Here, the silence presses like a physical weight. What if the TrueCoil strikes again? What if they come for me while I sleep, slipping through stone that is somehow able to part at their touch, finding me alone and vulnerable in this too large room? The two guards outside offer little comfort. I barely know them, and Zaethir's unreadable demeanor does nothing to inspire trust.
I sink beside the heartstone pit, curling my knees to my chest, letting its molten warmth seep into me. The crystalline cluster rises from the living rock, its surface a smooth, transparent cerulean, like tempered glass plucked from the ocean’s depths. Beneath the flawless exterior, a molten core churns with the same slow, endless rhythm as the smaller one in Varok's den, yet it feels different, more formal somehow, like a ceremonial flame rather than a hearth fire. I reach toward it, letting my fingers hover near enough to feel its heat without touching the surface.
"This is ridiculous," I whisper to myself, voice swallowed by the chamber's vastness. “I’ve slept alone in a room my whole life, even in Varok’s den.”
But never after nearly dying. Never after discovering I’m the catalyst of an ancient prophecy. Never after being bonded by blood to a naga who just became king… I mean Sovereign Flame.
I close my eyes, trying to focus on the heartstone's warmth, on the subtle pulse of Emberyn at my throat. Through our bond, I can sense Varok's presence nearby, not his thoughts or feelings, just the fact of him, a sensation in my mind like a hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
He's still awake.
The comfort of that awareness only heightens my isolation. In the time since the bombing, I've grown accustomed to his proximity, to the strange safety I feel in his presence despite our differences. The thought of spending the entire night alone in this cavernous space, jumping at shadows and reliving flames, makes my chest tighten with something close to panic.
I stand abruptly, decision made before I fully articulate it to myself. I cannot stay here. Not tonight. Not when everything feels too raw, too uncertain, too new.
I find a silken robe hanging beside my formal garments and slide it over my shoulders, pull it closed over my nightgown. This can't be proper behavior for a blooded mate to seek out the newly crowned Sovereign Flame in the middle of the night, barefoot and dressed for sleep.
My father would be appalled. The High Council of Clavenmoor would question my decision. But they aren’t here, surrounded by ancient prophecies and shadowy threats.
I move to the entrance, watching as the stone dissolves at my presence. Whatever happens now, whether Varok turns me away or allows me to stay, it cannot be worse than remaining alone in this beautiful, terrible chamber that honors a symbol rather than sheltering a person.
I step through the doorway, leaving the luxury of my assigned quarters behind without a backward glance.
Nirik and Zaethir straighten as I emerge, surprise evident in the sudden tension of their postures. They clearly didn't expect their guard duty to include an actual interaction, especially notafter delivering me to my quarters for the night. Nirik's tail tip flicks once with uncertainty, while Zaethir's face remains a perfect mask of neutrality, though his silver-blue scales contract along his jaw.
"Is there something you need, Threadborn?" Nirik asks, his eyes widening at the sight of my toes peeking out beneath the hem of my nightgown and hastily donned robe.
I lift my chin, adopting the diplomatic posture my father drilled into me since childhood. Back straight, expression composed, voice steady despite the inner trembling. "Take me to Varok…er, the Sovereign Flame, now," I correct myself, still unaccustomed to his new title.
The guards exchange glances, a silent communication I can't interpret. Zaethir's tail coils tighter beneath him, a subtle shift that nonetheless communicates disapproval.
"The sovereign has retired to his personal chambers," he says, each word precise as a blade. "He left instructions not to be disturbed until morning council."
"I need to speak with him," I press, refusing to be intimidated by Zaethir's cool stare. "It's important."
"Perhaps it could wait until—" Nirik begins, but I interrupt.
"It cannot wait." I touch Emberyn at my throat, drawing confidence from its warmth against my skin. "Please take me to him."
Zaethir's vertical pupils contract to thin slits, studying me with the intensity of a predator assessing prey. "It would be more appropriate to send a messenger."
"I am not requesting a messenger," I say, my voice lowering but gaining intensity. "I am requesting an escort. Either provide one, or I will find my way alone."
It's a bluff—I have no idea the location of Varok’s chamber—but one delivered with enough conviction to land. Nirik'seyes widen at my boldness while Zaethir's jaw tightens, scales shifting with barely controlled irritation.
"Very well," Zaethir finally concedes, though his tone suggests I've committed some grave breach of protocol. "We will escort you."
They position themselves on either side of me, Nirik maintaining a respectful distance while Zaethir slithers closer than strictly necessary, his presence a silent reminder of his displeasure. We move through the royal wing's curved corridors, passing other guards who straighten at our approach, eyes tracking our unusual procession with poorly concealed curiosity.
The palace at night feels different, more silent, more watchful. The keh’shali glow with reduced intensity, casting the corridors in muted blues and violets that deepen the shadows between columns. Crystal formations that gleamed brilliantly during the day now emit only the faintest glow, like stars glimpsed through cloud cover.
We pass through a grand atrium I don't recognize, its domed ceiling lost in darkness above us. Massive statues of coiled serpents flank the perimeter, their carved eyes seeming to follow our progress across the polished floor. Our movements echo. My footsteps are soft and quick, the guards' presence marked only by the subtle whisper of scales against stone.
"The sovereign's wing lies ahead," Nirik offers, breaking the tense silence. "It has housed the Serpent Crown for the past few centuries, and..." He trails off, perhaps realizing he's offering information I haven't requested.
"And now it houses the Sovereign Flame," I finish, grateful for his attempt at normalcy.
"Yes," Nirik replies, relieved at my response. "If you notice, the palace is designed so that all royal chambers connect through direct passages. For security…"
