"For today," I reply, matching his formality with practiced ease. These small power dynamics have become part of the rhythm of my life here. His subtle resistance, my calm assertion of the position I never asked for but must now embody.
Nirik's gaze drops to the basket in my arms, his dark blue eyes widening slightly. "Are those glimmergrain cakes?" he asks,his voice carrying none of Zaethir's careful distance. "My clutch-mother used to make those for the winter solstice."
"Miria gave them to me," I say, offering him a small smile. "Would you like one?"
Nirik's eyes light up, his mouth opening to respond when Zaethir cuts across him with a sharp, "No." Something flickers across Zaethir's face, too quick to interpret but too sharp not to notice. "Guards cannot accept offerings while on duty. We should return to the palace. The Sovereign Flame will be expecting you."
“He can eat it later when he’s not on duty.” I glare at Zaethir while lifting the cloth and pushing the basket toward Nirik.
“Thank you, Leira.” I feel the basket dip as Nirik takes what I offer.
I hold the basket up to Zaethir. "Would you like one?"
Zaethir recoils as if I've offered him poison. "No," he says stiffly.
I grin to myself over my small defiance, my thoughts already drifting toward our destination...toward Varok.
Just the mention of the Sovereign Flame sends heat blooming through my chest, radiating outward like ripples in still water. I've slept beside him for a little over two weeks now, memorized the precise pattern of scales at his temples, learned which touches make his breath catch. Yet somehow the sight of him still leaves me dizzy, unmoored. The bond pulses beneath my breastbone, a living ember that refuses to be smothered by politics or prophecy.
We exit the temple's antechamber into the vast network of tunnels that form the arteries of Vessan-Kar. The main thoroughfare stretches before us, wide enough for the three of us to travel comfortably side by side, its ceiling arching high overhead.
Nirik takes position slightly behind me to my right, while Zaethir glides at my left, his vigilant gaze sweeping continuously across our surroundings. Other naga move through the passage, merchants with carts of glowing fungi and delicate crystalline crafts, civilians going about their business, warriors with gleaming curved swords sheathed at their sides, the metal catching the ambient light as they pass. Many acknowledge me with cautious nods, their initial hostility having gradually mellowed to wary acceptance.
As we navigate deeper into the tunnel network, my thoughts drift back to this morning’s lessons with Miria in the temple gardens. She had shown me how to identify the herbs and flowering plants the naga use in their everyday remedies. How the pale silverleaf brings calm when steeped slowly, while sunburst petals release their warmth only when crushed fresh into boiling water.
“The balance must be perfect,”she said, her keen gaze following my careful measurements.“Steep silverleaf too long and it turns sharp; add too few petals and the brew loses its strength. Harmony makes the tea worthy of the cup.”
I’ve come to savor these lessons more than I expected. The scent of crushed leaves, the subtle heat of water coaxing out hidden flavors, the slow swirl of colors in a steaming cup. Each gesture feels like a small thread stitching me closer to this world, to the rhythms of naga life. So far I’ve only learned teas, brews that soothe a restless mind, ease a fleeting ache, or sharpen focus, but Miria’s promise of teaching me remedies for minor ailments lingers like a gentle pull on my thoughts. I want that. I want to be useful, to feel myself belong here beyond the role of Threadborn. Even now, just with teas, there’s a quiet satisfaction in crafting something tangible, something that nurtures. Miria’s nods of approval settle over me like a balm, and I cling to them,small affirmations of the place I am beginning to carve out for myself.
We turn down a narrower passage, one never used by the general populace. This route skirts the edge of the living quarters, a private artery woven through the city’s stone for Talons and high-ranking officials. The walls here are smooth and unadorned, shaped by centuries of passing coils and disciplined silence. The air is still and cool in the way of places meant for purpose rather than display. Only the soft brush of my soft-soled boots against stone breaks the quiet, a small human sound swallowed quickly by the vastness of the passage.
The tunnel widens as we approach a junction, opening into a small plaza where several pathways converge, and I find myself thinking about how quickly routine can normalize even the most extraordinary circumstances. A handful of weeks ago, I stood at the border between two worlds, offering myself in my sister's place with a heart full of fear and resignation. Now I walk these subterranean paths with growing familiarity, learning to read the subtle patterns of light that indicate time of day and recognizing faces. What began as political necessity has quietly transformed into something I hadn't anticipated: a life taking root in strange soil.
As we round the final bend in the tunnel approaching the palace's eastern entrance, I notice something unusual. The normally sedate pathway teems with activity. Talons form a perimeter around a side entrance I've rarely seen used. Their scales gleam with the metallic sheen of combat readiness, hands resting on weapon hilts, expressions locked in grim determination. Something cold settles in my stomach, an instinctive recognition of trouble that precedes understanding.
"What's happening?" I ask, my pace slowing as I take in the scene before us.
Neither answer immediately, which only deepens my concern.
I focus more intently on the activity ahead. A group of female naga stand in a loose cluster, surrounded by Talons who maintain a respectful distance but clearly prevent any departure. As I watch, another group emerges from an adjacent tunnel, led by a Talon commander I recognize. Sareth.
The females range in age and caste, from younger with still-bright scales to elders whose patterns have faded with time. Some appear confused, others resigned, a few openly frightened. What strikes me most is the methodical nature of the operation. This is not a spontaneous gathering but something planned and executed with military precision.
"Answer me," I insist, my voice sharper now as we draw closer to the commotion. "Why are all these females being detained?"
Zaethir remains stubbornly silent, but Nirik finally speaks, his voice pitched low. "Security measures, Threadborn. Nothing that need concern you."
"I’ve repeatedly asked you to call me Leira,” I say absently as the scene before me does concern me.
Whatever is happening involves dozens of naga females being rounded up and escorted into the palace under guard. After weeks of learning to read naga expressions and body language, I recognize the tension vibrating through the scene. This is not routine.
A palace servant I recognize, Jeslyn, who attends my chambers and often brings fresh towels to Varok's, catches sight of me. Relief flashes across her face, quickly followed by fear as a Talon steps between us, blocking her from approaching. The desperation in her eyes sends a chill through me.
"Nirik," I say, stopping completely now and turning to face the younger guard. “Tell me the truth. What are they looking for?"
He hesitates, glancing at Zaethir whose face remains impassive, though I catch the subtle tightening of his jaw. He's displeased by my persistence.
"They are being examined," Nirik finally admits, his dark blue eyes meeting mine reluctantly. "For markings."
