I incline my head, unable to stop the low rumble of satisfaction that builds in my chest at the sight of her in my nest, marked with my scent. "You slept deeply."
Her eyes dart to the floor where her nightgown lies crumpled and discarded, evidence of our night's activities. The flush on her cheeks deepens. "I...yes. I did."
Her modesty stirs something raw and feral inside me. Primitive as hunger, possessive as flame. I would feel her unravel beneath my hands again, hear her whisper my name in surrender.
Just as I am about to cross the room, my door pulses, signaling someone approaches. Leira's eyes widen, and I give her time to grab her robe and rush to the washroom, out of sight before I move to the entrance. The door parts at my approach, revealing Severa, her russet scales gleaming in the corridor light. She balances a large tray laden with covered dishes and a steaming pot.
Her amber eyes flick past me into the chamber, undoubtedly seeking the human she knows must be present. When her gazefinds Leira’s discarded nightgown, something flashes across her features. Not surprise, but a deeper emotion quickly masked by practiced neutrality.
"Your morning meals as you commanded, Sovereign," she says, her tone perfectly modulated, giving away nothing as she enters with practiced efficiency. She moves to the dining alcove, arranging the dishes with precise movements, each placement deliberate and exact. Not a scale out of place, not a whisper of disapproval in her voice. Yet tension brims beneath the surface, visible only in the rigid set of her shoulders.
"Thank you, Severa," I say, watching her with narrowed eyes.
She bows low, the formal gesture of a den keeper to whom she serves, and for the first time in centuries of her service, it feels like performance rather than devotion. "Will there be anything else?" she asks, her gaze finally lifting to meet mine. For a breath, her gaze turns cold and assessing, a look I have never seen directed at me.
"That will be all," I reply, keeping my voice neutral despite the sudden unease crawling beneath my scales.
Severa rises from her bow and turns but not before her eyes flick once more to Leira’s crumpled garment. The look lasts only a heartbeat, but in it, I see centuries of festering hatred distilled to its purest form. Not the open contempt of the TrueCoil, but something more insidious, a quiet, patient loathing that has learned to wear the mask of loyalty.
She departs, her movements clipped and precise, the door flowing closed behind her. The silence that follows feels brittle, charged with unspoken tension.
"She hates me," Leira says quietly as she emerges from the washroom, her perceptiveness catching me off guard. "I've felt it from the first day I met her.”
I turn to her, considering my words carefully. Severa has served my family since before my birth. She tended my woundsafter my first battle, mourned with me when my clutch-brothers fell. Her hands have prepared my meals, maintained my armor, and kept my den. The thought that she might harbor such venom toward Leira, might potentially align with those who seek to destroy what the Threadborn represents, cuts deep.
"Perhaps," I admit, moving closer to the nest. "But hatred does not always translate to treachery."
Even as the words leave my mouth, I find myself questioning them. How well do I truly know Severa? Her loyalty to me has never wavered, or has it simply never been tested? Has she served me faithfully all these years or merely bided her time, waiting for the moment when duty and her true allegiance would diverge?
Tension has always vibrated between them like a plucked wire. I told myself it was merely the friction of two races who share only the memory of bloodshed, now confined within the same walls. With the taste of Leira still on my tongue and the byrn pulsing through my blood, I see it through new eyes.
Could Severa be aligned with the unknown faction? A spy within my own den, reporting my movements, my weaknesses, my growing attachment to the human female who now sleeps in my nest?
The possibility sits cold and heavy in my gut. I trusted her with my life countless times. To believe her capable of such betrayal feels like tearing open a wound I did not know I carried. Yet I cannot discard any possibility, not when Leira's safety hangs in the balance.
"What are you thinking?" Leira asks, her voice pulling me from dark musings. Her eyes are clear now, sleep replaced by sharp awareness. She reads the echo of my emotions better than she should, this human who has slipped past my defenses.
"That nothing is certain anymore," I answer truthfully, watching the keh’shali in the wall flow with steady light,constant in a world suddenly shifting beneath me. "And that breakfast grows cold."
The morning fare is elaborate, befitting a sovereign: trays of spiced root bread, golden-crusted and still warm from the ovens; roasted tubers glazed with mineral honey and dusted with crushed firenuts; platters of smoked cavern mushrooms and delicate shards of crystallized salt; and a steaming pot of sheren tea, scented with orange blossom and moonvine petals that flourish only in the western caverns. The aroma fills the chamber, rich and heady, carrying the faint mineral tang of the rock beneath us.
I glance at Leira, who has slipped into her nightgown, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the traces of my hands from the night before. “Come,” I say, gesturing to the space beside me. “You must be hungry.”
Her stomach answers with a soft growl, and color blooms across her cheeks. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as her lips curve into a hesitant smile. That small gesture of shyness I have come to recognize.
The table itself is tall, as all tables must be for a coiled naga, leaving her without a proper seat. Before she can make herself uncomfortable, I reach for her and lift her with ease, settling her atop the arch of my tail. She braces her hands against my shoulders as I adjust the coil beneath her, creating a stable perch at the perfect height.
“More comfortable than standing,” I murmur, as her hands slip from my shoulders and she balances herself with a cautious grace.
The intimacy of it, the table laden with food, my tail supporting her weight, carries an unexpected domesticity that tightens something low in my chest. Here, for a few breaths, there is no courtly duty, no whispers of war, only the shared warmth of a meal.
I pour the tea into two stone cups, the liquid amber and fragrant. She accepts hers with careful hands, inhaling the steam with obvious appreciation. Her curiosity shifts to the food, eyes lingering on the dark, textured bread.
She lifts a piece and sniffs. "What is this?"
My mouth curves faintly. "Rynth root. It grows near the mineral-rich hot springs west of the market."
She nibbles a corner, expression thoughtful as she considers the flavor. "It tastes like... honey and smoke. Sweet but earthy."
