Page 4 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
Halvane's finger stabs at the field report, his voice dropping to a hush tinged with reluctant awe. "Our scout was in position at the Ashland border, arrow nocked, poison glistening on the tip. Perfect shot at Sovereign Varok's back. Then your daughter—" He breaks off, making a fluid gesture with his hands that somehow conveys both beauty and horror. "She sensed him somehow. Turned and unleashed... not ordinary flame. Witnesses describe it as a white-hot column, pouring through the air like water, seeking our man in his hiding place. Nothing remained but ash.”
The air in the vent suddenly seems too thin. I press my fingertips to the cool metal, anchoring myself as vertigo threatens. Leira, conjuring fire? Burning a man to ash? Absurd. I've seen her burn her fingertips on candle wicks, curse at hot kettles. Those same hands braided my hair and pressed cool cloths to my fevered forehead, now channeling flames like some ancient deity? Impossible.
Halvane's eyes narrow as he points to Thorne's report. He recounts, "The naga's scales flared like molten metal. Gold, then white-hot, in seconds. Our men couldn't meet his gaze. He raised his arms. Fire scythed across the eastern garrison, as precise as a surgeon's blade. Tents incinerated. Weapon caches exploded in sequence." His voice tightens. "Most disturbing was his control. He deliberately spared our soldiers, razing everything else. Power, not mercy."
Father leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. "Parlor tricks," he says dismissively.
"Parlor tricks?" Halvane repeats with barely contained contempt, his fingers drumming against the leather folio. "With respect, Lord Valen, what your soldiers witnessed was no illusion. The fire came from not only the naga's hands, but from his very scales. One moment our men were standing their ground, and the next they were retreating, running for their lives." His voice drops, and I strain to hear him through the metal slats. "General Thorne has never been easily rattled, but this display has... unsettled him."
Father waves a dismissive hand. "Thorne sees shadows where there are none. The naga have always employed clever deceptions. They've had centuries underground to perfect their chemical concoctions. Fire that appears from nowhere?" He snorts. "Likely just powders or oils hidden in the scales themselves.”
Halvane's jaw tightens, the muscle beneath his scar pulsing with barely contained frustration. "This was no mere trick," he insists, leaning forward. "Your daughter incinerated one of our men, reduced him to ash in seconds. And Varok? His fire moved with purpose, with intelligence. It slithered between our soldiers while precisely destroying our weapons cache and burning our encampment to the ground.”
My heart stutters in my chest.
His voice drips with a cruel reverence that makes my stomach turn. I've never liked Captain Halvane, or the way he looks at people like they're insects to be cataloged before crushing, the efficiency with which he discusses death and suffering, but now I find myself hating him with an intensity that surprises me. The venomous way he describes my sister as if she's become something monstrous, something to be feared andeliminated. The gleam in his eye as he recounts the death of the scout.
Father laughs, the sound sharp and startling. "And you believe this? That my daughter, who couldn't light our hearth without burning her fingers, has suddenly developed magical abilities?" He shakes his head, amusement playing across his features. "You've been listening to too many camp stories, Captain. Next, you'll tell me she's grown scales and a tail."
"Mock if you will," Halvane says, stiffening. "But we have multiple witnesses. The naga believe she's fulfilling their prophecy, that through their bond, she now shares the Sovereign's elemental powers."
"Ridiculous." Father stands, circling his desk to pour amber liquid from a crystal decanter. "The elemental powers are myth, Captain. A bedtime story naga mothers tell their hatchlings to make them believe they're special instead of vile creatures.” He offers no glass to Halvane. "My daughter is playing her role, nothing more. If she participated in some spectacle, it was theater designed to frighten our more superstitious border guards into retreating.”
"And the dead scout?" Halvane asks quietly. "Was he part of the theater?"
Father sips his drink, unmoved. "Casualties happen in war. Perhaps there was a genuine fire. But elemental magic?" He scoffs, returning to his desk. "Next, you'll tell me you believe in their prophecy nonsense, of the Season of Naga, the elemental saviors, all that rubbish they've carved into their mountain tunnels by creatures desperate for meaning in their subterranean exile. I expected better from you. And you call yourself the Harbinger?”
