Page 55 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
Traven nods once, respect flickering in his eyes. He turns to the healers, his tail sweeping an arc of authority across the stonefloor. "Evacuate immediately. Take the human female through the western passage and keep her stable at all costs."
The healers finish securing Serin to a transport sled. Within seconds, we are racing through the tunnels, tails striking stone in powerful thrusts that propel us forward at combat speed. The slap of scales against stone echoes through corridors that should never be this empty.
The living rock does not glow as it should. Keh'shalin light gutters low. Thin strands of blue-white illumination barely cling to the walls like dying embers. Without the constant press of naga life to feed them, the tunnels feel starved. Our passage stirs faint ripples of brightness; the stone answers our essence for a heartbeat before the light thins and recedes, unwilling to waste itself in an empty city.
I cannot help looking back as we surge through the transit passage. The tunnel bends away into shadow, swallowing the junction where I last saw her. My chest tightens; the bond between us stretches thin but unbreakable. Serin is being carried away to safety through the western corridor, away from danger. Away from me. The physical ache of that distance burns like acid beneath my scales.
I should not feel this connection to a human. I should not miss her presence with such intensity, or want to turn back and follow her into safety instead of racing toward danger.
Yet, I do.
I force myself to drive forward, my tail lashing against stone with renewed purpose. Each powerful thrust propels me through tunnels that should be alive with movement. The hollow echo of scales on rock mocks what once was. The weight of responsibility presses against my scales like water pressure in the deepest caverns.
The tunnels widen as we approach the market district. Ceiling vaults arch hundreds of feet overhead, draped withcascading fungi. Their golden lantern-light once washed the cavern in warmth. Normally, a riot of sibilant voices, tail-thumps, spice smoke, and drifting fungal spores lies abandoned. Now the lantern-vines glow faint and uneven. Their bioluminescence dims without the steady current of naga essence to sustain them.
Merchant stalls curve in spirals toward the central plaza, goods still displayed as if their owners expect to return at any moment. Bolts of woven cavern-silk hang half-measured; crystal vials remain uncorked. Baskets of sunroot pods sit untouched beside cold braziers. Even the golden motes that usually drift from phosphorescent fungi seem thinner. It is as though the air itself holds its breath.
The silence presses against my eardrums like a physical pressure.
We find Sareth beneath the vaulted fungi canopy at the heart of the market. His upper body rises imposingly from his coiled tail. Scales gleam dark against the dimmed stone. Ivory hair flows loose past his shoulders like liquid silver, framing the sharp angles of his face.
Around him, four Talons spread throughout the market. Their bare claws scrape against stone as they search with lethal focus. Nirik works the eastern corner, his rust-colored scales catching what little light remains. He is a beacon of fierce determination. His movements are too fluid, too measured for someone so young. His eyes are haunted by ghosts I recognize all too well. His unsheathed blade is an extension of his arm as he checks beneath a merchant's abandoned wares.
“Lurok.” Sareth’s gaze locks with mine, his pupils contracting to slits as his gaze locks with mine. “We had not thought you survived the tunnel collapse.”
“I very nearly did not,” I admit, gliding forward to clasp Sareth’s forearm in greeting. The grip is brief but firm, warriorto warrior, and I glance at the armband bearing his new rank. “It would seem congratulations are in order.”
Sareth gives me a curt nod, his jaw tightening. "The market district is the last area of Vessan-Kar left to clear. Only one-third has been covered, and time is running short.”
One of the Talons approaches, a jagged scar cutting across his left shoulder where scales never properly regrew. Kareth, I recall. The obsidian-scaled male fought alongside me during the ambush led by the Harbinger at Blackwater Gorge, though the ones of us who survived rarely speak of those blood-soaked hours.
Kareth's peridot gaze widens as they land on me, his jaw slackening for a heartbeat before he regains his composure. "Lurok," he breathes, something like disbelief coloring his voice. "Glad to see you are still aboveground." Then, turns to Sareth, "Prithas, I have cleared all structural pillars surrounding the market."
"That leaves the weavers' district, the south wall, and the remaining vendor stalls," Sareth says, accepting the canvas sack Kareth offers. The devices inside clink against each other as Sareth's claws tighten around the drawstring.
"We should split into three groups," Traven suggests. "We can cover more ground faster."
Sareth nods, already calling to the Talons and dividing areas with sharp gestures. "Kareth, Vaelor, search the remaining vendor stalls. Nirik and Lurok, the weavers’ district. Traven, you are with me at the south wall.”
Nirik slithers beside me as we move toward our assigned sector, his young face solemn beneath the dim cavern light. "I thought to never see you again," he says quietly, "when you brought the tunnel down."
The memory flashes between us of the worms closing in, Zaethir driving them forward. Nirik seized Leira’s arm, draggingher toward the ascending passage while Zara followed with the torch. The narrow climb forced them into a single file. Leira first, Zara behind her, Nirik sluggish on unsteady coils at their backs.
I remember gliding beneath the fractured span of the ceiling as steel clashed and bodies struck stone. My roar shook the passage as I brought it down in thunder and dust, sealing the way behind them. Buying them time and distance. Trading my freedom for their escape.
“I thought my chance was lost to thank you for your heroism,” Nirik adds.
I swallow hard, the sentiment lodging in my throat like an unwelcome stone. When had I become so damned soft? There was a time when sacrifice was just duty, when I would not have felt this tightness in my chest at the raw gratitude in his eyes.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice to remain steady. "No need for thanks. It worked so the three of you could outmaneuver the worms."
We enter the first weaver's stall, my senses heightened by both training and a new awareness humming beneath my scales. The pull toward Serin remains, a constant tug westward that I force myself to ignore with each forward motion.
“This is Furra's stall," Nirik whispers as we move between hanging garments that sway like ghosts in our wake.
Tunics of impossible beauty drape from ceiling hooks of sunset oranges bleeding into midnight blues, ceremonial attire embroidered with constellations that seem to shift and twinkle even in the dim light. Bolts of silk line the walls in a rainbow cascade of bloodstone red, serpent-eye green, quicksilver blue that ripples like water when my scales brush against it. Beneath it all, half-finished creations lie abandoned on worktables, needles still threaded as if Furra might return any moment to complete her masterpieces.
"She makes all of the Threadborn's garments," Nirik adds, his claw tracing the edge of a gossamer veil that shimmers with crushed crystal dust.
