"Speak plainly," I command as soon as the war chamber door solidifies, melding seamlessly into the wall until no trace remains of its existence.
Sareth's coils tighten beneath him. "I wonder at your choice of guards for her. Zaethir is..."
"Disciplined. Loyal. Tested in battle."
"Yes. And cold as stone. The human—" he catches himself. "The Threadborn might find him... unsettling."
I consider his words, feeling Leira's unease pulse faintly through our bond. Perhaps she does find Zaethir's rigid formality uncomfortable, but comfort was not my primary concern when selecting her guards. Safety was. Zaethir may be cold, but his reflexes are unmatched among the younger Talons.
"She is stronger than she appears," I say finally. "And Nirik balances Zaethir's...austerity."
Sareth inclines his head, accepting but not agreeing. It is an old dance between us, this careful negotiation of opinions. I respect him too much to demand blind obedience, and he respects me too much to push past the boundaries of rank.
I nod, a slight movement that makes the crown shift against my scales. "Join the others in the war chamber.”
My voice sounds steadier than I feel, betraying none of the unease that coils beneath my composure. As Sareth moves to the adjacent room, I allow myself a moment of stillness on the throne that still feels like Naryth's. My claws curl around the armrests, cool stone against scaled flesh, grounding me in the physical when my thoughts threaten to scatter.
Through it all, beneath the weight of ceremony and duty, I feel Leira's presence. A faint echo, trembling beneath the surface like a ripple across still water. Even separated by stone and distance, her emotions seep into me: unease, displacement, a bone-deep weariness that has nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with feeling adrift in unfamiliar waters.
The same waters I now find myself swimming in, though I would never admit as much to my Talons.
My tail shifts restlessly against the floor. I focus on the sensation that is Leira. The strange, warm awareness that has so quickly become familiar. Distrust pricks at her, jagged and raw, though I cannot discern the source. Is the cause Zaethir as Sareth warned? The cavernous palace? Or shadows yet unseen?
I squeeze my hand shut, claws digging into the flesh of my palm where the faint scar of our bond ceremony remains, a pale mark against vibrant scales. Through it flows a connection I never wanted, never asked for, yet now find myself reaching for like an anchor in a storm.
I rise from the throne in a single, fluid motion, my massive body uncoiling with practiced grace that belies the tension thrumming through me and join my Talons.
The war chamber feels too small for the ceremony, its walls carved with ancient battle sigils that seem to watch with hollow eyes. At its center, a massive table dominates the space, its surface etched with a detailed map of naga territories: the subterranean world of Vessan-Kar, the Ashlands above it, the jagged peaks of the Serpentspine Mountains spanning from west to east, and the borders where human lands begin.
Crystal formations spear from the ceiling above it, their facets catching and fragmenting light from the heartstone nestled in the far wall, casting shadows that dance across the map's territories like omens of conflicts yet to come.
I raise a clawed hand, the motion slow and deliberate, and my Talons still, their sharp eyes locking on me. My voice cuts through the quiet, firm and controlled, carrying the weight of command and the promise of honor.
“First Fang Sareth, come forward.”
Sareth approaches, his back straight though his age shows in the subtle hesitation of his coils. Once we were equals on the battlefield. Now he bows before me, ruby eyes lowered in a deference that feels wrong after centuries fighting side by side.
"Sareth," I intone, the name heavy with history between us. "You who have carried the weight of war upon your scales, who has stood unwavering when others faltered. Do you accept the mantle of Prithas, Blade of the Crown?"
He looks up, meeting my gaze with the directness I have always valued in him. In his eyes I see not blind loyalty but something deeper, more complex, a faith born of blood and fire, of battles fought together when hope seemed as distant as sunlight.
"I accept, Sovereign Flame. My blade is yours, my blood your shield, my scales your armor against all who would threaten what we build." His voice carries the scars of a hundred battles, rough-edged but unwavering.
I place my hand on his scaled shoulder, feeling the heat of him beneath my touch, the familiar strength that has carried my flank for decades. There is comfort in this, in the solidity of an alliance forged through combat and tempered by survival.
“Then rise, Prithas Sareth," I say, removing his current rank and wrapping the arm band I once wore with pride around his muscled biceps; the sigil of Prithas settles against his battle-scarred flesh like it has found its rightful home. "Take your place at my right hand."
He rises, tail unfurling with a warrior's grace despite the scars that mark his form. The oath vibrates between us, not just words but a binding stronger than blood or law—a warrior's pledge to his sovereign, a friend's promise to a comrade.
I signal for Malikor to come forth next, his bronze scales gleaming like forged metal in the heartstone's light. Where Sareth is weathered stone, Malikor is a blade, sharp, precise, forged for a singular purpose. His body winds with rigid precision, his clear green gaze revealing nothing but calm discipline.
"First Fang," I declare, naming him commander of the martial forces beneath the Prithas. "The shadow to the blade, the coil that binds our forces. Do you accept?"
"Until death claims me, Sovereign Flame." His oath is simpler than Sareth's, unadorned but no less binding. He inclines his head, the muscles of his neck coiling in controlled acknowledgment, loyalty folded into every gesture.
I place Malikor’s new rank around his biceps. The heat from Sareth’s scales still lingers as well as the weight of responsibility that comes with it, passing from one warrior to another.
Traven is last to be honored. Younger than the others, his broad-shouldered form coils with quiet authority. Onyx scales shimmer with storm-gray undertones, bearing fewer scars than his elders, though each edge hints at battles fought and survived. His cobalt-blue braid is drawn tight against his neck, and pale glacial eyes fix on me with steady, unwavering resolve.