Halvane's face remains impassive, but I see how his fingers twitch at his sides, seeking the comfort of weapons not currently strapped to his belt. "Regardless of what you believe about thefire, Lord Valen, the fact remains that the naga are growing bolder. They emerge from their obsidian gate more frequently. And now this display of power..." He straightens his already rigid spine. "General Thorne believes we should advance to plan B immediately. Strike while they believe themselves ascendant. Crush their newfound confidence before it grows into a genuine threat."
The casual way he speaks of violence, of killing, sends a chill through me. Whatever plan B entails, I hear death in his voice.
Father considers this, tapping one finger against the crystal tumbler. "Premature," he finally says. "We need more intelligence. Zela's next report will clarify matters."
Halvane's lips curl into that same cruel not-quite-smile. "Forgive me, Lord Valen, but I find it curious. You dismiss their prophecy as primitive superstition carved in mountain tunnels, yet you place such faith in this Zela." His voice drips with disdain. "Is she not cut from the same scaled cloth? What makes her visions more worthy of trust than their ancient texts?"
Father's eyes narrow at the challenge. He sets his glass down with deliberate care, the soft click against wood like a warning. "Context, Captain. The prophecy speaks of naga salvation through human blood. Zela's visions tell us precisely the opposite." He leans forward, fingers splayed across his desk. "She foresaw that my daughter would be the catalyst for their near-extinction. That the child of flesh their dead ruler, Naryth, so eagerly sought would become the very thing that destroys them."
My breath catches painfully in my chest. The peace treaty, the one requiring a human bride to be blood bound to a naga, was meant to be me walking down that aisle. But Father had accepted Leira's offer to take my place with barely a moment's hesitation. Now I understand why. My sister wasn't sent as asacrificial bride to secure peace; she was dispatched for some other, more insidious reason.
"Zela has never failed us," Father continues, his voice so matter-of-fact he might as well be discussing crop rotations or tax collection. "While their elders pore over ancient texts predicting their return to dominance, she sees what truly approaches. The twilight of her species."
I press my forehead against the cool metal of the vent, trying to steady myself against a sudden wave of dizziness. All this time, I've been worried about Leira, afraid she was suffering among monsters. But Father sent her, knowing her purpose was never peace but destruction.
Halvane paces the length of Father's desk, boots clicking against polished wood like impatient heartbeats. "Then we are in agreement on the ultimate goal. Where we differ is timing." He stops, turning to face Father with military precision. "We have a unique opportunity. The naga believe themselves ascendant. Their guard lowers with each passing day of supposed peace. Strike now, while they celebrate their prophecy's fulfillment, and we eliminate both their ruler and his queen in one swift operation."
The casual way he suggests murdering Leira makes my blood freeze in my veins. Not just casual, but eager. I see it in the way his shoulders straighten, how his fingers flex at his sides like he's already imagining holding the weapon that will end her life.
"A needlessly aggressive approach," Father replies, though his voice carries no horror at the suggestion, only strategic assessment. "Patience, Captain. Why sacrifice a queen when she's still moving pieces into position?" Father's fingers drum against his desk, a rare sign of agitation. "You suggest killing my own daughter based on speculation."
“I suggest completing the mission before complications arise.” Halvane steps closer, the scar along his jaw pulling tightas his expression hardens. “General Thorne believes we should trigger the collapse now. The charges are already in place. The tunnels have been mapped and marked. One word from you, and we initiate plan B, bring their mountain fortress down upon their heads. Quick. Clean. Final.”
My heart stutters in my chest. They're going to destroy Vessan-Kar and bury Leira alive with the naga. The horror of it, the sheer calculated cruelty, makes my throat constrict painfully.
The casual discussion of my sister's murder hits me like a physical blow. A small, involuntary gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it, only a tiny sound, barely audible even to my own ears, but in the sudden silence of the study, it might as well be a thunderclap.
Both men freeze.
Father's eyes snap up, scanning the ceiling.
