"Fascinating," she says, her head tilting slightly. "And do you find our ways very strange, Threadborn?"
The title makes me flinch internally. "Different," I say. "But beautiful in their complexity."
She seems pleased with this answer, scales rippling in what I've come to recognize as the naga equivalent of appreciation. "I am Miria, herb-keeper to the temple. I suppose I should have led with an introduction. If you should need anything to ease your healing, you need only ask."
I thank her, surprised by the simple kindness of her offer. Not all naga view me with suspicion or disdain, I remind myself. Some, like Miria, might see possibility in this fragile peace. I must remember that when fear threatens to overwhelm me.
Varok turns his head, his gaze catching mine where we sit shoulder to shoulder. No words pass, yet his yellow eyes hold me fast, intent and unyielding. To most, he would seem carved from stone, unreadable. But the bond lays him bare, and his concern threads through my unease. The weight of the crown presses like iron across his shoulders. Emberyn stirs warm against my throat, pulsing in answer to his attention, and the sensation unmoors me. To be seen by him in this hall of strangers steadies me even as it leaves me trembling, stripped of the distance I thought I could keep.
Despite everything—the danger, the prophecy, the uncertainty—I find myself drawing strength from that connection. In a room full of potential enemies, surrounded by foreign customs and expectations I never asked for, Varok has become my anchor. The one fixed point in a world that continues to shift beneath me like sand in a tide.
I lift my cup in a small gesture of acknowledgment, and he inclines his head, the crown gleaming on his brow. For this moment, at least, we face these changes together, human and naga, joined by blood and circumstance and whatever mysterious thread the prophecy has woven between us.
The feast concludes with a final ritual blessing from Eira, and with a flick of Varok’s hand, I find myself flanked by two warriors before I can even rise from my seat. "We will escortyou to your new chambers, Threadborn," says the younger of the two, his scales a pattern of rust and amber that reminds me of autumn leaves.
The young warrior’s words hang in the air, and my gaze instinctively falls on Varok. He is already watching me, canary eyes steady, the weight of the room falling away in the silent exchange between us.
“They are yours,” he says, his voice pitched low, meant for me alone. “Nirik and Zaethir. Chosen to stand at your side when I cannot. You are safe with them.” His gaze flickers past me to the guards, then returns, intent and grounding.I feel your unease.The words never leave his mouth, yet the bond thrums with the truth of them.
“Mine?” The question slips out as I lean toward him.
“Duty calls me, and I will not leave you unguarded,” he admits, the faintest shadow crossing his features. “I must confer with my highest-ranking Talons.” His hand briefly clutches mine, a fleeting anchor. Emberyn warms at his touch, pulsing in quiet reassurance.
The truth presses between us. My bloodmate knows I am ready to escape the scrutiny of the gathered room, just as I know the burden of the crown already settles heavy on his shoulders.
I let my gaze drift from Varok to the two who will shadow me. I recognize them both from the market attack, they were there when the crowd turned threatening. Nirik’s deep blue gaze shines with barely concealed curiosity, but it's his companion who draws my cautious attention. Zaethir, the bluish-silver warrior who moves with such controlled precision. His face reveals nothing as he gestures for me to follow, but something in his stillness sets my nerves on edge.
I stand, feeling the weight of dozens of gazes watching my every movement. The seat scrapes softly against stone as I push it back, the sound amplified by the chamber's perfectacoustics. Varok rises beside me, towering like a giant shadow, his presence both intimidating and oddly comforting.
"I suppose this is where we part ways for the evening," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds despite the anxiety churning inside me.
His eyes find mine, searching. "Yes. There are matters that require immediate attention."
An awkward silence falls between us. Although his presence had felt more like a dream, I know now he remained at my side for two weeks during my recovery. I should thank him for healing me, but with so many eyes upon us, I find myself at a loss for words.
"Don't stay up too late with your Talons," I finally blurt with a weak smile. "Even Sovereign Flame’s need their rest."
Varok tilts his head, the heavy crown glinting in the crystal light. His brow furrows then relaxes as understanding dawns.
"Is that humor to your species?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear. The corner of his mouth twitches upward revealing the sharp tip of one fang, not quite a smile but close enough.
Heat rises to my cheeks. "An attempt at it anyway."
Another silence stretches between us. My fingers fidget with the hem of my sleeve, suddenly fascinated by the intricate stitching. "I should let you attend to your duties."
Varok shifts his massive coils, scales rasping softly against the stone floor. His tail flicks once in what I've come to recognize as a gesture of uncertainty.
"I..." he begins, then pauses, as if searching for words that won't come easily. "I hope you find your new chambers satisfactory."
I nod, equally awkward. "I'm sure they'll be fine. Better than being crushed under palace rubble, at least."
His expression darkens momentarily at the reminder, then softens as he catches the attempt at gallows humor. "You have a strange way of finding light in darkness, Ashira.”
Ashira.The name slips from his lips like a secret, and I remember his voice in the Flame room as I lay broken, the syllables a warm balm against the pain. Now, spoken in this crowded hall, it travels through me like a flame seeking tinder.
"It's either laugh or scream," I admit with a small shrug. "And screaming tends to alarm the guards."
A rumble escapes him. His chuckle catches me off guard, warm and rich, sending a strange flutter through my chest that I quickly attribute to Emberyn's pulse against my skin.
