“I’m not tiny, I’m—” Her protest dies on her lips as the sedative Zara slipped into her water threads through her veins. The storm in her gaze softens, the sharpness melting to a misty haze. The last sparks of resistance flicker and fade and her lids drift closed, surrendering to the pull of sleep.
Something delicate unfurls in my chest, fierce yet vulnerable, like a candle’s first flicker in a windless hall. I sweep a strand of singed hair from her face; the touch lingers longer than necessary, a quiet acknowledgment of something I am not ready to name. Beneath the weight of duty, a fragile warmth has taken root, tethering me to her in ways I had not thought possible.
The entrance to the Flame room parts with a violent rush of air. Sareth enters, his massive form hunched beneath a terribleburden. In his arms lies Naryth, the Serpent Crown, broken and bloodied. The crown itself is askew on his silver mane, now matted with crimson. Blood seeps from countless wounds, staining Sareth's scales where he cradles his sovereign.
Across the chamber, Eira’s voice cuts through the hush, guiding Sareth to lay Naryth’s lifeless form on the far side of the Flame.
Zara’s hand finds mine, small but steady, her touch grounding me even as the weight of what enters the chamber threatens to pull me under. Her violet gaze meets mine, calm in the way of one who has already seen what must be. “Go to him, Varok,” she murmurs, voice soft but resolute. “I can tend to Leira.”
For a breath I cannot move, torn between my bond and my duty, but the certainty in her gaze releases me. The young seer nods once, as if granting permission I did not know I needed.
"Prithas," Sareth's voice cracks with emotion I have never before heard from the battle-hardened warrior as I join him. "Naryth is gone. I found him beneath the broken table.”
The sight of Naryth’s still form cleaves through me like a blade. For three centuries I have served this sovereign, fought beneath his banner, carried his will into the darkest corners of war, and now he lies broken before me. A great flame snuffed by treachery. Grief presses hard against my chest, sharp and unyielding, but beneath it coils a darker fire. Rage.
“The ones responsible have stolen more than a ruler; they have torn from us a male worthy of loyalty. A sovereign who carried his people through the Sundering’s long shadow,” I grit out through clenched fangs. My tail constricts against the stone, fury sharpening the grief into something jagged, a vow already forming in the marrow of my bones. “They will pay for this. Every last TrueCoil who conspired to bring him down.”
Sareth’s eyes flick warily about the chamber before he leans close. His voice a harsh whisper edged with grief and suspicion. “The remnants of the device were found clinging to the underside, positioned at the head of the table.Hisplace.”
“Why would the TrueCoil strike at the Crown?” The question leaves me in a rasp.
“Perhaps it was not the TrueCoil,” Sareth ventures, unease threading his voice.
The thought gnaws at me, sharp and unrelenting. Could there be another faction hidden among us, one seeking to snuff the prophecy out completely? The idea coils through me like poison, every face a suspect, every silence a possible oath unspoken.
“What other reason would there be to see Naryth dead?” Sareth presses, his words heavy with dread.
The palace fire had scorched the walls yet barely touched me; its bite had been shallow, restrained. Something deeper stirred within me, a fledgling fire threading through my veins. It reached outward, spilling into Leira, a careful, almost hesitant touch that helped mend her wounds.
The words of the prophecy coil through me like embers beneath frozen ash.
Four shall wake when one is crowned.
Their power stirred, their fates unbound.
Fire first…
My mind recoils at the thought. The fire elemental cannot be me. Impossible! I am not worthy, not ready, not for what the prophecy demands. Yet that subtle torch smolders in my chest, insistent, undeniable.
Eira kneels in silence, drawing a funerary shroud over Naryth’s form. Woven from blackened silk and threads of hammered gold, the cloth glimmers like a night sky veined withfire. Her milky gaze lifts to me, reverence trembling through her words. “The Sovereign Flame can now be crowned.”
Venom curse it!
Chapter Eleven
LEIRA
The throne room stretches before me like a living cathedral. Its vaulted ceiling reinforced with thick crystal braces that catch the light in subtle, shifting patterns. Radiant threads of light run along the walls, bathing the assembled naga in rippling waves of azure light. It’s hard to believe that only fourteen days ago this same palace trembled beneath fire and stone, that I lay broken beneath rubble, that Naryth's blood spread dark and final across the stone floor in the great hall.
I shift my weight, still surprised by the absence of pain in my right leg. The bone that cracked into three distinct pieces now feels whole, though a phantom ache ghosts through it whenever I think too hard about how quickly it healed. Naga medicine, Infinity Flame magic—whatever knitted me back together has done so with an efficiency unmatched by humans.
My fingers drift unconsciously to the ends of my hair, now falling to my shoulders instead of halfway down my back. The singed sections had to be cut away, leaving a blunt edge that feels foreign against my fingertips. Another reminder of how close I came to joining Naryth in death. The burns that covered myarms and neck have faded to pink patches that itch when I'm nervous. Like now.
I sit on a raised seat beside the throne, its curved shape modified to accommodate my human form. An honor never before granted to one of my kind. A place for the Threadborn. The word follows me through these halls, hissed from every corner, loaded with expectation and dread in equal measure.
Around me, dozens of naga courtiers coil in precise formations, their scales oiled to a high shine for the occasion, catching the light in rippling waves of emerald, sapphire, and amber. Varok’s highest-ranking Talons display intricate metal bands circling massive biceps, while females wear ceremonial silks that float around their serpentine forms like liquid smoke. Their vertical pupils contract and dilate as they glance my way, curiosity and suspicion in equal measure. I am the first human to witness a naga coronation.
Talon guards line the perimeter, their titanite armor drinking in the light, turning each warrior into a shadow given form and purpose. Their hands never stray from weapon hilts, fingers curled with the patient readiness of predators. Their gazes sweep continuously across the crowd, hunting for signs of dissent, for the mark of the TrueCoil. Their slitted eyes the only parts of faces otherwise entombed behind ceremonial masks.
