choices he made.

But this is different.

This is final.

I feel it crack something deep inside me.

"She’s awfully quiet today."

The voice, closer this time, dripping with amusement.

I glance up in time to see Jhoren step into my line of vision, arms crossed over his broad chest, golden reptilian eyes gleaming with something too knowing.

The crowd shifts, tension thickening.

"You look like you’re about to break, rat," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Shall I help?"

My stomach knots.

They do not want me here.

They never have.

Now, with the noble daughters on their way, they are ready to watch me fall.

The wooden blade is a solid weight in my grip.

"You want a fight, Jhoren?" I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Then fight me."

He barks a laugh, head tilting back slightly. “Fight you? You would not last two minutes.”

I am so tired of being underestimated.

The fury in my chest builds, hot and consuming, my heart slamming against my ribcage.

I don’t want to fight him.

I don’t want to fight any of them.

I want to fight him.

Xirath.

The rage is boiling over, my vision sharpening, a single unshakable thought forming amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

If he wants a mate, if he wants to claim one of them, he can face me first.

"I will challenge Xirath."

The words are out before I can take them back.

Silence crashes through the yard.

Jhoren blinks, stunned, and then he grins.

“Oh, this will be good,” he muses.

I stand before his door, muscles thrumming with the aftermath of too much emotion, too much rage curling like wildfire in my veins.

The training yard had erupted the moment my challenge left my lips. Naga warriors had gathered, murmuring, whispering, laughing.

They think this is amusing.

But this is not a game.

It is not a petty tantrum.

This is me choosing.

Before he can choose anyone else.

The doors swing open before I can knock.

Xirath stands there, golden eyes burning into me, his broad frame filling the entire threshold.

The silence is thick, suffocating.

His gaze scans me.

Not with hunger.

Not with amusement.

With something unreadable.

Something dangerous.

I force my chin up. "Fight me."

A slow exhale through his nose. His tail flicks once, the ridges flexing.

"You want to fight me?" His voice is low, steady, deadly.

The challenge is a slow drag of steel between us.

I do not waver.

"You fight them every day," I say, voice sharp. "You train them. You bleed with them. So fight me."

"You are not one of them."

My chest tightens, but I do not falter.

"No," I say. "I’m not."

Those words settles heavily in me like shackles.

His fingers curl at his sides, claws flexing just enough to scrape against the stone.

"This is what you want?" His voice is quiet, dangerous.

"No," I whisper.

But I do not take it back.

If I do not fight, if I do not stand before him, make him see what he is choosing to leave behind.

I will have already lost.

He exhales, slow, controlled, and then steps back, motioning for me to enter.

The door closes behind me and we move to his private training area.