Maintained. Like equipment. Like a burden.
I eat in uncomfortable silence, standing awkwardly beside the table. Severa moves around the den straightening and plumping, never coming closer to me than necessary, as if I'm an obstacle to be navigated.
She makes it abundantly clear I am unwelcome in her domain.
When she passes near the heartstone at the chamber's center, it flares brighter, responding to her naga energy in a way it hadn’t for me. The biotech thrums with her presence, accepting her as part of this living system while I remain foreign, disconnected.
"Varok mentioned the heartstone responds to naga energy," I say, watching the play of light across her scales. "It's fascinating how your technology integrates the stone into living systems."
Her eyes flick to me briefly, disgust tinted with renewed coldness. "It is not technology as your kind understands it. The stone remembers what we are to each other. It always has."
The subtle emphasis onweexcludes me completely. I fall silent again, focusing on the food, which, despite its strangeness, satisfies my hunger. The fungi have a texture like meat but taste earthy and rich. The roasted roots carry sweetness beneaththeir charred exterior. Even the tangy paste, spread thin on the fungal bread, has a complex flavor that reminds me distantly of fermented honey.
Severa moves to collect my empty platters, her efficiency speaking of centuries of service. "The Prithas will return by midday," she says without prompting. "You will remain here until then."
Not a request.
I watch her rise up on her tail to reach a high shelf in the cookery, her serpentine grace emphasizing everything I am not in this place. Her russet scales gleam in the heartstone's light, each one overlapping the next in perfect symmetry. When she turns, I catch the edge of what might be a faded tattoo on the underneath side of her tail, some symbol or marking hidden when she straightens it behind her.
"Thank you for the information," I say, trying once more for civility. "And for the morning meal."
Her eyes narrow slightly, vertical pupils contracting in the chamber's light. "It is my duty to the Prithas." The scales around her mouth tighten again, a sign I'm beginning to recognize as displeasure. "Nothing more."
Severa collects the final platter and glides back to the cookery, her back rigid, her movements precise. I am left alone in the dining chamber, a stranger in my enemy’s home.
As the silence stretches between us like a drawn bow, all I can think of is escaping the den to put some distance between myself and Severa so I can take a full breath.
"I need to retrieve my satchel from the Temple of Threads," I say, keeping my voice steady as Severa puts utensils away. "It has my belongings, including clothing more appropriate than these riding leathers."
Severa turns slowly, gold eyes narrowing. "The Prithas left explicit orders," she says, each word clipped and cold. "You are not to leave the den without an escort."
"Then perhaps you could escort me?" I grudgingly suggest, trying to keep the desperation from my voice. My few possessions suddenly feel like lifelines to a world I'm rapidly losing touch with.
"I am busy attending to the Prithas's den." Her scales ripple in a way that might be amusement or contempt. "Your human trinkets can wait until he returns."
"They're not trinkets," I counter, heat rising in my cheeks. "They're my only possessions."
Severa slithers past me, the tip of her tail sweeping the stone floor in a brisk gesture I realize is dismissal. “Then perhaps you should have brought them with you instead of leaving them at the temple.” She pauses at the entrance to what appears to be a large food pantry. “I have far more important things to do than indulge your pathetic whims, human.”
The stone door flows closed behind her, leaving me alone. I stand still for the tick of a second, listening to the subtle pulse of the rock around me.
This is my chance!
Heart pounding, I move quietly toward the entrance. What Severa doesn't know is I've been mapping every twist and turn since I arrived. The path from the temple is etched in my memory, each junction and corridor carefully noted.
I’ve always had a knack for directions, a spatial awareness that served me well after I discovered a trap door hidden at the end of the hallway just outside Serin’s and my bedrooms. For fun, I would navigate the underground tunnels the Crownward Guard used to move undetected out of the city and into naga territory, especially during public events when my fathersequestered me away, believing females didn’t belong at such gatherings.
I stand before the exit, and for one terrifying moment, nothing happens. Then, responding to Varok's blood now mingled with mine, the stone flows silently apart, folding outward to reveal the tunnel beyond.
I slip through before I can reconsider, before fear can root me in place. The entrance seals behind me, cutting off any easy retreat. I'm committed now.
The tunnel stretches before me, its walls thickly veined with golden light. The ceiling arches high above, disappearing into shadows where the bioluminescence doesn't reach. The air feels different out here, cooler, dense with mineral scents and something else, something alive and ancient that seems to press against my skin.
I move forward, trying to match the silent glide of the naga I've observed. My boots still make soft sounds against the stone floor, each step an announcement of my intrusion in this world of slithering serpents. The tunnel curves gently to the left, following what might be a natural formation enhanced by design.
I pause at the first junction, orienting myself. Left leads deeper into what I believe are residential areas. Right would take me toward the palace. Straight ahead leads back toward the ceremonial areas and, eventually, the Temple of Threads. I choose the forward path, moving with purpose now, as if I belong here, as if I have every right to traverse these tunnels alone.
The first naga I encounter is a male with slate-gray scales, carrying what appears to be tools of some kind. He freezes mid-glide when he sees me, his vertical pupils contracting to thin slits. I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away though my heart slams against my ribs. After a long moment, his eyes dropto the serpent stone at my throat. His expression shifts from shock to something more complex, a reluctant acknowledgment, perhaps, or a resigned acceptance. He inclines his head slightly and moves aside, making room for me to pass.
