My words still hang in the air behind us as we leave the Temple of Threads, trailing like smoke from a doused flame.I bind for her. For her.I did not plan those words. They rose from somewhere primal within me, unbidden and unstoppable.
My hand still tingles where her blood mingled with mine; the fresh crescent scar on my palm pulsing in rhythm with a heart that is not my own. The human—Leira—walks silently beside me, her face composed despite the alien environment closing around us, and I find myself watching her with an intensity that unnerves me. This instinct to protect what is mine was not part of the arrangement.
Mine!
I try and shake off the surge of possessiveness as we move through corridors carved after we were forced below ground, the rock flowing with bioluminescence that casts her in shades of blue and green. The light glances off the silver beads threaded through rich, mahogany tresses reaching the middle of her back, scattering across the silken strands like constellations adrift in night. Each glimmer shifting and alive as she moves.
She is small beside me, barely reaching my chest, yet she does not shrink from the vastness of the tunnels or the shadows that shift along the walls. Her stride matches my pace with practiced determination, though I sense the effort it takes her to maintain this facade of calm.
Even as my gaze lingers on her, I cannot shake the thought of the Serpent Crown, seated in shadow atop the throne during the ceremony. Naryth knows the prophecy as well as any, and now that Emberyn has recognized her as Threadborn and bound to fire, I can only wonder what thoughts swirl in his mind. The Flame has named me as the fire elemental, yet the journey to the throne, the genuine realization of the prophecy, cannot commence while he remains on the throne.
"My den lies deeper within Vessan-Kar. Closer to the palace," I say, my voice echoing against stone, needing to fill the silence that has grown heavy between us. "The path may seem confusing at first."
She glances up. Eyes of ash catch mine, ancient as the prophecy, impossible to look away from. “I’ve been mapping the paths in my head.”
Of course she has. Calculating escape routes, no doubt. As a seasoned warrior, I would do the same. The thought brings an unexpected pang of admiration.
My tail moves with practiced ease across the stone floor, but I hear her footsteps, deliberate and measured, a constant reminder of our differences. The fresh scar on my palm throbs in time with her pulse, a persistent echo of life not my own. I flex my fingers, trying to dispel the sensation, but it persists, this tether I did not expect to feel so strongly, so soon.
We pass a junction where several tunnels converge. Other naga move through the space, their forms sinuous and fluid in the glowing light. They pause when they see us, conversations dying mid-syllable. Their eyes track Leira with unmaskedcuriosity and thinly veiled hostility. Some bow their heads in deference to my rank, but their slitted gazes remain fixed on the human at my side.
Without conscious thought, I shift closer to her, my body angling between her and their stares. A protective gesture I have made a thousand times for civilians during the war, but never for a human. Never for my enemy. The realization sits cold and strange in my gut.
"They have never seen a human up close," I explain, though it is unnecessary. She already knows she is the first of her kind to walk these depths.
"Have you?" she asks, her voice steady despite the tension I hear beneath it.
"Yes." I do not elaborate. I have seen many humans up close, but only in battle and at the tip end of my sword.
We continue past the junction, deeper into the network of tunnels that honeycomb the living quarters within the subterranean city of Vessan-Kar. Keh’shali grow thicker here, the light warmer, more golden than the blue green of the ceremonial areas. The stone breathes silent breaths drawn from the collective essence of our community, felt more than seen.
I watch her from the corner of my eye, noting how she adapts to each new section of tunnel, the slight adjustments in her posture, the careful placement of her feet, the way her eyes miss nothing. She does not stumble despite the uneven ground. Does not gasp when a particularly vibrant light washes over us. Does not flinch when we pass a warrior with battle scars across his chest and hunger for war in his eyes.
This is not what I expected.
Sheis not what I expected.
Human bonding, from what I have heard, is intellectual and negotiated, political alliances sealed with vows that can be broken, marriages based on convenience or fleeting desire. Nagablood bonds are visceral, cellular, a merging of essence that cannot be undone. Even now I feel Emberyn's echo through her, its warmth pulsing against her chest where it rests, synchronized with the scar on my palm.
“Keh’shali, the crystal veins in the rock, are attuned to naga essence,” I explain as the luminous glow ahead flares brighter. “The more souls gathered in an area, the stronger the light. It compensates for the loss of the sun. The stone drinks in trace amounts of our essence, then returns it as warmth and radiance. A passive exchange, but without it, life beneath the surface would wither.”
"The stone is alive,” she says, not a question but a statement of understanding.
"Yes. Everything here lives, in its way."
"Including the bond between us."
My forward movement falters, just slightly, but I know she notices. "Yes," I admit. "Including the bond."
She does not respond, but her pulse quickens within my scar. I wonder what she is thinking, this human who had no choice but to come here, who stands straight-backed beside me in a world that must seem like a nightmare to her kind. Who bears the serpent stone when no human before her has ever bonded with a naga, let alone been deemed worthy of such a connection.
Is this fierce protectiveness I feel truly mine? Or is it merely the bond asserting itself, ancient magic making me its instrument? I have been taught the bond amplifies what already exists, but I have never held anything but contempt for humans. How, then, to explain this constant awareness of her vulnerability, this instinctive positioning of my body to shield her from hostile glares?
We approach a deeper section of tunnel where the ceiling arches higher, the walls curving into more deliberate architecture. Here individual dwellings branch off from themain thoroughfare, each entrance marked with personal sigils. My own den lies ahead, its entrance carved with the double spiral of the Talons and my personal sigil, a fang bisected by lightning, signifying my position as Prithas or Blade of the Crown.
I pause before we reach it, turning to face her fully. The glowing light plays across her features, casting them in a strange half-light, soft and alien in equal measure. I have never found humans beautiful. Their faces always seemed crude to me, their movements graceless. But now, in this glow, her features strike me as exotic. Not repulsive. Not inferior. Different. And undeniably… compelling.
"This is my den," I tell her, gesturing to the entrance. "Now yours as well."
