Page 54 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
"A couple of minutes, maybe less.” Yet, each second had felt like an eternity.
Rythe nods grimly. "Her lungs will be compromised." She uncorks a vial of amber liquid that catches the light of the heartglass torches. The tincture flows over Serin's chest in deliberate patterns as Rythe's skilled fingers guide it into the proper channels. "We will start with the airways, then address the lacerations."
I move back, giving them space to work, but remain close enough to watch Serin's face. Already her color improves slightly as Melira applies a greenish salve from a matte metal container to the worst of the wounds. The countless tiny cuts across Serin's skin begin to seal wherever the medicine touches, leaving behindclean, unblemished flesh in the wake of the healers' methodical work.
My own wounds remain unattended, but I feel no pain from them. All I feel is the storm still brewing within me, the elemental power awakened in desperation that now hums beneath my scales like a second heartbeat. I am changed. Irrevocably, fundamentally changed by what transpired in the Ashlands.
And with that change comes knowledge I cannot escape, truth I can no longer deny. The prophecy speaks of four elementals awakening, and now air stirs in me.
I watch as ash and blood stain the sacred stone beneath my tail, evidence of our journey through death to reach this sanctuary. The Temple's firelight casts dancing shadows across Serin's face as the healers work, highlighting the human curve of her cheek, the soft line of her jaw. Features so different from naga, yet now more familiar to me than my own reflection.
If I do not yield to what binds me to her, if I refuse what the Threads are weaving, perhaps the prophecy can yet be denied. Perhaps the Season of Naga can be stopped, and whatever doom denied.
Rythe draws a small vial from her belt. With practiced precision, she uncorks it and whispers ancient words that transform the liquid into a luminous mist hovering above Serin's face. "She breathes," the healer murmurs as the healing vapor descends, drawn into Serin's damaged lungs with each shallow inhalation. "But the ash has done damage. This will help, but she needs time."
I brush a strand of hair from her forehead as her chest rises and falls in shallow, irregular rhythms. This human female who dragged my broken body through darkness, tended my wounds with gentle hands, surrendered herself to me in that hidden poolbeneath the mountain. The same fragile creature who just nearly died in the Ashlands, my ancestors once called paradise.
"She is strong for a human," Melira observes, not unkindly. "Most would not have survived."
I say nothing as words feel inadequate.
Traven's eyes narrow, taking in my position at the human's bedside, the protective curve of my tail around her cot, the way my hand lingers near hers. He reads the situation with the tactical precision that earned him his rank, though he says nothing of what he observes.
"Serin needs to be evacuated,” he informs me. "Our people have been moved to the western caverns. She will be safer there."
I nod once, and the healers begin to prepare her for transport west to join the others.
"Severa and Salvor are TrueCoil as well as the healer, Lethira," I tell him, voice steady. "They took us captive, but Severa gave Serin a key to help her escape."
"They will be dealt with." His expression hardens. "Do you know how many devices the worms have planted?"
"I do not." I look once more at Serin, her face peaceful in unconsciousness, unaware of the choice I have already made.
My tail twitches with the urge to follow her west. Instead, I force my scales to settle flat against my flesh, yet the air stirs around me, a reminder of the elemental power now awakened. A power that binds me to the prophecy that will end in doom.
I must remain behind to help with the search, but also to begin severing what fate has tried to weave between us. The Season of Naga cannot come to pass. Not through me.
Chapter Sixteen
LUORK
The serpentglass embedded in the far wall flashes urgent blue. It cuts through the dimming light of the keh’shalin. I feel the vibration before I hear the sound: a low, insistent hum that raises the fine scales along my spine. Bad news travels with its own current, recognizable even before words give it form. I force myself to stillness. Every muscle in my body wants to coil tight, preparing for what comes next.
I slither closer to the mobile cot where Serin lies beneath the healers' ministrations. Their scaled hands work with practiced efficiency. They seal the final healing salves over the lattice of cuts marring her pale skin. One secures a breathstone pendant at her throat. Another fastens the transport straps across her body. Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts, each breath still fighting against the ash that nearly claimed her. As they prepare her for evacuation, the tether between us pulls against my chest with each of her labored breaths.
Traven activates the serpentglass with a tense swipe of his hand. "Prithas Sareth," he says, his voice tight as the tablet's surface ripples like disturbed water before resolving into Sareth's severe face. Despite his military discipline, urgency etches every line of his expression.
"Traven," Sareth's voice emerges from the serpentglass, distorted but unmistakable. "We have uncovered seventeen devices throughout the southern market district and are still sweeping for more. The situation is deteriorating faster than anticipated. The healers need to evacuate. Leave the gate. You are needed here.”
I hear the unspoken truth beneath Sareth's words. Only a small squad of Talons is racing against invisible timers buried throughout our city. A whisper of air currents stirs around my coils. My elemental power responds unbidden to the surge of battle-ready adrenaline flooding my system. I force it back beneath my scales before anyone notices. I suppress the telltale disturbance that would mark me as more than just another warrior.
I coil and spring forward in one fluid motion, my scales scraping against stone as I slide into view, watching shock ripple across Sareth's normally stoic features. "Need an extra pair of eyes?" My smirk widens at his stunned expression, my voice steady despite the tension coiling through my muscles. "Point me where you need me. These worms have taken enough from us already."
"Lurok?" My name carries disbelief, relief, and a dozen unasked questions. “Both of you must hurry; the last device we found had a countdown. If they are all synchronized, less than an hour remains."
The serpentglass goes dark. "You need not come," Traven says, surprising me with the offer. "If you want to go with the human?—”
"Serin is in good hands." I cut him off, though the words tear something inside me. "Vessan-Kar needs my help."
