Alric nods, signaling the Crownward Guard to arrange themselves. Six warriors in gleaming armor, hands on sword hilts, faces carved from stone. They've been told to protect me until the exchange is complete, and then to turn away. To ride back to human lands and leave me behind.
The youngest among them catches my eye, his gaze filled with unconcealed pity. I hold his stare until he looks away. I don't want pity. I want respect.
I wipe my bloodied palm against the white silk at my hip, leaving a smear like a crimson signature. Let them see it. Let them remember I came with my eyes open.
My father's jaw tightens. "This arrangement teeters on insult," he mutters, voice low but sharp with offense. "A man of my diplomatic standing, left waiting. Varok should already be here to claim you.”
I turn to face him. His eyes meet mine, and something flickers there. A flash of regret, perhaps, or paternal instinct briefly surfacing through layers of political calculation. Then itvanishes, submerged beneath the polished facade of Lord Halric Valen, architect of peace.
"Not to worry, Father, I'm ready," I tell him, the lie bitter on my tongue. “I just need my satchel.”
Someone presses a small leather bag into my hands, everything I’m allowed to take from the human world, and I sling it over my shoulder. I face the gate again, straightening my spine, lifting my chin. Beyond this threshold lies a subterranean world I've only heard of in horror stories, a realm of serpent-people and ancient magic, of laws and customs defying human understanding. I face this darkness armed with nothing but the steady flame of my own resolve.
But I made this choice. For Serin. For peace.
The gate begins to thrum, a deep vibration spreading outward from where I touched it. I step back, watching as the ancient stone pulses with what must be the living architecture the naga are rumored to possess.
I briefly shut my eyes, drawing a deep breath that tastes of dust and magic. When I open them again, they are clear and hard as flint. I am not a person here. I am an olive branch in the shape of a woman, the first human to ever cross this threshold.
The air thickens around me as I lift my chin, my hands now steady at my sides. The naga may see a sacrifice, but I will show them no fear.
The gate doesn't simply open, it transforms. What appeared to be solid obsidian suddenly ripples like disturbed water, its glossy surface dimpling before flowing outward in viscous rivulets. The stone liquefies with a deep, resonant groan that vibrates through my bones, ancient and deliberate. No hinges, no visible mechanism, just the impossible fluidity of stone answering some silent command with a dark, glistening obedience.
The gap widens, revealing a corridor that descends into the earth, its walls alive with an ethereal glow. At first I think the stone itself is burning, but then I see clusters of crystalline formations fused into the rock like torches made of a smooth and translucent glass. Beneath their surfaces churns a molten core, shifting from sapphire to emerald in a slow, liquid swirl, each pulse radiating a gentle heat. The glow isn’t static, it breathes, responds, as though the corridor itself is alive.
I’d heard whispers of how the naga built their cities from living stone, but standing here, watching the walls themselves beat like a hidden heart, I realize the rumors didn’t come close to the truth.
A chilly draft escapes from within, carrying scents I can't name, mineral and organic at once. Something like wet stone and night-blooming flowers, undercut by a dark musk that raises the hair on my arms. The scent of predators. Of apex hunters secure in their territory.
I swallow hard but keep my face impassive. First impressions matter, especially when you're being watched by eyes that don't blink as often as they should.
Movement catches my eye. Shadows detach from the walls inside, gliding forward with unsettling grace. Naga warriors. Four of them, their lower serpentine halves making no sound against the stone floor while their humanoid torsos remain perfectly still. Their scales catch the unearthly torchlight, creating patterns of shadow and iridescence that shift with each undulation.
They emerge fully into the sunlight, and I force myself not to recoil. Their vertical pupils contract to thin lines in the brightness, gleaming irises expanding. Not a word passes between them, yet they move in perfect coordination, flanking the entrance with swords that gleam with a metal I don't recognize.
One slithers forward, a mountain of coiled muscle, battle-scarred and brutal, that speaks of countless battles survived. Gunmetal-gray scales gleam like wet ink where they catch the light as his lower body shifts with silent power as he moves, every coil precise, deliberate. Nothing wasted. Nothing rushed. Just raw, contained power.
Severe and unreadable, his face is an unyielding mask of stone, framed with bone-white hair streaked with ash that falls in a blunt cut to the middle of his back. Crimson eyes sweep over me, sharp and assessing, and I meet his gaze without flinching, refusing to betray my fear.
The warrior stops a pace from us, towering over the human delegation like a statue drawn from legend.
“I am First Fang Sareth of the Talons,” he announces, his voice carrying a subtle sibilance that makes the common tongue sound foreign. “By decree of Sovereign Naryth, the Serpent Crown, I present the OathCoil as a symbol of peace between our peoples in exchange for the offering.”
My father steps up beside me, chin lifted. “I am Lord Halric Valen. I was expecting to meet your sovereign in person, or at the very least Prithas Varok, given the gravity of this accord.”
Sareth’s gaze narrows, though his tone remains coldly formal.
“The Serpent Crown does not attend meetings for matters he has already decreed. His will is carried out. As for Prithas Varok, he awaits the offering in the Temple of Threads as custom dictates.”
He reaches into a dark leather pouch at his side and withdraws a small serpent statue no larger than a man’s palm, carved from black stone veined with silver. It coils upon itself in a perfect spiral, scales etched with fine precision. As he turns it in his hand, the serpent’s eyes flash with an eerie white-goldlight, and for the briefest moment, I swear the statue shifts as though it were alive.
Sareth offers it to my father, palm open.
“This is the OathCoil. To accept it is to honor the accord. The exchange cannot be undone.”
My father hesitates only a moment before taking the statue. The moment his fingers curl around it, the serpent’s eyes glow again, brighter this time, as though responding to his touch.
The naga warrior gives a slight bow, not of deference, but completion, and then slithers back. And just like that, the Sundering, a five-hundred-year war that split our peoples, has been set aside.
