Page 9 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
When I lower the empty jug, I find Serin watching me with a mixture of fascination and wariness. She clutches her satchel tighter, and I catch the scent of what is inside, something rich and unfamiliar that makes my stomach clench with hunger I had not fully acknowledged until this moment.
"I brought food," she says, noticing the direction of my gaze. "I couldn't take much without drawing attention, but..."
She reaches into the bag and withdraws a cloth-wrapped bundle, carefully placing it on the floor between us. The aroma intensifies as she unwraps it, revealing a feast strange to my eyes: a roasted creature of some kind, its flesh still warm; a round loaf of what appears to be bread; and several pieces of fruit.
Hunger overrides caution. I reach for the meat first, tearing into it with jagged need, the rich flavor exploding across my tongue. Different from the riverfish and fungi we subsist on in Vessan-Kar. Stronger, earthier, with fat that melts on my tongue in a way our lean underground fare never does.
"What creature is this?" I ask between bites, tearing another hunk off with my teeth.
Serin blinks, surprise crossing her features. "Chicken. You've never had it?"
I shake my head, swallowing. "We eat what grows beneath the mountain. What swims in our underground rivers." The words come out bitter despite myself. "Your kind used a weapon to incinerate our world aboveground. There are no beasts to hunt or crops to harvest in the Ashlands. Only what we can cultivate below remains."
Her face falls, genuine remorse shadowing her features. "I didn't know. I mean, I know about the Sundering, but I never thought about..." She gestures helplessly at the food. "About what you eat. What you lost."
I take another bite of thischicken, considering her words. It is strange to speak so directly of these things with a human. Stranger still to see one look troubled by past cruelties.
I gesture upward with my good arm. "Above ground, where the great spires of Vessan-Kar once reached toward the sky, there is nothing but ash and scorched stone. Your people's weapon turned an entire city, our homes, our gardens, our sacred places, into what we now call the Ashlands. Leagues of nothing but death where life once flourished," I say, reaching for a green orb I believe is called an apple. "Black earth where nothing grows. Your people were thorough in their destruction."
Serin watches me eat, her expression thoughtful. "But you survived. Your people found a way."
"We adapted." I bite into the fruit, juice bursting sweet and sharp across my tongue. "We became creatures of stone and darkness because we had no choice."
She lowers her eyes, nodding once with the grave finality of someone acknowledging a wrong that cannot be undone. Then, without meeting my gaze, she reaches into her satchel again and withdraws a small glass bottle. "I brought something for your wounds. It's an herbal tonic my mother taught me to make. It will sting, but it prevents festering."
I eye the bottle suspiciously. "You expect me to let you pour human concoctions onto my flesh?"
"Would you prefer infection?" she counters, her tone sharpening briefly. "Because those gashes along your side are sure to become that way if left untreated.”
We stare at each other in silent challenge until another throb of pain from my wounded flank decides the matter for me. I extend my arm in grudging consent.
The space between us narrows as she inches closer until I am enveloped by the scent of her. Soap, spices, and beneath it all, a delicate sweetness that reminds me of the luminous caveviolets that bloom once a year in the deepest caverns of Vessan-Kar, their fragrance so rare and precious that Temple Guardians will journey for days through treacherous tunnels just to witness their brief flowering.
She uncorks the bottle with a small pop that echoes in our proximity. The pungent scent of herbs fills the small space of sharp mint, bitter yarrow, something earthy I cannot name.
She is close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her small form, and she pours a measure of the liquid directly into the deepest gash. Fire erupts along my nerve endings. My hiss emerges as a broken rasp while my claws scrape feebly against the wooden floor, barely leaving marks where once they would have gouged deep furrows. The effort not to lash out leaves me trembling.
The tonic pools in the wound before she produces a clean, white cloth from her satchel. With surprising gentleness, she dabs at the crusted blood and grit embedded in my scales, her brow furrowed in concentration as she works.
"Sorry," she murmurs, her breath warm against my scales as she leans closer to examine the wound. "I know it hurts."
The pain ebbs slowly, replaced by a strange numbness that spreads outward from the site. The herbal mixture cuts through the metallic tang of my blood with sharp clarity, its scent overwhelming my senses as it works to keep infection at bay.
"There are so many wounds," she says, already moving to the next gash. "This will take time. And your shoulder is hanging at an odd angle."
"It is dislocated," I hiss through clenched teeth, muscles clenching as she probes the tender area.
"I don't know how to fix that, but I can put it in a sling until we can get you to your healers for help," she murmurs, her breath warm against my scales as she leans closer.
I steel myself for the next application of the herbal mixture, oddly touched by the gentle way she tends to injuries that should repulse her. No human has ever touched me except in violence. Yet here is this small female, carefully cleaning the blood from my scales, her fingers working with surprising skill.
She folds a large square of material into a triangle and knots it at one end. "How were you injured?" she asks softly, lifting the knotted end over my head. Her fingertips brush against my neck, hesitating when they encounter the tangled length of my hair. With unexpected gentleness, she gathers the frost-white strands and lays them over my uninjured shoulder. When she eases my arm into the makeshift sling, a white-hot lance of agony shoots from my dislocated shoulder down to my fingertips, making my vision blur. "How did you end up so far from home?"
The questions hang between us, weighted with all she does not know. About the betrayal within our ranks, about the worms who serve her father's general, about her sister's role in my escape. About the tunnel that nearly became my grave.
I watch her hands as they work, so fragile compared to my claws. Perhaps it is the intimacy of her touch, or perhaps it is simple gratitude for the food and water, but I find myself willing to answer.
"I was held captive,” I begin, the words scraping against my throat. "Your sister freed me."
