Page 18 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
When my vision clears, I find myself upright, one arm draped across her shoulders. She buckles slightly beneath my weight but does not fall. Her breath comes in short gasps, but her eyes remain resolute.
"The house will be silent now," she whispers, adjusting her grip on me. "We'll enter through the kitchen door, then take the back corridors to the hidden passage. If we're seen..."
"We will not be seen," I cut her off. The alternative is unthinkable.
She nods once, decisively. "Then let's go."
As she guides me toward the door, supporting far more of my weight than her small frame should bear, I find myself wondering at the strange turns of fate. That my people's salvation might now rest on the shoulders of this human female, who should by all rights fear and despise me. Yet here she stands, risking everything to save her sister and a race she has been taught is her enemy.
We move together through the night, bound by necessity and desperation toward an uncertain path. I am dying. But I refuse to do so until my warning reaches my people.
The moonlight catches in her eyes as she glances up at me, revealing depths of determination I would not have expected from one so seemingly gentle.
She guides me to a small door set into the manor's stone wall, half-hidden by a trellis of sleeping vines. I compress my coils, knives of pain stabbing my abdomen. Something inside shifts, wetly and wrong. I taste copper and swallow it back.
The human dwelling reeks of unfamiliar scents. The air feels stale, trapped, nothing like the clean mineral currents that flow through Vessan-Kar's carved passages.
"Stay close to the wall," Serin whispers as we pass a grand staircase, moonlight spilling through tall windows to puddle on polished wood. "The floorboards creak less there."
I force myself to focus on her soft footfalls, timing my own movements. The human world blurs: ornate furniture, tapestries depicting imagined battles, candelabras with half-burned tallow sticks.
We reach a hallway lined with doors, the floor covered by an elaborate floral runner. Serin stops, kneeling to trace her fingers along the edge of the thick fabric. Something clicks, and a section of flooring lifts along with the rug, revealing a yawning darkness below. Cool air rises from the opening, carrying the comforting scent of stone and earth, and a familiar, almost-homey scent, yet tinged with something distinctly human.
A muted glow from below reveals a narrow stone staircase plunging into darkness. My heart sinks. The steps are for human feet—small, steep, barely wide enough for a serpent’s coils, let alone for me to descend, wounded.
"These lead directly to the tunnel," Serin explains. "Once we're below, we can follow the passage to Vessan-Kar."
I stare at the stairs, dread uncoiling in my gut. I have survived collapsing tunnels, betrayal, and days of crawling through unknown passages, yet these stairs might defeat me.
"I will manage," I say, the words sounding hollow even to my ears.
I lower myself toward the first step, using my good arm to brace against the edge of the opening. My dislocated shoulder screams in protest as I shift my weight, sending fresh waves of nausea through me. The sling Serin fashioned does little to stabilize the joint, and each movement grinds bone against socket, threatening to dissolve my consciousness entirely.
The first step down is agony. My tail, designed for gliding across flat surfaces or coiling for power, slips awkwardly behind me. I hop down on my good arm, the impact jarring through my entire body. My coils slide uselessly against the stone, seeking purchase where there is none.
"Careful," Serin whispers, her voice tight with concern.
I ignore her, focusing instead on the next step and the next. Each descent is a battle against my own failing body. Halfway down, my arm buckles. I slip, my massive weight suddenly uncontrolled. My scales scrape against stone as I slide downward, unable to halt my descent. Pain erupts everywhere. Old wounds tear open, new bruises form as I come to a stop at the bottom. My vision narrows to pinpricks of light surrounded by encroaching darkness.
Sweat slicks my scales, turning them slippery in the soft light. My breath comes in ragged gasps that echo in the stone passage. I can feel Serin's gaze on me, watching my humiliation with wide, horrified eyes.
"Lurok," she says, her voice edged with worry as she scrambles down after me.
I raise my hand to ward her off, unwilling to accept further assistance. "I need no help," I snarl, but the words lack conviction as I struggle to right myself at the bottom of the stairwell, my pride cracking like thin ice beneath spring sun.
With a final, monumental effort, I drag my tail down the remaining steps and collapse on the hard-packed dirt floor. My chest heaves with exertion as my vision swims with black spots. The cool dirt against my scales offers a small comfort, but not enough to overcome the crushing weight of my embarrassment.
Serin stands above me, raising a lantern that casts her shadow long against the wall. Her expression flickers between pity and determination, neither of which I can bear to see.
"I will recover momentarily," I lie, though we both know better. My body has finally reached its limit, pushed beyond endurance by wounds that would have killed a lesser naga.
The tunnel stretches before us, dark and promising, a path that might lead to salvation for my people. If only I had the strength to follow it.
"Lurok," Serin's voice penetrates the fog of pain wrapped around my consciousness. She crouches beside me, the lantern light casting shadows that dance across her worried face. "You can't continue like this."
I want to hiss at her, to remind her that naga warriors have endured far worse, but my body betrays me. Fresh blood seeps from reopened wounds, dark and viscous against my silver scales. My body throbs a steady rhythm of agony that threatens to pull me under completely.
"I do not require... assistance," I manage, the words scraping my throat raw. Even to my own ears, the lie sounds hollow.
