Something catches in my throat at the formal blessing, so solemnly delivered from one so young. "And yours, little one."
The Flame room falls silent after Zara's departure, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the gentle crackle of the eternal Flame. I rise from my cushion, stretching legs gone stiff from sitting cross-legged for so long. My fingers trace the warm stone of the central brazier as I circle it, wondering at how quickly this place, once so alien and intimidating, has become comfortable, like somewhere I belong.
A soft sound at the entrance draws my attention. Miria coils there, the temple's herb-keeper, her scales catching the light in a pattern of russet and amber that reminds me of autumn leaves floating on a gentle fall breeze, each one bearing the gentle patina that only comes with age. Her humanoid torsois wrapped in layers of finely woven fabric in shades of deep copper and gold, offset by a belt of intricately knotted cords from which hang small pouches of dried herbs and roots. Honey-gold strands escape from the loose knot at her nape, framing her face with wisps that catch the light.
"Threadborn," she greets me. "I hoped to find you still here."
In her hands, she holds a small woven basket with a handle. She moves into the room with measured grace, her serpentine lower half gliding in silent undulations barely making a sound as she slithers toward me.
“Miria,” I say, genuinely pleased to see her. “I told you to call me Leira. Have you another lesson for me today?”
The herb-keeper inclines her head, her russet scales catching the blue-gold glow of the Flame. She’s been teaching me the basics of naga herbs. How to brew their restorative teas, how to ease headaches with ground roots, how to steep leaves to calm restless thoughts. Her lessons are quickly becoming one of my favorite parts of the day.
“It will take time,” Miria admits, her mouth curving in a small smile. “You are the Sovereign Flame’s bloodmate. Old habits cling tightly. But I will try…Leira.”
The use of my name warms me.
“No lesson today,” she says. “I bring you something sweeter than knowledge.”
She extends the woven basket toward me. A clean white cloth covers the top, and when she draws it aside, a soft sweetness rises into the air.
Nestled inside are a handful of round pastries, each about the size of my palm, patterned with delicate spirals. Dust-fine crystals shimmer on their surfaces, catching the flicker of the Flame behind us.
“Glimmergrain cakes,” Miria explains, touching one lightly with a claw. “Made from the grains that grow near the deep thermal seams.”
I lean closer, inhaling the warm, nutty richness with a touch of sweetness.
“They look yummy,” I say, smiling wide. “And they smell incredible.”
“The crystals will melt on your tongue first,” Miria says. “Then the nutty flavor follows.”
I lift one of the cakes, its surprising weight settling into my palm.
“We had something like this in Clavenmoor,” I tell her, the memory stirring before I can stop it. “Not the same, but…close. Almond cookies dusted with sugar. Ms. Florence, the woman who managed the kitchens at Valen House, made them for my sister and me.”
A flicker of soft nostalgia tugs.
Serin and I perched on wooden stools at the kitchen island, our feet dangling, not quite reaching the floor. The marble countertop cool beneath my elbows as I leaned forward to snag another cookie from the plate between us. Serin always crammed hers into her mouth whole, cheeks bulging, crumbs dusting her chin. I nibbled the edges of mine in tiny bites, making each sweet morsel last.
Miria watches me with quiet understanding. “Your sister,” she says gently. “You miss her.”
The words land with a dull ache. “Yes,” I admit. “Very much.”
Miria’s tail curls in a thoughtful loop. “Family threads do not fray simply because they stretch,” she says. “Distance cannot sever what was woven with love.”
Her kind words hit unexpectedly hard. So many here still see me as human, as the enemy. Miria sees the person beneath all that.
I feel my eyes grow hot with sudden tears. Miria notices and gently covers the pastries with the cloth again. "One warning, though," she says, her voice softening as she gives me time to compose myself. "Eat these after your evening meal, not before. They are quite filling and will ruin your appetite. And do not forget to share with your bloodmate. I have heard these are the Sovereign Flame’s favorite sweets."
I hook the basket over my forearm. "I'll remember," I promise. "These are a thoughtful gift, Miria. Thank you."
“You are most welcome, Threadb…Leira,” she corrects, then inclines her head in a respectful nod and turns to leave, her tail sweeping elegantly behind her as she exits the flame room.
I slip out of the flame room and into the domed antechamber, its ceiling traced with soft, glowing veins of stone. With the basket of cakes hooked over my arm, I pause, caught for a breath between steps, as I remember how strange and formidable this place once felt.
As always, my assigned guards wait. Zaethir standing rigid as carved stone, his silver-blue scales gleaming in the ethereal light, and Nirik half reclined against a pillar, his rust-colored tail twitching with barely contained energy. They straighten as I appear, Zaethir's face settling into its customary mask of cold duty while Nirik's eyes betray a flicker of genuine fondness.
"Threadborn," Zaethir acknowledges, the title emerging clipped and formal from his lips, as though each syllable taste foul. "You have concluded your business with the Temple Guardians?"
