The scene that greets us steals my breath. Two Talons slither into the Flame room with labored movements, their powerful upper bodies bracing a third between them, his serpent tail dragging limply behind them like a broken banner. The wounded warrior's scales are scorched gray, cracked, and peeling away to reveal raw flesh beneath. His eyes roll wildly in their sockets, unfocused with pain. Blood, darker and thicker than a human’s, trails behind them in an uneven streak across the sacred floor.
"Make way!" one of the supporting warriors calls, his voice tight with strain. "We need a healer!”
A female with pale green scales rushes forward, her movements precise and practiced. Her hands, marked with faint ritual scars across the knuckles, reach out with authority. "Bring him here," she commands, gesturing toward the adjoining chamber where I'd seen preparations being made earlier.
Before they can reach it, more wounded arrive, a young Talon carried by his comrades, his lower coils mangled by what looks like explosive damage. Behind him, three more warriors stumble in under their own power but bearing injuries that makemy stomach clench. Chemical burns that have eaten through scales and muscle, leaving exposed bone glistening wetly in the Flame's blue-gold light.
"It's started," Leira whispers beside me, her face draining of color. "The battle."
A Temple Guardian sweeps past us, her ancient face set in lines of determination. "Civilians to the back of the chamber," she commands, her voice carrying despite its age. "Keep the pathway clear for the wounded."
The crowd surges backward, pressing against the far wall as more injured warriors are brought in. The adjoining chamber quickly fills, and soon healers are directing the less severely wounded to be placed directly on the floor of the Flame Room itself. Blood smears across ancient stone as the injured are arranged in rows, their scales dull with shock and pain.
"They're using sunblight,” someone says nearby, horror threading through the words. "Poured inside glass projectiles that shatter on impact."
I think of the weapon Leira mentioned, of what it would do to naga scales. My gaze fixes on a Talon whose chest rises and falls in violent, uneven jerks, his fangs clenched so tightly I can see the muscles in his jaw spasm with each strained inhale as a healer frantically works over him.
The smell hits me next. Blood and burned flesh, but also something chemical and sharp that burns my nostrils and makes my eyes water. The air grows thick with it, suffocating in its intensity. Beneath it all runs the constant hum of pain, of groans and hisses from the wounded, the sharp commands of healers, the murmured prayers of Temple Guardians performing rites over those unlikely to survive.
"We need more hands!" a healer calls, her scales stained dark with blood not her own. "Anyone with steady hands, come forward!"
Leira doesn't hesitate. She grasps my hand and strides toward the healer. "I can help. Tell me what to do."
I stand frozen for a moment, my mind struggling to process the transformation of this sacred space into a battlefield hospital. The prophecy's words echo in my head,She weaves the path the war shall pawn. But now they seem distant, academic compared to the immediate crisis surrounding me.
A young Temple attendant stumbles past, her arms laden with clean bandages that trail behind her like ribbons. Without thinking, I let loose of Leira’s hand and step forward, catching them before they can touch the bloody floor.
"Thank you," she says, surprise flickering across her scaled face as she recognizes me as human.
"Where do these go?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
She nods toward the adjoining chamber. "To the healer Voss. The naga with the blue scales.”
I follow her direction, moving carefully around wounded warriors and busy healers. Leira calls after me, and I turn, assuring her I will be alright. The adjoining chamber has transformed into an organized chaos of pallets arranged in rows, healers moving between them with practiced efficiency. A female with blue scales and a healer's medallion hanging from her neck looks up as I approach.
"The bandages," I say, holding them out.
She takes them with a curt nod, no time for questions about why a human delivers supplies. "Stay if you have steady hands," she says, already turning to her next patient. "We need someone to hold pressure on wounds while we prepare medicines."
I don't think, I simply nod and roll up my sleeves. My hands, strangely steady despite everything, reach for the clean cloth she indicates. She guides me to a young Talon whose arm bears a deep gash that pulses dark blood with each beat of his heart.
"Press here," Healer Voss instructs, placing my hands over the wound. "Firm and steady."
The Talon's eyes widen when he sees me, confusion momentarily overriding pain. "Human?" he manages through clenched fangs.
"Yes," I reply, meeting his gaze steadily as I apply pressure to his wound. "I'm Serin Valen, the Threadborn’s sister."
Whatever response he might have offered is lost in a hiss of pain as I press down. His scales feel different than Lurok's, rougher, cooler, and lacking the electric thrum that seemed to pulse beneath Lurok's silver surface whenever we touched.
Lurok.
Is he out there now, commanding wind against the human army? Is he fighting alongside Varok, using the very element I awakened, but fears will destroy his people, or is he being stubborn, and fighting sword against a weapon that could burn the flesh from his bones? The thought sends a shudder through me, but I force my hands to remain steady on the wounded warrior's arm.
More injured arrive in a steady stream, and I move where directed. Holding bandages, carrying water, and steadying wounded warriors while healers work their magic and medicine. My tunic becomes stained with naga blood, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. The air grows thicker, hotter, filled with the sounds of suffering.
As I work, Leira's explanation of the prophecy continues to turn in my mind. The elements are awakening. The Season of Naga is approaching. And Lurok, believing that his connection to me will somehow accelerate the destruction of everything he's sworn to protect.
I press a cool cloth against a warrior's brow, wiping away blood and soot. He murmurs something in naga tongue, his eyesunfocused with pain and whatever medicine the healers have given him.
