The market throngs with serpents of every caste and coloration. Merchants call their wares in the sibilant tones of our ancient language, while buyers coil before stalls to examine glowing potions, woven silks harvested from cavern-spiders, and jewelry crafted from vibrant crystals. Baskets of phosphorescent fungi release spores that drift like golden motes through the air. Vendors roast cave-dwelling creatures over small flames, their aromas rich and savory.
As we move deeper into the market, heads turn. Conversations falter. Eyes narrow or widen depending on the viewer. Some bow their heads respectfully at the sight of my warrior bands with Prithas sigil, only to freeze when they notice the human at my side. Their reactions range from naked curiosity to poorly disguised contempt.
Yet Leira walks beside me with her head high, her stride measured and confident. She meets their stares without flinching, neither challenging nor submissive. Pride rises within me, flooding my chest with warmth. Many would quail under such concentrated scrutiny, yet this human female moves through it as if born to face down predators.
"The weavers’ district lies ahead," I tell her, nodding toward a section where stalls overflow with shimmering silks and delicate weaves in colors no surface-dweller has likely seen. "Furra is thefinest seamstress in Vessan-Kar. If anyone can create garments suitable for your form, it is her."
Furra's stall stands apart from the others, larger and more elaborately decorated with hanging samples of her craft. The fabrics catch and transform under the light, seeming to shift colors as we approach. The merchant herself coils behind a polished stone counter, her copper scales gleaming like burnished metal. When she sees me she straightens, professional interest lighting her amber eyes…until her gaze falls on Leira. Her pupils contract to thin slits, her mouth tightening.
"Prithas Varok," she greets me, her voice honey over gravel. "What service can I provide for you today?" She deliberately ignores Leira's presence, as if speaking directly to a human might contaminate her.
"My bloodmate requires garments," I say, emphasizing the wordbloodmatewith deliberate precision. "Appropriate for an audience with the Serpent Crown this evening and for daily wear thereafter."
Furra's scales ripple, the only sign of her discomfort. "Human proportions may prove...challenging," she says, eyeing Leira with undisguised distaste. "The bifurcated lower limbs require significant pattern adjustments."
"Then it is fortunate you excel at challenges," I reply smoothly. "I have brought her to the best, after all."
Furra slithers from behind her counter, tape measure in hand. She circles Leira like a predator assessing prey, her movements fluid but tense. "I will need to take measurements," she says, not addressing Leira directly.
"Of course," Leira answers anyway, her voice steady. She stands perfectly still as Furra's fingers press against her shoulders, her waist, the curve of her hip.
I watch the process with unnecessary intensity, aware of every place the merchant's hands touch my mate. Thepossessiveness that surges through me is unfiltered in its intensity. I have never been territorial over a female, yet something about the clinical way Furra handles Leira, like a specimen rather than a living being, makes my scales tighten along my spine.
"These fabrics are beautiful," Leira says, reaching out to touch a shimmering length of silk that shifts between sapphire and emerald as the light changes. "I've never seen colors like these before."
Furra makes a non-committal sound, neither acknowledging the compliment nor engaging with Leira directly.
"Select whatever pleases you," I tell Leira, surprising myself with the generosity. "Choose fabrics for several garments, not just for tonight."
Her eyes widen slightly. "That's not necessary?—"
"It is." Something in me wants to see her draped in the finest Vessan-Kar has to offer, wants to erase the memory of her in those travel-worn leathers. She has endured so much these past days: the journey here, the bonding ceremony, the hostility of my people. This small comfort feels insufficient yet necessary. "Select what you like. Furra will create garments worthy of your form.”
Furra begins draping various fabrics over Leira's shoulders, across her arms, holding swatches against her skin to assess how they complement her complexion.
"Perhaps something less revealing," Furra suggests with a curl of her lip, adjusting a length of translucent silk that falls improperly across Leira's chest. "Humans lack the proper scale protection. All that exposed skin is rather...primitive."
Heat flares beneath my scales, an anger I had not anticipated. "My bloodmate's form requires no commentary," I snap, my voice carrying the edge that makes young warriorstremble during training. "Your expertise lies in fabric, not species judgment."
Furra flinches visibly, her copper scales darkening with fear. "Of course, Prithas. I meant no disrespect."
Leira glances at me, surprise evident in her expression. I had not meant to defend her so vehemently, yet the words emerged unbidden, protective and fierce.
"I require the first garment completed by midday," I continue, my tone cooler now, professional. "My den keeper will collect it. The others can follow in the coming days."
"As you command, Prithas." Furra bows her head, properly chastened.
I notice Leira's lips curve in the slightest grin, quickly suppressed. Something warm and unfamiliar uncoils in my chest at the sight. I should not care that my defense pleased her. I should not feel this strange desire to see that smile again, broader and unguarded.
As we leave to continue our market exploration, I catch myself stealing glances at her, admiring the quiet grace in every step. The way her dark hair catches the cavern light, the delicate symmetry of her face, and the effortless poise she carries despite her soft, unscaled form. There is a fluidity to her movements that should not belong to a creature bound by legs, yet she moves with an elegance that holds my gaze hostage. Her sleeveless tunic hints at her shape beneath, of swells and curves, foreign yet compelling, and I recall how all that softness felt pressed against me as I held her in my arms.
And worse, I want to shield her, not because duty demands it, not even because the blood bond ties us, but because she pulls at me in ways I cannot begin to name. There is a fire in her that should drive me away, yet it drags me closer, inexorable as gravity. It feels reckless, forbidden, like recognizing a kindredspirit in the one place I should never look. And no matter how hard I fight it, I cannot seem to let it go.
I keep a careful distance as we move through the market, though every glide forward is torment. Her scent drifts back to me, sweet and maddening, curling around my senses until I can scarcely think. With the TrueCoil agitated, I cannot afford this weakness. I need a clear head, yet all I want is to close the space between us.
With my hand resting on the blade at my side, I drag my focus away from her and force it onto the world around us. The vaulted cavern shimmers with light from lantern-vines draped high above, their slow pulses casting the stalls in shifting emerald and gold.
Aromas rise from braziers where vendors roast sunroot pods until their skins split and steam. Glassy flakes of glimmer-crust, harvested from deep cavern pools, are stacked in shallow dishes, catching the light like frozen rain.
