In the center stands a basin of dark stone filled with water so still it looks like black glass. First Fang Sareth gestures for me to stop.
"Purify your hands," he instructs. "Then you may enter."
I approach the basin cautiously. The water, if it is water, seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. When I dip my fingers in, it's warm, almost body temperature, and carries a faint scent of herbs and metal.
As I wash my hands, I catch my reflection in the dark surface, kohl-rimmed eyes staring back with determination that borders on defiance. Good. Let them see that I won't be broken easily.
The water ripples, distorting my image, and for an instant, I could swear I see another face beneath mine. Scales where skin should be, vertical pupils dilating.
I jerk back, water droplets spattering on stone, yet my hands are curiously dry.
I’m led to one of the seven doorways. Etched above the stone slab is a spiraling flame, its silver inlay catching the faint glow of the chamber until it seems to ripple with sentient fire. The design begins as a narrow tongue at the base, curling upward in widening arcs that coil back on themselves, each line sharp yet fluid, like smoke caught in a perpetual spiral. At the center, the flame narrows again to a single point of light, as if all its heat and power were drawn inward to a hidden core. When I stare too long, the etched lines seem to shift, flickering like a flame breathing against stone.
The stone slab liquefies before my eyes, not crumbling or splitting but flowing apart, each particle of rock suspended in an impossible current that parts to either side with a soft grinding whisper, revealing the chamber beyond. Faint, flickering light spills out, pale and blue, as though lit by something deeper than fire.
First Fang Sareth coils slightly, his massive upper body tilting toward me. The scales across his chest catch the glow from the chamber, casting shifting patterns across the floor.
“Prithas Varok awaits,” he announces.
Varok.
The name I've heard whispered in diplomatic circles for months. Warrior. Commander. Blade of the Crown. The naga warrior, second in line of succession to the Serpent Crown who agreed to the bonding for peace after centuries of bloodshed. My...what? Husband isn't the right word. Owner feels closer to the truth, though the treaty uses gentler language.
“The Guardians of the Temple will prepare you now for the ceremony,” he says, voice low and edged with ceremonial weight. “You are not to speak unless spoken to. Do not resist. Do not stray.”
His slitted gaze narrows as it lingers on me, and I get the sense he’s measuring me for obedience. I silently nod, my throat constricting.
From within the chamber, robed figures emerge, faces hidden beneath delicate, veil-like hoods that drape past slender shoulders. They make no sound, only raise one hand in silent summons.
I glance once at Sareth, but he offers no further instruction.
I step forward and the stone closes behind me, sealing me within. One of the guardians silently takes the satchel from my shoulder, setting it neatly against the wall. Then they guide me deeper into a chamber carved from solid stone, rounded, echoing, and strangely warm. At its center flickers a tall, twisting flame unlike any I’ve ever seen. It glows not orange, but a pale, opalescent blue and gold, flickering in rhythmic pulses.
The guardians don't speak as they guide me forward to stand before the flame. Though their faces remain hidden beneath gauzy veils, I sense they are female. Smaller than thenaga warriors, with more delicate movements and narrower shoulders beneath their robes. The flame's opalescent glow washes over me when I reach the heart of the chamber, flickering in measured pulses that seem to match the sudden quickening of my heart.
Without a word, the veiled figures step back in unison, their robes whispering against the floor. One by one, they melt into the curved walls, becoming little more than shadows against stone until only one remains.
She steps forward with quiet authority and lifts her veil.
Her face is striking, ageless, with chalk-gray scales so tightly knit they shimmer like polished alabaster. Pale gold-white scales cover her serpentine lower half, catching the light with the iridescence of crushed pearls. Instead of hair, silken tendrils cascade down her back, each one faintly luminous, as if woven from captured starlight.
But it is her eyes that hold me. Milky violet, clouded as though blind yet sharp with an unsettling awareness. It feels as though she isn’t looking at me at all, but through me, reading something I cannot see, weighing the shape of my very soul.
A chill slips down my spine, not of fear but of awe. Ancient. Eternal.
“I am Eira, Elder Guardian of the Temple of Threads,” she says, her voice smooth and measured. “Because you are human and know little of our ways, I will see you through the ceremony.”
She holds my gaze for a beat, then gestures toward the base of the flame.
“Kneel, Leira of the human realm. The blood bond begins here. The Infinity Flame,” she says softly, “reflects more than light. Be still. Let it see you.”
For a long moment, I do nothing but breathe. The Flame shivers and dances, and I swear it leans toward me. I feel noheat, but something hums in the back of my skull. It isn’t just fire. It’s a living thing. Maybe not just a piece of their biotech, but something older, sacred, and aware.
I wonder what it sees.
What it judges.
What it knows that even I do not.
