Leira lingers at a stall of translucent ghost-lilies, their petals nearly invisible except where the light catches their edges, revealing veins that pulse with a subtle blue glow like heartbeats frozen in glass.
My gaze sweeps past her, narrowing when I catch the gleam of Zaethir's silvery-blue scales near a spice stand and Nirik's rust-colored tail coiled loosely beside him as they patrol the market's edge.
A sharp tilt of my head brings the two young warriors over. Without a word, I trace a claw along a stone pillar near the stall with fresh gouges of the TrueCoil's mark. The edges are still sharp, and the message is unmistakable.
My jaw tightens, every instinct screaming to pull Leira away, but her face is lit with wonder over the ghost-lilies, oblivious to the venom carved inches from her shoulder. The corner of my mouth almost curves at her fascination despite myself, the wayshe leans forward, studying the delicate petals of flora, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“Ghost-lilies endure where most things wither,” I murmur, moving closer to her, positioning myself between her and the pillar. “Their light lingers long after the bloom is cut, as though refusing to surrender to death.”
She glances up at me, a flash of genuine delight crossing her delicate features. “We have nothing like this aboveground.”
“You like them?” I ask, softer than I intend, the words slipping out like a confession.
“They’re amazing,” she breathes, her gaze caught on the lilies as though she cannot look away, her wonder as luminous as the blooms themselves.
“I shall have a dozen delivered to our den,” I say, lifting a clawed hand in a silent command to the merchant.
"That's...unnecessarily kind," she says, her voice catching slightly. “Thank you.” Her fingers brush my forearm for just a moment, warm skin against hot scales, before she withdraws, her cheeks flushing with a color I find strangely captivating.
“It is nothing,” I say, yet it feels traitorous to the part of me that feels I am supposed to be keeping her at arm’s length. Not ordering ghost-lilies like some besotted fool, all because she looked at them as though they mattered.
Her touch lingers longer in my thoughts than it does on my arm, leaving a warmth that unsettles me even as my senses snap back to the crowd, instinct tightening like a drawn bow.
Zaethir glides closer, scales like tempered steel. His movements are precise and controlled with a warrior's lethal efficiency. "Prithas," he acknowledges, his voice a smooth current, "the market is unusually crowded today."
His wintery gaze flicks briefly to Leira, then back to me. Nothing in his expression betrays his thoughts, but the subtle curl of his tail, coiled like a spring about to release, speaks ofpredatory vigilance beneath his calm exterior. He is one of my most disciplined Talons, known for his speed and precision in combat.
"Indeed," I reply, quickly shifting my gaze to the fresh carving. “Stay alert.”
“There are more on the other side,” Nirik states. The youngest of my elite guard, he positions himself on my other side. His rust-colored scales are distinctive among our kind, making him easy to track in a crowd, a liability in some situations but useful when I need to spot him quickly. His demeanor is respectful, but his eyes betray curiosity about the human at my side.
The current of the crowd shifts suddenly, a ripple of movement that sends alarm racing along my spine. My gaze cuts through the throng, catching on a cloaked figure slithering between bodies with an unnatural fluidity, tail gliding without the slightest ripple of displaced air. Years of combat have taught me to recognize predatory intent. It is in the smoothness of movement, the careful positioning, the way the head remains perfectly still while the body advances.
I move to place myself in Leira's path, but the crowd presses, and she is jostled from my side. Zaethir and Nirik fan out instinctively, forming a protective arc, but they are focused on the wrong threat. I see the flicker of metal beneath a second cloaked figure, the coiled intent in the stranger's movement, and heat flares sharp in my chest.
I unsheathe my sword and lunge to the side. One fluid motion brings her against me, my arm circling her waist as she collides with my chest. Her scent strikes me, warm skin and the faint sweetness of honey-clove that clings to her hair like a memory of sunlight, cutting through the market's crush. My tail sweeps out, clearing a path with the force of a whip, and the merchants stumble back without protest. No naga would darechallenge the Blade of the Crown when his scales are raised in warning.
I feel her pulse hammering against my forearm, her breath uneven, and know she can feel the tension in my body as I maneuver us toward the nearest side passage. She does not struggle or question, responding instead with a warrior's instinct to trust her commander in moments of danger, though I am not her commander and she is not my warrior. Yet the bond between us vibrates with shared purpose, with recognition of threat.
"What is it?" she whispers, her voice barely audible over the market's din.
"Not here," I respond, equally quiet. The cloaked figure has vanished into the crowd, but the danger has not passed. I can feel eyes on us, too many eyes, tracking our movements with hostile intent.
A hiss of whispers from somewhere above, the words too soft for her to understand but clear enough to set the ridge-spines along my back on edge: "False mate. Blood traitor. Human scum."
I do not slow until the press of the market is far behind us.
Chapter Eight
LEIRA
Varok's muscled arm cradles me against his chest as he swiftly slithers through the tunnels toward his den, each powerful undulation of his serpentine body sending tremors of safety and danger straight through my core. I cling to his neck, my fingers brushing the smooth scales there, still unable to steady my breathing after how quickly violence erupted in the market. One moment browsing subterranean flowers, the next surrounded by hissing shadows.
I’m left clinging to Varok’s neck, a sour taste in my mouth and questions burning on my tongue, but I hold them until we're safely inside. I didn’t take my sister’s place only for others to stand in the way of peace. I did it so she might live in a world unbroken by war. The stone entrance parts before us like water then silently seals behind us.
Severa awaits within, her russet scales flaring like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust. The delicate membranes around her jaw flutter with barely contained agitation. That golden gaze flickers to where Varok’s muscled arm holds me tightly before it fixes on him.
"Were you harmed?” she hisses. The membranes at her throat flatten with suppressed alarm. “There are reports of disturbances in the market district.”
