Page 6 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
And now I know the truth, or at least part of it. Father sent Leira to the naga with ulterior motives. Not just as a bride to seal peace, but as some kind of catalyst for the nagas’ destruction. And now he and his military advisors are planning something terrible. Something involving collapsed tunnels and buried cities.
I lean against the cool stone wall, allowing myself one moment of trembling fear before straightening my spine with newfound resolve. Timid Serin, the forgotten sister, the quiet one. I need to find a way to warn her. And I need to do it before Father realizes I know.
I push away from the wall, gathering myself. The cellar's gloom feels suddenly stifling, the weight of what I've learned pressing down like the house above me.
With a quick brush of my palms, I straighten my knee-length tunic, which hangs over simple cloth pants. Hardly the silk finery expected of a diplomat's daughter, but ideal for crawling through dusty ventilation shafts. The light green fabric shows every smudge of dust from the vents, making me look like I've been rolling in ash. I brush at the worst of it, then give up. Cleanliness is the least of my concerns now.
From the small storage nook behind the wine racks, I retrieve my soft-soled shoes, designed for moving silently across the creaking floors of Valen House. Leira had them made for me years ago, claiming they were for midnight kitchen raids. I slip them on, feeling a pang at the memory of her conspiratorial wink as she presented them to me.
The wooden stairs from the cellar groan beneath my careful tread. I pause, listening for footsteps above, but only the usualevening sounds continue: distant clatter from the kitchen and the faint chime of the manor clock.
At the top of the stairs, I ease the cellar's exterior door open just enough to peer through. The kitchen garden beyond lies empty in the fading light, bordered by hedges that cast long shadows across the stone path. I slip through and close the door behind me with a soft click, then make my way along the garden wall, keeping to the shadows where my footsteps on the flat stones are muffled by patches of moss.
The sun hangs low on the horizon now, painting the western sky in shades of amber and gold. I keep to the shadows cast by the tall hedgerows, moving swiftly along the stone path that leads toward the old groundskeeper's cottage at the edge of the property.
To my right stands the potting shed, its weathered boards silvered with age, windows clouded with years of dust and neglect. It hasn't been used since the new greenhouse was built closer to the main house, but I've always found something comforting about its abandoned dignity. Sometimes, when Father's cold indifference became too much to bear, I would hide there among the empty clay pots and dried herbs hanging from the rafters, pretending it was my own small kingdom.
Now I hurry past it without a glance, thoughts consumed by plan B: explosives, collapsed tunnels. An entire subterranean city to be brought down on the heads of its inhabitants. Including Leira.
The casual cruelty makes my stomach turn. Not just the willingness to sacrifice my sister, but the extermination of an entire civilization. How many would perish if Vessan-Kar fell? Hundreds? Thousands? Naga warriors, yes, but also children, elders, healers. People like us, despite their scales and fangs.
I have no illusions about my own power in this situation. I have no armies at my command, no political influence. Just mywits, my knowledge of the Valen house's secrets, and a desperate need to prevent a massacre.
Somehow, I have to reach Leira. Impossible as it seems, I have to find her before Father's terrible plans can unfold.
I've almost reached the edge of the formal gardens when something catches my eye. A dark smear on the pale stone path, glistening wetly in the fading light. At first, I think it might be oil leaked from one of the gardener's tools, or perhaps mud from the recent rains. But as I draw closer, my steps falter. Blood. Fresh enough that it hasn't fully dried.
I crouch down, careful not to touch it. It's deeper in color than human blood, almost black in the waning light.
A chill races up my spine. Not ordinary. Not human?
I straighten and follow the trail with my eyes. It leads away from the main path, cutting across a strip of grass back to the old potting shed I just passed. The very building I'd glanced at with fond nostalgia moments ago, now transformed by these dark smears into something ominous.
Moving with silent care, I approach the shed from an angle, making sure to stay hidden from the manor's view. The blood trail becomes more pronounced on the grass, no longer smears but distinct droplets spaced in a pattern that suggests someone dragging themselves.
The ground before the door shows signs of disturbance; deep, wide, irregular scuffs carve through the dirt, as if something immense had hauled its weight across the earth. Stalks of ornamental grass lie crushed beneath that path, flattened in a broad wake. Whatever came this way was too large to be any common beast.
The shed itself feels wrong.
I’ve stepped inside it more times than I can count, seeking quiet among its forgotten tools and dust-choked shelves, but now it seems aware of me. The weathered planks and warpedseams hold their breath. The small windows catch the last of the sinking sun, the glass glowing a dull, tarnished gold. Within that dim light, shadows twitch along the inner wall, stretching and folding into unfamiliar shapes.
The blood trail leads directly to the door. It stands slightly ajar, barely an inch, a narrow seam of darkness between wood and frame.
For an instant, doubt creeps in. The sensible thing would be to turn back, to fetch a groundskeeper, and let them investigate what is likely just an injured animal seeking shelter.
Leira wouldn't hesitate. She'd already be inside investigating. My brave, impulsive sister never had to gather courage; she simply possessed it. I take a steadying breath, willing my racing heart to slow as I edge toward the door, placing each foot with deliberate care to avoid twigs or dry leaves that might announce my presence. The blood trail disappears beneath the door's edge, continuing inside where I can't see.
Leaning close, I listen. At first, I hear nothing but the distant calls of birds settling for the night and the soft rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. Then, so faint I almost miss it, a sound from within. A scrape, perhaps, or the whisper of something moving against the wooden floor. Not the scurrying of a small animal, but something larger, more deliberate.
Something that breathes.
I push the door open with trembling fingers, wincing at the protest of rusted hinges. The gap widens to reveal the shed's shadowy interior, dust motes dancing in the thin shafts of fading light that penetrate the dirty windows.
"Hello?" I call out softly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is someone there?" The words fall flat against the wooden walls, met only by silence.
No response comes, but I sense I'm not alone. The air feels different, charged somehow, like the heaviness before a summerstorm. I should leave. Every instinct screams danger. But the blood trail continues inside, drawing my eye like a path I'm destined to follow.
The interior is exactly as I remember, yet utterly transformed by context and shadow. Old clay pots line sagging wooden shelves, some cracked with age, others still intact but filmed with years of dust. Gardening implements hang from rusted nails: pruning shears, trowels with worn wooden handles, and a rake missing half its tines. Bundles of dried herbs dangle from the exposed rafters, their once-vibrant green faded to dusty gray-brown, filling the air with ghosts of thyme and lavender.
