"If Thorne is using me in his game, then I need to see his face when he realizes I'm no longer a piece to be moved across the board. I need to be there," I insist. "Not just as your bloodmate, but as myself. As the Threadborn.”
Varok's tail lashes once against the ground, a physical manifestation of his internal struggle. His gaze flicks to Sareth, who offers only a stoic, unreadable expression in return. The moment stretches between us, tense and fragile.
"Very well," he says, the words clearly costing him. "But you will remain with me at all times. Sareth and three of his most skilled Talons will accompany us as an honor guard." His expression hardens. "At the first sign of trouble, they will remove you to safety, regardless of your wishes. Those are my terms, Ashira. Nonnegotiable."
Relief washes over me like a cool wave, only to evaporate as I consider what awaits us. I glance back at Zara, her small shoulders squared with the same determination I feel burning in my chest. This isn't just about the treaty I secured when I took Serin's place, it's about creating a future where young like Zara can grow up without a never-ending war. If I truly am the Threadborn, meant to herald this new beginning for the naga, then my place is here, beside Varok, facing whatever comes. Not hidden away while others bleed on battlefields that have already drunk too much from both our worlds.
"Agreed," I say.
Varok turns to Dreth. "Take Zara and Nirik to the temple. Tell Eira what has transpired.” He shifts his attention to Sareth. "Choose your three best.”
As the Talons burst into coordinated motion around us, Zara tugs at my hand, her violet eyes wide with concern. I crouch down to her level, brushing a strand of white hair from her face.
"You don't have to be brave for them," she whispers, her small voice trembling despite her attempt at courage.
I press my forehead gently against hers. "Being brave doesn't mean not being afraid," I tell her. "It means doing what's right despite the fear. I'll see you soon at the Temple, I promise."
She nods solemnly, then surprises me by throwing her small arms around my neck in a quick, fierce hug before allowing Dreth to lead her toward Nirik and the waiting escorts.
I turn back to Varok, who watches me with an unreadable expression. Through our bond, I feel his conflict: pride in my courage warring with terror for my safety. I reach for his hand, my fingers intertwining with his clawed ones.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod, squaring my shoulders as Sareth returns with three imposing warriors. Whatever awaits us at the eastern border, I will face it standing beside my bloodmate, not hiding behind temple walls.
"Let's go meet Thorne," I say.
We move across the scorched wasteland in tense formation, Varok at the center with me at his side, Sareth and his three chosen Talons forming a protective diamond around us. The sun climbs higher, baking the cracked earth beneath us until heat shimmers up in transparent waves that distort the horizon.
My throat burns with each breath, the air so dry it feels like inhaling fire, but I refuse to show weakness. Each step takes us farther from the relative safety of Vessan-Kar and closer to confrontation with the architect of my recent suffering, and perhaps the man who has been manipulating events since before I first arrived as the offering at the obsidian gate.
"Just ahead," Varok murmurs. Through our bond, I feel his fury simmering beneath tightly coiled control. His scales ripple with tension, catching the harsh sunlight in flashes of crimson and gold. "Beyond that ridge."
I follow his gaze to where the fractured earth rises in a jagged spine that cuts across our path. Beyond it lies the official border between naga and human territories, a line drawn in blood and sealed with fragile treaties that now balance on a knife's edge. I unconsciously reach for Emberyn, taking comfort in its familiar warmth against my skin as we approach.
"Stay close," Sareth warns, his massive form gliding beside us with surprising silence. "Thorne is known for his theatrics but never mistake performance for incompetence. He is as deadly as any serpent."
"I've met him before," I remind them, memories surfacing of the general's cold eyes at diplomatic functions, always watching. "At my father's councils. He always seemed...calculating."
We crest the ridge, and I halt involuntarily at the sight below. A human encampment sprawls across the barren plains, not just a scouting party, but a small army. Military-precise rows of tents, supply wagons, and weapons caches stretch across the border. Nearly a hundred soldiers, all heavily armed, all wearing Clavenmoor’s insignia.
My father's soldiers. My people. The knot in my stomach tightens.
At the center of it all stands a lone figure, tall and straight backed in formal military blacks, his silver-threaded insignia catching the sun like a warning beacon. Even at this distance, I recognize General Marcus Thorne's commanding posture.
Varok's tail lashes once against the ground, sending up a small plume of ash. His gaze meets mine, fierce and determined. "Stay behind me when we approach."
"No," I counter firmly. "Beside you. Equal."
His jaw tightens, but he nods once, sharply. With deliberate care, we descend toward the waiting army, the naga warriors moving with fluid grace that makes my own human stride seem clumsy by comparison.
Thorne's thin lips curve into something too calculated to be a smile as we approach. Behind him, his soldiers shift restlessly, hands never far from weapons. The late morning sun strikes his face at an unforgiving angle, illuminating the web of lines carved by years of military hardship and ambition.
"Prithas Varok…correction. It’s Sovereign Flame now that Naryth has been done away with," Thorne's voice cuts through the silence, slicing across the invisible line that divides our worlds. "I admit, I expected you sooner with that OathCoil of Naryth’s slithering around Clavenmoor." His gaze shifts to me, and something cold slithers through his expression. "And you've brought your whore. How domestic."
Varok's scales instantly flare with heat, and I feel the flame building beneath his control. Sareth hisses softly, his massive form coiling tighter as if preparing to strike.
"Mind your tongue, human," Varok growls, each word dripping venom. "You will address my bloodmate as Threadborn."
