Varok hovers nearby, his powerful form coiled in that deceptively relaxed posture I've come to recognize as anythingbut. His scales shimmer with subdued heat, the only outward sign of the frustration burning beneath his controlled exterior. Through our bond, I feel the weight of his responsibilities crushing down: the missing commander, the traitors still at large, the shadow of doubt he carries about Severa, the fragile peace that threatens to shatter with each passing day.
"Has Zara said anything about the sibling Thorne mentioned?" I ask, unable to contain the question any longer. The young seer's visions have grown more frequent, more intense since our escape from the tunnels, but she speaks of them in fragments and riddles that even Eira struggles to interpret.
Eira's weathered face remains impassive as she adds another reagent to the basin. The liquid shimmers, catching the Infinity Flame's light in prismatic ripples.
"Nothing clear," she answers, her voice soft with concern. "She speaks of shadows with your face, of threads that split and rejoin, but nothing that confirms or denies what Thorne claimed." Her ancient eyes lift to mine. "The child exhausts herself seeking answers. I fear for her."
"Where is she now?" I ask.
“Napping, for once.” Eira's expression softens, her scales shifting to a paler hue that reflects her concern. "She spends every waking hour before the Infinity Flame, seeking visions of Malikor and of the prophecy. I must carry her back to her nest each night. She would stay until she collapsed otherwise." The ancient guardian's claws hover over the basin, testing the temperature of the mixture with practiced familiarity. "Her gift grows stronger, but it consumes her. She is too young to bear such weight."
The knowledge settles like a stone in my gut. Another child suffering for a war not of their making. I think of Zara's small face, so solemn as she described her visions, of her tiny formcurled protectively around her visions as if they might burn her from within.
Eira's gaze shifts to Varok, her ancient eyes softening with concern. "Have your Talons uncovered any trace of Malikor?" she asks. The question hangs in the air between them, and through our bond, I feel Varok's pain flare. His loyal commander's disappearance a physical wound that refuses to heal.
Varok's jaw tightens, scales rippling with barely contained frustration. "Nothing," he admits, the word emerging like smoke. "His scent trail ends at the border post. The Talons have searched every known passage in the eastern quadrant and found nothing but cold stone." His clawed fist clenches at his side. "Nor have we found any trace of Lurok in the collapsed tunnel."
The mention of Lurok brings a fresh pang of grief. The warrior who saved us, who sacrificed himself so Zara, Nirik, and I could escape. He deserves better than to be forgotten beneath tons of stone. To be labeled a traitor in death when he died a hero.
"Is there a chance Lurok might have survived?" I ask softly.
Varok's gaze meets mine, and for a brief moment, I glimpse vulnerability beneath his warrior's facade. "I doubt it," he admits, voice rough with an emotion he rarely shows to others. "But I will find him regardless. Recover his remains so his soul may properly rejoin the Flame." His scales shimmer with subdued heat. "I owe him that much for protecting what is mine."
Eira makes a soft noise, drawing our attention back to the crystal basin where my blood continues to swirl. She adds three drops of a pearlescent liquid from a small vial at her belt, and the mixture suddenly shifts from translucent red to an opalescent blue that pulses with inner light.
"Curious," she murmurs, her weathered brow furrowing. "Most curious indeed."
"What is it?" I ask, an inexplicable knot forming in my throat.
Eira doesn't answer immediately. Instead she reaches for the lancet again, her movements suddenly hesitant.
"I need one final sample," she says, her voice carefully neutral in a way that sets my nerves on edge. "The test is...inconclusive."
I offer my palm again, watching as she pricks a new spot, drawing a fresh bead of blood that seems darker than before. Or perhaps it's just the temple's shifting light playing tricks on my weary eyes. Eira collects the droplet with trembling fingers, a detail that sends alarm racing through me. In all our interactions, I've never seen the elder Guardian's hands shake.
The blood falls into the basin with a soft splash that seems to echo in the suddenly still chamber. The blue liquid pulses once, twice, then flares with sudden brilliance that bathes all our faces in its glow. A sound escapes Eira. Part gasp, part reverent whisper.
"This cannot be right," she breathes, eyes wide with disbelief as she stares into the basin. She reaches for a different vial, this one containing something thick and golden, and adds a single drop to the mixture. The liquid swirls, separates, then reforms into distinct layers of blue beneath, gold above, with threads of crimson weaving between them like living veins.
Varok surges forward, his patience evidently exhausted. "Enough mystery, Temple Guardian," he commands, voice tight with tension. "What do you see in her blood?"
Eira looks up, her ancient eyes meeting mine with an expression I cannot interpret. Wonder, fear, or something in between. Her scales have paled to nearly white, luminescent in the Flame's glow.
"Threadborn," she says, using my ceremonial title rather than my name, "your blood carries dual signatures."
I shake my head, not understanding. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Eira says, her voice dropping to a whisper that nonetheless fills the chamber, "you are pregnant."
The word drops between us, sending ripples of shock through the air. I stare at her, certain I've misheard, that Eira has misspoken or I've misunderstood some complex ritual terminology.
"That's impossible," I manage, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "I'm human. Varok is naga. Our species can't?—"
"Cannot interbreed," Eira completes my thought, her gaze now shifting to Varok, whose scales have contracted tight against his body in what I've come to recognize as profound surprise. "Or so we have always believed. The ancient texts speak of it as theoretical, the Crimson Bond creating possibility where nature draws boundaries, but there has never been a human blood bound to a naga.”
My hand moves unconsciously to my abdomen, pressing against the fabric of my tunic where nothing feels different. No swelling, no movement, no physical sign of the impossible life Eira claims grows within me.
"You are certain?" Varok asks, his voice rough with emotion I can feel echoing through our bond. Shock, disbelief, and beneath it all, something raw and powerful that makes my heart race.
