I look down at her face, no longer a gray pallor but now animate, now living. I press my forehead to hers. Her breath hitches, steadies, and continues. I gather her closer, my arms forming a fortress around her smaller form, and prepare for the journey ahead.
I slither as fast as I can toward the gate, my powerful tail muscles burning with each desperate push against the ashen ground. Every second counts now. The entire way, I pray to the Ancients that a healer remains with the Talon who must still be combing the city for explosive devices. If not, Serin's life may slip away in my arms before I can find where they have evacuated.
After an eternity, the obsidian gate looms ahead, its polished surface catching the first tentative rays of dawn, the black stone seeming to swallow the pale light rather than return it to the ashen sky.
Serpentine figures wind across its face, not mere decorations, but a language written in stone that speaks to something primal in my blood. Coiled guardians protect carved eggs while others rear back in threat displays, their obsidian forms frozen mid-strike. Between these ancient sentinels, symbols older than memory pulse with a faint luminescence that grows stronger as I approach.
Serin lies cradled against my chest, her breathing shallow but steady, her skin of blood and microscopic cuts that form a grotesque map across her exposed flesh.
My own wounds mirror hers. Countless glass-slices across my scales where I dug through the deadly substance to reach her.
I reach the gate and shift her weight to one arm, keeping her secure against my chest. With my free hand, I press my bloodied palm against the obsidian surface. No incantation is needed, no spoken password. Only blood. Naga blood, carrying the ancient markers that identify me as one who belongs within.
My bloodied palm meets obsidian, and the gate does not simply open; it transforms. The glossy black surface ripples like disturbed water, dimpling before flowing outward in viscous rivulets. Stone liquefies with fluidity of sentient stone, answering the silent command of my bloodline with dark, glistening obedience.
I do not wait for the opening to reach its full width. The moment the gap allows passage, I slip through with Serin clutched against my chest, my tail barely clearing as the obsidian begins solidifying behind us.
The corridor descends into the earth, walls alive with the ethereal glow of heartglass torches. Beneath their surfaces churns a molten core shifting from sapphire to emerald in slow, liquid swirls, each pulse radiating gentle heat. The light breathes and responds with my presence.
Cool, clean air washes over us, carrying the scent of mineral water and distinctive healing spices, a jarring contrast to the dead wasteland behind us. The usual bustling activity of the entrance tunnels is absent. Vessan-Kar feels hollow, abandoned. The city has been evacuated as I suspected it would.
For a moment, panic zings through my blood until Traven appears from a side passage, his onyx scales gleaming in the soft light, his posture alert but weary. When he sees me, he freezes mid-glide, shock evident in his posture.
"Second Fang Lurok," he breathes, the words echoing softly against stone walls. His gaze drops to the female in my arms, and shock gives way to something harder, more assessing. "You live."
“Second Fang…” I scoff, noting the band with my rank around his arm. They did not wait long to replace me. "Where is Varok?"
Traven's eyes narrow slightly, taking in our condition of blood and countless tiny wounds. His tail shifts in the subtle movement that signals readiness among Talon guards.
"Evacuated with the civilians," he says, his tone carefully neutral. "A warning about explosive devices planted by worms reached the Sovereign’s ears. A Talon squad remains behind to complete the search of the city. It is not safe for you or this human?—”
“This human is Serin Valen, and she is the one who gave the warning,” I cut him off. “She needs a healer. Now."
Recognition dawns in Traven's eyes as he studies Serin's face before his gaze returns to me. "The Threadborn's sister. Serin?"
I nod once, adjusting her slight weight in my arms. Her breathing has grown more labored in the last few minutes, a worrying rattle developing in her chest.
“We do not have time for explanations or reunions.”
"This way," Traven says, pivoting on his tail and leading me through a side passage I recognize as a shortcut to the sacred chambers near the Temple of Threads. "The healers established a triage chamber in case of an explosion.”
I follow without question, my focus entirely on the female in my arms and the shallow rise and fall of her chest. The passage twists and turns, familiar yet strange in its emptiness. Vessan-Kar was never designed to be abandoned. Its tunnels and chambers should echo with voices, with movement, with life. The silence feels wrong, as though the city itself holds its breath in anticipation of destruction.
We emerge into a large chamber adjacent to the Temple of Threads. Luminous glyphs etched into the vaulted ceiling cast a gentle glow across rows of empty cots lining the walls. The sharp scent of healing tinctures hangs in the air, pungent and medicinal.
"Rythe," Traven calls, his voice carrying easily in the chamber's perfect acoustics. "Melira."
Both healers rush in from the adjacent room, expressions of surprise when they see me, and take in my appearance.
"Second Fang," she acknowledges, already moving toward us. Her gaze falls to Serin, and her eyes widen fractionally. "A human?"
"The Threadborn's sister," I explain, moving to the nearest empty cot. "Ash pit. She was not breathing when I pulled her out."
Understanding dawns immediately. Rythe has treated ash pit victims before and knows the damage such exposure can cause to lungs and airways. I lower Serin carefully onto the cot, my arms reluctant to release her even to a healer's care.
Melira joins us, her younger face showing less restraint as she hides her shock at seeing a human in their sacred healing chamber. But she's professional enough to set aside questions, her fingers already uncorking a vial of luminous amber liquid while she reaches for a flat matte container from her belt pouch.
"How long was she submerged?" Rythe asks, spreading a thick greenish salve across Serin's throat with practiced precision, the pungent herbal scent cutting through the mineral air.
