“Agreed,” I growl, “but what?” Thorne must know of the prophecy, of what my blood bond with Leira means for the balance of power. If all four elements are awakened, the humans would stand no chance against us even with their incendiary weapons.
“Perhaps they wait for a signal from within Vessan-Kar," Sareth says, his tail coiling tighter against the floor, muscles tensed as if preparing to strike. "A coordinated attack from above and below in perfect, deadly sync."
"The bomb that ended Naryth was merely the first," Traven whispers, eyes narrowing to slits. "Lurok loyalists could be secreting death throughout our halls even now, waiting for his command to turn our sacred home to rubble."
"Destroy the enemy and end the war, not with peace but with complete annihilation." My temples begin to throb. "How would it benefit Lurok if Thorne's plan is to eradicate our entire species?"
"It makes no sense why he would want all naga dead..." Sareth's tail swats the floor. "Unless he means to eliminate every heir to the Crown and claim the throne for himself."
“That would mean explosives around and within the palace,” I hiss, my scales tightening against my flesh as cold dread creeps through me at the thought of Leira in danger.
“There has been no sign of Lurok or other naga aside from my scouts in the Ashlands,” Malikor comments.
“Then our enemy remains within,” I surmise. “Lurok or one of his followers has already delivered poison in the hands of our enemies. Keep your eyes open for any movement that is not under your command. Malikor, maintain your vigil. Report any changes immediately, no matter how small. If Thorne or the Harbinger moves, I want to know before their next heartbeats."
"Understood." Malikor nods briskly. "May the Flame guide your path, Sovereign."
"And yours," I respond, the ritual words falling easily from my tongue despite the tension building beneath my scales.
The serpentglass ripples one final time, Malikor's image fading until only the smooth, reflective surface remains. For a moment, I catch my own reflection—eyes burning brighter than usual, the fire within responding to the threat of conflict.
“We need to confiscate those weapons before they can be used on us,” Traven snaps.
“If we are caught slithering over the border, then the peace treaty ends,” Sareth warns, scales bristling with controlled fury. “The cowards never could cross swords with us, always fighting from a distance.”
“They are too weak and would never defeat us if they had to face us,” Traven hisses.
"The OathCoil returned a new recording,” Sareth says, his voice tight with restrained emotion. "What it captured will interest you." With a gesture of his massive hand, he activatesthe projection crystal embedded in the far wall. The stone pulses before flaring to life, an image of the human settlement spilling across the chamber wall.
I lean forward, studying the projection. Clavenmoor sprawls across the landscape, its manicured grounds encircled by pale stone walls, the architecture beyond a blend of old human grandeur and modern steel that glints coldly in the light.
“When was this recorded?” I ask as the image sharpens on a shadowed figure moving just inside the perimeter wall, slipping through a narrow gate half hidden by ornamental trees. The faint gleam of scaled armor betrays one of our own.
"Just after midnight,” Sareth replies.
The serpent’s movements are furtive yet graceful, tail leaving barely a trace in the soft earth as the naga slithers toward a human male waiting in the shadows.
"Freeze the image," I command, and the projection halts.
The naga is partially turned away from the OathCoil's perspective, but what I can see turns my insides to ice. Russet-colored scales gleam in the moonlight, their pattern distinctive and familiar. Not uncommon or rare enough to immediately identify the traitor. The build is slender, the movements carrying the fluid precision of one trained in stealth rather than open combat.
"Continue," I say after committing every visible detail to memory.
The projection resumes. The human steps forward. Not Lord Valen himself, but one of his younger council members, a man whose name escapes me but whose face I recall from the treaty negotiations. He seems anxious, constantly glancing over his shoulder as though expecting discovery.
"You're late," the human whispers, his voice captured with remarkable clarity by the OathCoil. "He's growing impatient."
"Time flows differently beneath the earth. Be grateful I came at all," the naga female whispers and makes a dismissive gesture.
"The general needs to know if the plans are still in motion," the human male says.
"Tell your general nothing has changed.” The naga's tail coils tightly. "The sovereign remains vulnerable where it matters."
"We need proof your faction can deliver," the human insists. "The general won't move his forces without assurance."
"What more assurance do you need, human? The gloomroot was delivered, along with the knowledge of how to use it. Even now I risk death if I am caught within the walls of my enemy,” the naga's voice hardens. "If your general is too afraid to hold up his end of the agreement, perhaps I should warn the sovereign of your plan."
“My plan?” the human huffs indignantly. “You’re the one concerned about some ancient prophecy and the role Leira plays.”
