Page 90 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
“Nothing’s wrong,” she whispers, and then, even softer, “I’m pregnant.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stare at her, searching her face for signs of deception. Her seriousness in her eyes remains steady.
“Pregnant?” My voice comes out as a hiss. “And you were out there on the battlefield? You put yourself in danger when you’re—“ I can’t even finish the sentence. Anger and fear surge through me in equal measure. “If I had known?—“
“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.” She cuts me off, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “Keep your voice down. No one knows except Eira, Varok, and now you.”
“Why would you keep this from me?”
Leira’s eyes dart around the room again, and she leans closer. “Because of TrueCoil,” she whispers. “If they knew I was carrying Varok’s young, the first hybrid, they’d...” She doesn’t finish the thought, but she doesn’t need to. We both know what they would do.
“How long?” I ask, my anger fading into concern.
“Almost three months.” Her hand returns to her stomach, this time deliberately. “I wanted to tell you, Serin. I just never found the right moment. And then when the attack came?—“
“You should have stayed behind. Safe.” I can hear the reproach in my own voice.
“If I had, the humans would have taken Vessan-Kar.” There’s steel in her whisper now. “And none of us would be alive right now, not with the Harbinger leading the fight.”
“Still.” I swallow hard. “You’re carrying a child. The first half-human, half-naga in... ever.”
“Which is why no one can know until we’re certain it’s safe.” Her fingers find mine, squeezing hard. “Promise me, Serin. Not a word.”
I want to argue more, to scold her for her recklessness, to drag her back to her chambers and force her to rest. But I can see in her eyes that she already knows all the arguments I would make. And she’s right. Our presence had turned the tide of battle. Without us, Vessan-Kar might have fallen.
“Fine,” I mutter, squeezing her hand back. “But no more battlefields. No more risks. You’ve done enough.”
Relief softens her features. “Thank you.”
A commotion at the entrance draws my attention. Varok enters first, his obsidian scales still dusted with ash, his movements purposeful despite the exhaustion evident in his eyes, followed by Lurok.
His massive form seems diminished somehow, laden with pain. Angry burns streak his silver scales where Varok’s flames had struck him, patches raw and blistering on his chest and tail from the splash of sunblight. Injuries, I was too angry to see when I joined him in battle.
I see them now. The basket in my hands suddenly feels weightless. The chaos of the Flame room blurs around me. There is only him, wounded and hurting.
I feel Leira beside me, her fingers gently pry the basket from my grip, and I realize I’ve been clutching it so tightly my knuckles have gone white.
“Go,” she murmurs, a knowing softness in her voice. “Go see about your male. I’ve got this.”
My male. The words should sound strange, presumptuous even, but they strike something deep inside me that resonates with truth. I gather fresh bandages and a jar of healing salve from a nearby table, my movements automatic while my mind spins. Across the room, Lurok has not yet seen me. He’s speaking in low tones to Varok, his massive hand pressing against the worst of his burns.
I cross the chamber to where Lurok speaks with Varok, weaving between healers and wounded warriors. Varok nods at my approach, his molten gold eyes less intimidating than I remember. I return a small smile, still amazed that this formidable naga ruler is my brother by marriage, soon to sire my sister’s child.
My gaze drifts to Lurok’s silver-scaled form, and a sudden realization washes over me: after what happened between us in the grotto, I could be carrying his offspring too. My hand flutters to my abdomen before I even register the movement.
Lurok breaks away from Varok mid-sentence, his colorless eyes finding mine. He straightens despite his obvious pain, and I gesture toward an empty cot nearby.
“You need to lie down,” I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. “There.” I point to an empty cot near the wall.
For once, he doesn’t argue. He simply moves to the cot and lowers himself onto it, his tail coiling beneath him with a stiffness that speaks of pain he won‘t acknowledge aloud.
I kneel beside him, setting down my supplies. This close, the damage is worse than I first thought. The sunblight burns are angry, yellow-edged wounds that have eaten through his scales, exposing raw flesh beneath. The burns from Varok’s flames are different, cleaner, but no less painful.
“This will sting,” I warn, dipping a clean cloth into the water bowl I’ve brought.
Lurok says nothing, just watches me with those unsettling pale eyes. I begin cleaning the wounds methodically, starting with the sunblight damage that poses the greatest threat.
“We have done this before,” he finally says, his voice lower than usual, strained. “Only I am not hiding inside an old garden shed.”
