Page 47

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XIRATH

T he war chamber hums with contempt. The Naga Lords sit coiled upon their thrones, their scaled tails curling and twisting over the polished stone floor. They listen, barely, flicking forked tongues between sharp teeth, eyes filled with disinterest.

I came back to Nagaland, aware that I can’t fight Jarith alone but this is a waste of time.

“She is human,” Lord Vashtar says, his tone flat, utterly unbothered. “Not a mate. Not a queen. Not worthy of war.”

“Jalith will not stop at her,” I grind out, struggling to leash the fury boiling beneath my skin. “This is about more than?—”

“It is about nothing,” another lord interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “We are not fools, Xirath. You would rip open the earth to chase a pet. But we will not.”

My claws gouge into the armrests of my chair, cracking the wood. My control is thinning, unraveling fast.

“She is under my protection,” I snarl. “My claim.”

The lords do not even pretend to take me seriously.

“Your claim?” Vashtar repeats, amused now. “Yet you let her run.”

Laughter ripples through the chamber, low and cold, curling around my throat like a noose.

I push up from my seat, the shadows stretching with me. “Cowards.”

None of them flinch.

One merely shrugs. “Call it what you will.”

I turn, the rage crawling beneath my skin, searing. Burning. I should kill them for their insolence. But that would waste time.

Seren is out there. I will find her, with or without them.

Talyra is waiting outside, watching me with those sharp, too-knowing eyes. The torches lining the corridor cast shadows over the deep blue of her scales, catching in the gold piercings lining her brow and the tips of her ears.

Her expression is unreadable. That alone sets me further on edge.

“They won’t change their minds,” she says, falling into step beside me. “Not unless I push harder.”

I keep walking. “Do what you will.”

She exhales. “They see it as weakness, Xirath.”

“They are fools.”

She doesn’t argue, which means she agrees, but that does not mean she stands with me.

A flicker of hesitation in her stride. Subtle. But I catch it.

“Talyra,” I say, my voice sharp as steel.

She doesn’t look at me. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

I stop. Slowly turn.

Her throat bobs, fingers curling into the fabric of her belt. “I… spoke to her. Before she ran.”

A knife in the ribs would be kinder.

The silence is thick. Lethal.

“What did you do?”

She shifts. “Nothing—nothing like that. I just… pushed her a little. To see if she?—”

My hand is at her throat before I think to stop myself.

Her sharp inhale barely makes a sound as I press her back against the cold stone wall, my grip tightening.

She doesn’t fight.

Her golden eyes bore into mine, fearless. “You needed a push.”

I want to crush her windpipe.

“You made her run.” My voice is barely a whisper, nothing but raw, shaking fury.

Talyra’s lips press together, and her silence is an answer.

A mistake.

My claws dig in, but I do not squeeze. Not enough to kill.

She doesn’t struggle. She simply stares at me, resigned.

I could end her here. I should.

But I release her, shoving her away, my own rage feeling like it might consume me whole.

“If she is hurt,” I say, voice low, trembling with violence, “I will burn this kingdom to the ground. And I will start with you.”

Her shoulders square. Her chin lifts. “I’m still on your side, Xirath.”

“Then leave. And pray I never see you again.”

She hesitates then turns and walks away.

The storm inside me does not settle.

It worsens.

The scent of blood and sweat thickens the night air. The encampment looms ahead, a gathering of monstrous forms bathed in the glow of towering bonfires.

Minotaurs are creatures of war. They wear their kills on their skin, bones and rings, scars carved deep.

I stride into their midst, unchallenged. But watched.

A dozen of them turn, towering forms shifting, the weight of their presence enough to still the air.

One steps forward, Grathor.

The largest among them. The most vicious.

He regards me, head tilting. “The Naga Lord comes crawling?”

I rip my blades from my back and let them drop.

Steel clangs against the earth.

A challenge.

The camp stills.

The warlord at the back of the gathering exhales, amused. “You wish to die here, Xirath?”

I roll my shoulders. The fight is inevitable. “I need warriors.”

Grathor grins, shifting his weight. “Then prove yourself.”

The minotaurs roar.

A fight. A test of strength.

Good.

I move first.

Grathor barely has time to lift his war axe before I drive into him, teeth flashing, claws striking.

Steel meets flesh.

The world is nothing but blood and motion.

Grathor swings but I am faster.

I lunge under the arc of his axe, my tail whipping out, knocking his feet from beneath him.

He does not fall.

He is too strong.

But I do not need him to fall.

I sink my fangs into his throat.

His roar of pain shakes the trees, his fists hammering into my ribs.

Something cracks.

I ignore it.

Hold.

Tear.

Blood sprays across the dirt, and Grathor finally collapses.

The minotaurs erupt.

Warlord Khorgash watches from his seat, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"You fight like a beast, Naga King," he murmurs. "Perhaps you are one."

I wipe the blood from my mouth, stepping forward. “Then fight for me, Warlord.”

His lips curl.

"For a price."

I do not hesitate.

"Name it."