Page 80 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
She heard everything. The knowledge hits me like a physical blow. Every vile word I spat about humans poisoning our bloodlines fell directly on the ears of the one human I cannot bear to wound. Yet I have. Again.
Her chin lifts defiantly, but beneath the anger in her eyes lies something worse. A deep, cutting disappointment. As if she expected better from me. As if she believed I was more than this creature of prejudice.
"Serin," I say, her name barely a whisper on my lips. I make a move toward her, but she backs away, one hand rising in a gesture that stops me as effectively as any wall.
"You do not understand," I begin, my voice raw. "The prophecy?—"
"I understand perfectly," she interrupts, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "You believe bonding with a human is a betrayal to your own kind.”
Her words carve through me. The chamber shrinks, the air choking. My mouth opens to deny it, but no answer comes. The lie refuses to form because somewhere beneath the armor of fear and tradition, something in me recoils from the certainty I once clung to. Watching the hurt in her gaze tears at my resolve.
Eira’s words float back to me,You believe you protect your people by denying Serin. In truth, you risk becoming the very instrument of destruction you fear.
Could Eira’s warning be the truth I have been too blind to see, that in pushing Serin away to save my people, I become the very catalyst of our doom?
What if the doom I fear begins with me?
Chapter Twenty-Three
SERIN
Iburst from the throne room, vision swimming with unshed tears as I push past startled guards. My breath comes in ragged gasps unrelated to exertion. Lurok calls my name. I quicken my pace, refusing him the satisfaction of my tears. The polished obsidian floor reflects my fleeing form: a blurry shadow, a woman once again unwanted, unworthy of the naga to whom she gave her heart.
"Serin, wait!" His voice echoes through the corridor, the command in it stiffening my spine.
I don't stop. I won't. Not this time. My fingers ball into fists as I stride forward. Each step carries me farther from the male who touched every part of me in the grotto—now he treats me like a plague. The palace corridors stretch before me. Luminous veins of keh'shalin flow in the walls, silent witnesses to my humiliation.
Behind me comes the quick whisper of scales on stone as my guards follow, uncertain whether to stop or simply track me.
I round the corner toward my private chambers, craving sanctuary. Something solid collides with me—strong hands steady my shoulders as I nearly stumble. I blink away tears to find Leira blocking my escape, eyes wide with concern.
"Serin? What's wrong? Why are you?—"
"Nothing," I cut her off, trying to step around her. "I'm fine."
She tightens her grip, fingers digging into my flesh. "You're clearly not fine." Her concern turns urgent. "We can talk at the temple, but we need to go now."
Her words cut through my emotional fog. I finally notice her tense jaw and tight shoulders beneath her silken tunic.
"What's happening?"
"An army has amassed on the eastern border," she says, already pulling me down the corridor. "They plan to attack. Varok wants all non-combatants moved to the Temple of Threads near the western tunnel, in case we need to evacuate again."
My stomach drops. "How many?"
"Varok said three hundred," she answers grimly. "Captain Halvane leads them."
The name strikes like a physical blow. Halvane. The Harbinger. The butcher who made his reputation slaughtering naga during the Sundering. The man who sat with us at dinner, planning the destruction of Vessan-Kar with cold precision.
"Three hundred is all of Clavenmoor’s soldiers," I frown. "How do you know? I just left the throne room."
"Varok hailed me on the serpentglass in our chambers." Leira tugs me forward, pace quickening. "There’s no time. Varok and the others are mobilizing every warrior in Vessan-Kar. Civilians are being moved to the temple to wait out the battle."
We rush through winding palace corridors, descending to the tunnels leading to the Temple of Threads. Around us, the orderly flow of naga life breaks. Now, it’s controlled chaos. Warriors, scales glinting like metal, glide in the opposite direction to the armory. Civilian naga move with us, faces tight with fear, carrying small bundles and guiding their wide-eyed young, whose eyes reflect confusion and terror.
The keh'shalin glows brighter, as if the mountain senses the coming violence. The stone beneath our feet vibrates with the passage of hundreds of naga.
"How bad does Varok think it’s going to get?" I ask as we turn down a narrow passage that slopes downward.
