Page 32 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
"And I hope you will not need to," I admit, scanning the smaller blades. "But hope is a poor strategy for survival."
I select a curved dagger with a handle sized for smaller hands. The blade is shorter than what a naga would prefer, but perfect for her human proportions. Its edge gleams wickedly in the light, promising death to anyone who comes too close.
"Hold it like this," I demonstrate, before placing the weapon in her hand, adjusting her grip with careful precision. "Keep your wrist firm. Strike here," I point to my throat, "or here," Iindicate the soft spot where my tail joins my torso, "if you face a naga. Do not hesitate, because they will not."
Serin swallows hard but nods, her fingers tightening around the hilt. The determination in her eyes belies the trembling of her hand. She ties the leather sheath I hand her around her waist and slides home the dagger with a satisfying click, deadly and accessible, the perfect extension of her newfound resolve.
I turn my attention to the storage crates, prying one open with the tip of my sword. Inside lie neatly packed rations. Strips of dried shadowfin, preserved bloodfruit with their distinctive crimson juice, nutrient-dense flatbread made from the hardy stonegrass that thrives in the deepest caverns of Vessan-Kar. Another crate yields waterskins, their contents still fresh and clear. A third contains what I had hoped to find. A heartglass torch, mined directly from the living rock, its crystalline structure dormant but ready.
I find an empty pack among the supplies and begin filling it with food enough for several days, as many waterskins as will fit, the heartglass torch, and a coil of thin, strong rope. Essentials for the journey ahead.
When I turn back to Serin, she is staring at the waterskin I have set aside for immediate use, her cracked lips parting involuntarily. Only now do I fully register the signs of severe dehydration. The dullness in her eyes, the parched quality of her skin, the way her tongue keeps darting out to moisten lips too dry to provide relief.
"Drink," I command, passing her the waterskin. "Slowly."
She needs no further invitation. Her hands fumble with the stopper, fingers shaking with urgency. When she finally manages to open it, she tilts her head back and gulps greedily, water spilling from the corners of her mouth in her desperate thirst. She chokes, sputtering, but continues drinking as though the water might vanish before she has had her fill.
"Easy," I caution, reaching to steady her hands. "Too much too quickly will make you sick."
She lowers the waterskin reluctantly, gasping for breath. "Sorry," she whispers, voice stronger already from the moisture. "They gave me almost nothing to drink."
The casual admission stokes the embers of rage still burning in my chest. I take the container from her trembling hands and drink deeply, the cool liquid soothing my own parched throat. The simple act grounds me, reminds me that rage without focus is useless. What matters now is getting us both as far from this place as possible.
I sling the pack across my torso and adjust it so it rests comfortably against my back. The sword I secure in the traditional naga battle-sling at my hip, its scabbard rings clicking into place against the scaled ridges of my lower body, the familiar weight of the weapon hanging just where my torso meets my serpentine form.
We move through the tunnel like ghosts, my scales barely whispering against stone, Serin's soft footfalls creating rhythms between my silent glides. Every few lengths, I taste the air, searching for traces of pursuing TrueCoil zealots. So far, we remain undetected, though our absence will not go unnoticed for long.
Ahead, the passage widens into an intersection of three corridors. Serin slows, her eyes scanning each option with careful deliberation. I halt beside her, watching as she orients herself, tracing the path of her earlier journey in reverse. Her brow furrows in concentration, fingers lightly brushing the wall as if to confirm some invisible marker. For someone who should be lost in these alien tunnels, her sense of direction impresses me.
"This one," she whispers, nodding toward the rightmost passage. "The female told me to go right from here.”
I open my mouth to ask if she is certain, but my words die in my throat when I notice the alcove. Its entrance is unmarked but unmistakable in its purpose. Chains hang from the far wall, their basilyx links gleaming dully in the dim glow. Beneath them, the stone floor bears dark stains, some fresh enough that I can smell the copper tang of blood… human blood.
Serin's prison.
The air shifts around me, stirring the ends of my hair as anger flares and rational thought slips its hold. I feel my pupils contract to vertical slits, my fangs on full display as a hiss erupts from my chest. My hand moves to my sword without conscious command, fingers curling around the hilt with murderous intent. Already, I am gliding toward the chamber, my mind filling with visions of the interrogator, his body torn open from throat to tail, his scales scattered across the bloodied floor as retribution for what he has done.
I will find him. I will kill him slowly. I will make him suffer as she suffered. I will?—
Serin's hand closes around my bicep, the sudden touch jolting me from my murderous trance. Her fingers barely span half the circumference of my arm, yet the pressure of her grip might as well be basilyx bands for how effectively it halts my advance. I turn to her, ready to shake off her restraint, to insist that justice demands blood for blood.
The words die unspoken when I see her face. Her expression holds none of the terror or trauma I expect. Instead, her features are set in firm lines of resolution, her hazel eyes clear and focused. She shakes her head once, the gesture small but unmistakable in its command.
"No," she says, her voice so quiet even my sensitive hearing barely catches it. "We can't afford detours.”
"They hurt you," I snarl, the words barely intelligible through my bared fangs. "I can smell your blood. Your pain. They deserve to die for it."
"I agree," she says, her fingers tightening on my arm. "But not today. Not if it means risking both our lives for revenge."
Her logic pierces the red haze of my rage like a blade through flesh. She is right. Vengeance is a luxury we cannot afford, not when discovery means death. Still, every instinct in my body screams to enter that chamber, to memorize every detail so that someday, I can repay the pain inflicted upon her tenfold.
"We need to go," she urges, her eyes darting nervously down the corridor. "Please, Lurok."
Thepleaseundoes me. This female, who endured torture at the hands of my kind, who was shackled and burned and starved, still has the capacity to ask rather than demand. The contrast between her treatment of me and the TrueCoil's treatment of her makes my chest ache with an emotion I have no name for.
I force myself to turn away from the alcove, though every scale along my spine bristles with the effort. The rage does not dissipate; it merely hovers like thunderclouds on the horizon, dark and electric, waiting for the right conditions to unleash its tempest. I make a silent vow to remember this place, this moment. Someday, I will return and paint these walls with the blood of those who dared touch what ismine.
Serin is not mine!
