Tomorrow will come regardless of my readiness. Tomorrow I must face Varok again, must navigate the complex reality of our bond and begin to understand what it means to be Threadborn in a world pulsing with magic I cannot yet grasp.
I am Leira Valen. I chose this path when I stood in my sister's place. I survived the journey through contested borderlands, the cold assessment of my father's diplomatic corps, the weight of centuries of hatred. I faced the obsidian gate and gave my blood freely. I walked into the Temple of Threads surrounded by enemies and emerged bound to one of them.
I can survive this too, this night, this loneliness, this strange pull toward a creature I am meant to fear. Yet in the quiet, I admit it: I am afraid. Not of him, exactly, but of what lies between us, this connection imposed yet somehow inevitable.
I close my eyes, feeling Emberyn warm against my skin, and let the fear settle beside me without conquering me. Tomorrowwill come. I will face this new reality with all the strength I can muster.
Chapter Six
LEIRA
Ijolt awake to gold eyes hovering inches from my face. Not the warm yellow of Varok’s, but a colder shade. Metallic and unblinking. A female naga looms over my nest, her russet scales catching the dim light of the heartstone. Her mouth twists in unmistakable contempt as she studies me, and I realize I've been watched in my sleep, examined like a curious specimen by someone who clearly finds me lacking.
My heart hammers against my ribs, sleep-addled brain failing to process the sudden intrusion. I scream—a short, sharp sound that tears from my throat before I can stop it.
The female recoils, scales tightening around her mouth, nostrils flaring.
"Dramatic," she mutters, the word dripping with disdain. "The Prithas requested you be fed," she announces, her voice clipped like shears snipping dead stems. "The morning meal awaits in the dining chamber."
Without apology or introduction, she turns and glides from my chamber, her serpentine lower half making no sound against the stone floor.
I press a trembling hand to my chest, feeling the hard outline of Emberyn beneath my robe. It pulses warm against myskin, synchronized to my racing heart. The familiar weight is somehow comforting in this moment of disorientation.
I push myself upright, the nest materials shifting beneath me. Morning, if such a concept exists underground, has arrived, and with it the stark reality of my new life. The ceremonial robe I slept in clings to my skin, wrinkled and still smelling faintly of temple incense. I glance toward the neatly folded clothes I set aside last night.
Dressing feels like donning well-worn armor. I leave my worn panties aside, sliding only into my leather trousers before tugging on my boots and simple sleeveless tunic. The familiar texture of worn leather against my skin provides a momentary connection to home as I lace my boots with fingers still clumsy from sleep, despite my longing for my satchel of clean garments.
The ceremonial robe I fold neatly, hiding my discarded panties within its folds.
I cross to the washroom and catch my reflection in the mirror above the basin. The disconnect is jarring. I look like a traveler, not a diplomat's daughter, certainly not the bloodmate to the Serpent King’s right hand naga. My hair falls in tangled waves around my shoulders, silver beads from yesterday's ceremony still woven through the dark strands.
I am neither one thing nor another in this place. Not quite prisoner, not quite free. Not human diplomat, not naga mate. Just...lost.
With a deep breath, I step into the main chamber of Varok’s den, confronting the day’s first challenge. The female naga I presume is Severa, Varok’s den keeper, moves efficiently around the dining area, her tail gliding in smooth arcs as she arranges platters on the tall stone table. She wears a close-fitting sleeveless tunic that shimmers softly against her scaled flesh, tailored to accommodate her sinuous form.
I stand awkwardly at the edge of the dining space, unsure of my place. As I move toward the table, Severa quickly glides to the living area and continues her work without acknowledging my presence, as if I might contaminate her with my humanity.
"You are Severa," I say, my voice unnaturally loud in the quiet chamber.
She pauses with her back to me. "Yes," she answers without turning. The word falls between us like a hammer striking an anvil.
“I’m Leira.”
When it’s clear no reply is coming, I turn my attention to the dining table. Its height perfect for naga to coil beside yet awkward for me without Varok’s tail as an impromptu seat. I move closer, studying the strange spread Severa has prepared of glowing fungi, roasted roots in deep purples and browns, and a bowl of tangy-smelling paste beside what might be bread, though its blue-green hue hints at subterranean origins.
“Where’s Varok?” I square my shoulders and ask, trying to keep my voice neutral, composed so as not to give away my unease. Varok said the serpent stone would warm when he is near. Emberyn remains cool against my skin so I know he is not close by, and without him here, the air feels sharper, the weighty tension between Severa and me like an unspoken challenge.
"The Prithas was summoned to the palace." Her tone is clipped, each word measured as if speaking to me costs her something precious. She refuses to meet my eyes.
I hover uncertainly by the too tall table. I'll have to stand to eat, an awkward prospect that only emphasizes my outsider status. I reach for what looks most familiar, a piece of the bread-like substance, and tear off a small piece.
"This is interesting," I say, attempting small talk as I taste it. The texture is spongier than bread, with a faint mineral aftertaste that's not unpleasant. "What is it made from?"
Severa plumps a pillow on one of the loungers surrounding the heartstone with unnecessary force. "It is cultured from the fungal groves beneath the eastern caverns. Nothing dangerous, human." Her emphasis on the last word makes it sound like a classification rather than an identity.
"Thank you for preparing this," I try again, selecting what appears to be fruit that glows faintly along its ridged surface.
"I follow the Prithas's orders." She casts me a nasty look over her shoulder. Her scales tighten around her jaw, a ripple of tension visible along her throat. "His commands include ensuring you are adequately maintained."
