Page 25 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
Something flickers across Salvor's face, too quick for my drug-hazed mind to interpret. "The human is being attended to."
"She saved my life." The admission tears at old certainties, betraying beliefs I once held sacred. Truth strips me raw. "She risked everything to bring warning."
"Yes, the human female delivered the message herself," Salvor says with the smooth calm that has always been his hallmark in battle. His scales shift as he adjusts his position, catching the light with each subtle movement.
“Good.” Relief crashes over me, washing away the crushing weight of responsibility I have carried since I first discovered the worms' betrayal. “Varok will stop them.”
My muscles, rigid with worry, relax against the cushioned platform. I know the warning reached Varok in time. Vessan-Kar will not fall. My people will not be extinguished beneath tons of rock. This is because of Serin, a human female with every reason to fear me, to hate me, to leave me bleeding in that garden shed.
"She succeeded," I whisper, the words carrying a note of wonder I cannot disguise. "Against all odds."
Salvor inclines his head. "Indeed. The human female has been... surprisingly resourceful."
I close my eyes, picturing Serin as I last saw her. Determination etched on her face as her small frame somehow pulled the burden of my massive weight. How many would have risked everything for a creature they had been taught to fear?
"Her name is Serin," I say, surprised by the defensive edge of my tone. "Serin Valen. She deserves the dignity of her name."
"Of course," Salvor replies, his expression unreadable. “Serin Valen.”
Hearing her name from Salvor's lips sends a current of warmth through my chest that I don't want to acknowledge. My scales tingle with it, this foreign and dangerous sensation that should have no place in my heart. I should crush it, deny it, but I am too weak to fight both my injuries and this unfamiliar feeling that whispers of connection. So I surrender, just for now, letting it bloom unchecked.
"She saved more than my life. She saved us all," I muse, my voice softening. “Where is she now?"
"Resting," Salvor says. "As you should be. The healer worked through the night to repair your ruptured spleen. Without her intervention, you would not have survived until morning."
I let exhaustion sweep me under, surrendering to the dark. But Serin’s face haunts my mind, not as a trembling stranger but a fierce savior, her spirit burning away any trace of weakness. She was beautiful then: not despite her limitations, but because she defied them for me.
* * *
I wake again, this time to the sensation of gentle pressure against my flank, cool fingertips tracing the edges of a wound that no longer burns with the same intensity. The fog of sedatives has thinned enough for coherent thought, though my limbs still feel distant, reluctant to obey commands. A femalehealer hovers over me, her scales a deep violet, flecked with obsidian that wink in the soft light of the keh’shalin, the sentient veins of light threading through our subterranean world.
I recognize her from the Temple of Threads, her practiced movements familiar as she changes the bandages across my torso with methodical precision.
Her face swims into focus as my vision clears. I have seen her before, tending our wounded during the Sundering. She closed gaping wounds during the bloodiest years of human encroachment. Her movements carry the efficiency of someone who has stitched together hundreds of warriors torn apart by war. Yet her name slips away from me.
"How long have I been out?" I ask, my voice stronger than before.
She glances down, meeting my gaze briefly before returning to her work. "Three days since your arrival.”
“Three days,” I repeat, exhaling, knowing Varok has stopped the worms. “I must speak with Serin. To thank her.”
The healer's hands pause for the briefest moment before resuming their work. "She is indisposed."
Something in her tone sends a ripple of unease down my spine. The words too controlled, too precise, like a practiced line rather than a natural response. My eyes narrow.
"What do you mean, indisposed?" I grow concerned. “Is she not well? Was she injured? Taken ill?”
"The human is not ill," she replies, her voice maintaining that same careful neutrality. "Be still. Your wounds require attention now."
I watch her face carefully as she works, noting how she avoids meeting my gaze directly. The fog continues to recede from my mind, allowing me to take in my surroundings with greater clarity. Something feels off.
The chamber around me is dimly lit by keh’shalin, casting everything in a soft blue-green glow. But the pattern of the veining is wrong. The Temple's healing chambers are marked by intricate spirals of flowing arteries. Here, the veins run in jagged, almost haphazard lines.
The air, too, carries unfamiliar notes. The Temple of Threads always smells of sacred incense and healing herbs, the distinctive perfume of age-old rituals. This place smells of raw stone and something sharper, almost metallic.
"This is not the Temple of Threads," I say, the words dropping into the silence between us.
The healer's movements become more brisk, her manner shifting subtly. "You should rest," she says, not addressing my observation. "The surgery was extensive."
