"Then we'll help you," I say firmly. "Zara and me. We'll get you home."
Before he can protest, Nirik's tail finally gives out. He slumps forward, and I lunge to catch him before he strikes the stone floor. Even with his lower body being serpentine rather than human, he's heavier than I expected, his torso muscular and dense. I stagger under the sudden weight.
Zara darts to his other side, her small frame surprisingly strong as she helps me lower him gently to the ground.
"I am sorry," he whispers, eyes glazed with pain and blood loss. "I thought I could make it farther."
"You've done more than enough," I tell him, examining the wound with growing dismay. The gash is deep, the edges ragged, and it refuses to stop bleeding despite the pressure Nirik has been applying. I rip the bottom hem of my tunic, creating two makeshift bandages: one to press against the wound, the other to secure it tightly around his muscled torso. "We'll rest here until you're stronger."
But even as I say the words, I know we don't have that luxury. The conspirators will find another route, will continue hunting us. And Nirik needs proper healing, not makeshift bandages in a forgotten tunnel.
"We need to keep moving," Zara says, echoing my thoughts. "Together."
I nod, my mind racing through our limited options. "Can you help me get him up? We'll support him between us."
She leaves the torch and moves to Nirik's uninjured side while I position myself at his wounded one, careful not to jostle the makeshift bandage. With coordinated effort, we manage to lift him, draping his arms across our shoulders. The difference in our heights makes the arrangement awkward. Nirik must hunch to avoid putting too much weight on Zara—but it's functional enough to allow movement.
"Just one step or slither at a time," I encourage as we begin our painfully slow progress. "We can make it."
Nirik does his best to assist, his tail providing some propulsion, but it's clear he's operating on willpower alone. His head droops forward, his breathing shallow and rapid. Beside me, Zara's small face is set in determined lines, her eyes fixed on the path ahead as she bears a share of the burden that should be impossible for one so young.
We continue this way for what feels like hours. Step by grueling step, pausing occasionally when Nirik's consciousness wavers or when my arms threaten to give out. The tunnel continues its gradual ascent.
Doubt creeps in with each painful foot gained. We're moving too slowly. Nirik is failing rapidly. My arms and legs burn with fatigue, and Zara, though uncomplaining, shows signs of exhaustion in the droop of her shoulders, the drag of her tail.
We pause at another junction, this one offering three choices, each as unmarked and uninviting as the last. A wave of despair washes over me. We're lost, truly lost without Lurok to guide us.
"Which way?" I ask, though I expect no answer. Nirik's eyes are closed, his weight resting almost entirely on our shoulders.
Zara lifts her head, seeming to listen to something I cannot hear. "I don't know," she finally admits, her voice small in the echoing darkness.
I adjust my grip on Nirik, fighting the treacherous voice inside that whispers of surrender. We've come too far to give up now. Lurok's sacrifice deserves better than our defeat.
"We'll try the right," I decide, simply because we have to choose something, have to keep moving forward.
As we shift our direction, something changes. A sensation so subtle I almost miss it. A tiny pulse of warmth against my throat where Emberyn lies. I freeze, hardly daring to believe it.
There—again. A second pulse, stronger than the first. The serpent stone warms fractionally against my skin.
"Emberyn," I whisper, my free hand rising to touch the medallion. "It's warming."
Zara's eyes widen, hope dawning across her tired features. "Ry'Varok," she breathes. "He is near."
The serpent stone pulses again, more insistent now. After so long lying cool and lifeless against my skin, the sudden warmth feels like a miracle, a beacon in the darkness that has surrounded us.
With renewed purpose, we struggle forward, Nirik a limp weight between us but no longer seeming insurmountable. Emberyn continues to warm, each pulse stronger than the last, confirming we're moving in the right direction, and I swear I can almost hear his voice calling my name through the stone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
VAROK
Irun my hand along the rough stone, letting my claws catch on the imperfections. These ancient corridors tell their own stories—of water carving paths through mountain over millennia, of naga ancestors fleeing here during the Sundering, of secrets buried so deep even the Temple Guardians have forgotten them. Behind me, five of my most trusted Talons fan out, their scaled bodies gleaming faintly in the crimson glow of the heartstone torch clutched in Dreth's clawed hand.
The crimson thread of our blood bond, the one that should lead me straight to Leira, feels wrong. Muted. Like trying to hear a whisper through layers of wet silk. I reach through it again and again, but where her warmth should bloom is only hollow emptiness. My tail lashes against the ground in frustration, scraping scales against ancient stone. Is she hurt? Unconscious? The thought sends a surge of heat beneath my scales that I struggle to contain.
We push deeper into the forgotten reaches of Vessan-Kar, where the walls stand untouched by the luminous keh'shali that brightens our subterranean world. The silence here feels like a physical weight pressing against my eardrums, broken only by the occasional drip of water from mineral formations overhead.
Kessith approaches with a serpentglass tablet, its obsidian surface rippling with incoming messages. "Sareth says the western quadrant reports nothing, Sovereign," he murmurs, his voice carefully controlled. "Northern search parties likewise."
