"What kind of markings?" I press, though a terrible suspicion begins to form.
"TrueCoil," he says, the word barely above a whisper. "The Sovereign Flame has ordered all females with russet scales to be checked for the brand and questioned to see where their loyalties lay.”
"Why only the females with russet scales?" I ask, my mind racing to understand why.
Nirik shakes his head. "I do not know the details. The order came late this morning.”
"And if they find it?" Though I already suspect the answer.
"Detention," Zaethir interjects coldly. "Questioning. Justice."
The way he saysjusticesends ice through my veins, a reminder that for all the quiet since the bombing, we are not out of danger from the insurrectionists.
As I watch another group being led through the doorway, a memory surfaces with such shocking clarity that I nearly gasp aloud. When I first arrived, Severa putting away dishes in the cookery. She'd reached up high, her serpentine body stretching to place...the motion had caused her lower half to twist, exposing the underside of her tail…
There, partially concealed by the natural overlap of scales, had been some kind of mark. A dark pattern I couldn't quite make out in the shadow of her movement. I glimpsed only a flash of it: curved lines that seemed deliberately placed ratherthan natural coloration. At the time I'd assumed it was a personal adornment, perhaps a clan marking or mating symbol. I'd thought little of it afterward, distracted by Varok's arrival and the tension that had been building between us for days.
But now, with Nirik's words echoing in my ears, I realize what I must have seen: the brand of the TrueCoil, burned into the scales of the very naga who attended us daily, who prepared our food, who had unrestricted access to our most private spaces.
Severa. Varok's den keeper. A TrueCoil agent with unfettered access to the Sovereign Flame. Horror washes through me as I realize I never mentioned this to Varok.
Not that night, distracted as we were with the market attack and the bombing at the palace. Not in the days that followed, as I recovered from my injuries and we adapted to our new life; nor in the ones after, filled with temple visits and growing routines. I had seen the mark of our enemy on his personal attendant and failed to recognize its significance.
"I need to see Varok," I say abruptly, already moving toward the main entrance rather than the side door where the examinations are taking place. "Now."
"Threadborn," Zaethir protests, his body shifting to intercept me. "The Sovereign Flame is occupied with matters of security. He left strict instructions not to be disturbed."
"This can't wait," I insist, stepping around him with a determination that surprises even me.
Guilt and urgency propel me forward. If Severa truly is TrueCoil, and if she realizes she's about to be discovered, what might she do? What plans might already be in motion? The basket of cakes grows heavy in my arms, a reminder of the peaceful morning that now seems impossibly distant.
I have to reach Varok. Have to tell him what I saw, what I failed to report. Have to warn him before whatever plans the TrueCoil have set in motion can be completed.
The palace looms before us, its crystalline beauty now seeming fragile, vulnerable. A perfect target for those who would shatter the peace we've struggled to maintain.
The palace interior pulses with unusual activity. Guards stationed at every junction, Talons moving with purposeful strides, staff hurrying with downcast eyes as though afraid to draw attention. I clutch the basket of cakes tighter against my chest, using it as a shield against the sideways glances and whispered conversations that pause as I pass. Emberyn grows warmer against my skin, responding to my accelerating heartbeat and Varok’s proximity. I reach up to touch it through my tunic, focusing on its heat to guide me rather than heading directly to Varok’s chambers where I normally go after visiting the temple.
"The sovereign’s chambers are this way, Threadborn," Zaethir says, his voice tight with disapproval as I turn down a corridor leading deeper into the eastern wing of the palace.
"Varok isn't in his chambers,” I reply with certainty, my fingers still pressed against the serpent stone. In the weeks since our bonding, I've learned to trust the subtle communications it provides as warmth indicating direction, cooling signaling distance. Right now, it pulses with steady heat that draws me like a compass needle finding true north.
The bond between Varok and me has grown stronger since that night in the waterfall grotto. What began as occasional flashes of shared emotion has become something more profound. His feelings now move through me like waves. I feel his contentment as a warmth spreading across my chest, his concentration as a tightening at the base of my skull, his anger or desire as a flush that rises to my skin from within. Right now, alaser-like focus constricts my breathing and narrows my vision, as if his complete attention on some distant task has become my own.
We pass through the Hall of Ancestors, its walls lined with crystalline statues of former Sovereign Flames, their eyes seeming to follow our hurried progress. The usual guards stand at attention, but their posture carries a new tension, hands resting on weapon hilts, eyes tracking movement with predatory focus.
"Threadborn," Zaethir tries again as we approach an intersection I've rarely visited. "This passage leads to directly to the throne room. The sovereign holds council there now."
I stop abruptly, turning to face him with a directness that makes him blink. "Zaethir, I understand you're following protocol, but this is an emergency. I need to see Varok. I’m not asking you; I’m telling you this is where I’m going. Is what I’ve just said in any way unclear?”
His scales flatten slightly against his body, a subtle tell I've learned indicates agitation. For weeks I've tolerated his subtle disdain, his barely concealed resentment of my position. But now, with potential danger looming, I no longer have patience for it.
"Now, you can either help me reach Varok quickly, or you can explain to him later why you delayed me when I was trying to reach him.”
The challenge hangs between us, reshaping the air and our relationship in equal measure. I am no longer merely the offering, the political token to be tolerated. In this moment, I am the Threadborn, bonded to the Sovereign Flame, and I will not be dismissed.
Zaethir holds my gaze for one long, tense moment. Then something shifts in his expression, not quite acceptance, but agrudging recognition. He inclines his head in the slightest of bows.
"As you wish, Threadborn," he spits out my title like something rotten. "Follow me.”
