Page 8 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
Leira. Her name sends another jolt through my battered body. The human who freed me from my cage. The Threadbornwho commanded fire as if born to it. The supposed harbinger of our salvation who smells of Varok and speaks to me without fear.
And this soft creature before me shares her blood.
My instinct is to refuse. To bare my fangs and tell her no human deserves passage to our sacred city. I would sooner die than guide one of her kind through our tunnels. But my wounds will claim me if I refuse. I taste the metallic promise with each labored breath. Blood weeps across my scales, and thirst scrapes my throat raw.
I hate the word as it claws its way past clenched fangs, "Yes."
Relief blooms across her face like sunrise breaking over the Serpentspine Mountains. She smiles, the expression so genuine it startles me. In this instant, confusion mingles with old distrust; no human has ever looked at me with anything but fear or hatred. That unfamiliarity leaves me unsettled, balancing suspicion and a flicker of hope.
"I'll hurry," she promises, rising to her feet with surprising grace for such an awkward, two-legged creature. "Stay hidden… er, what’s your name?"
“Lurok,” I grunt.
"Lurok," she repeats, my name sounding foreign on her human tongue. With one last smile, she slips toward the exit, her silhouette melting into the deepening shadows. The door closes with a soft click that echoes through the empty shed, leaving me alone with nothing but my pain and the lingering scent of her.
Night presses in around the lonely building. Darkness oozes through cracks in the weathered boards like black water worming into a sinking vessel. I shift, searching for any position that spares my dislocated shoulder or the ragged gash along my flank. There is none. Every breath tastes of iron and grit, remnants of the tunnel I collapsed to give the others a chance at escape.
The memory burns behind my eyes. The ceiling weakened at just the right point. My coils are gathering strength for one final, devastating blow. Zaethir's face twisted with hatred as he realized my intention. The rumble that began as distant thunder, growing until stone shrieked against stone, until darkness crashed down like a vengeful god.
Air hissed from my lungs as the tunnel collapsed. Silence followed—so complete I thought death claimed me. For days, I dragged my broken body through darkness. Each movement left a trail of blood behind me. My strength ebbed with every heartbeat, every painful inch forward through those lightless passages that seemed to have no end.
Yet here I lie, leagues from home in enemy territory, in a shed smelling of dried herbs and forgotten soil, at the mercy of a human female whose eyes shine with desperate hope. She believes I, a wounded naga warrior she should fear, will deliver her safely to her sister. The weight of her expectation settles across my shoulders like chains.
I try to maintain my hatred, forcing myself to remember every reason I should despise Serin simply for what she is. Her kind drove us beneath the earth, scorched our lands, wore our scales as armor, and our fangs as jewelry. But as the memories gather, I feel my anger waver, resentment giving way to a deeper exhaustion.
But my anger feels hollow now, distant as stars. I wonder if blood loss clouds my feelings, or if the memory of Leira standing before my cell, flames dancing in her palm, melting the lock, has cracked the foundation of my hatred. I realize my rage flickers, replaced by fatigue and a growing sense that hatred requires energy I no longer possess.
As time stretches, the shed creaks around me, boards contracting as night steals the day's warmth. My eyelids grow too heavy to fight, dragging down like stone slabs despitemy efforts to remain vigilant. As they finally surrender to exhaustion, my tongue flicks out with one last instinctive check for threats and finds only dust, abandonment, and the fading trace of Serin's passage, now an oddly comforting scent amid my weakness.
I wonder if she will return at all. Perhaps even now she races to inform her kin of the monster in their garden shed. Perhaps the Crownward Guard will be the next to darken the door, their metal weapons thirsting for my blood. I have no strength left to fight. My claws curl against the dirty floor, a reflex without purpose.
A soft click at the door jolts me upright, every scale bristling in alarm. My hand finds a rusted garden tool nearby, gripping it like a pathetic substitute for a proper weapon. But it is Serin who slips through the narrow opening, a bulging satchel hanging at her side and a clay jug clutched in her other hand.
The scent hits me like a blow. Water. Fresh, cool water.
My throat constricts painfully, suddenly aware of its own desperate dryness. My muscles contract without conscious command, instinct driving me toward that liquid salvation with single-minded focus.
My body lurches forward with desperate, feral need, muscles trembling from the effort, wounds screaming in protest as adrenaline masks the drag of blood loss.Crack!My skull strikes the underside of the table, stars bursting across my vision. Pain spears through my head, mingling with the relentless agony already scouring my body.
"Venom take it!" I hiss.
Serin startles at my curse, nearly dropping the precious jug. Her heart hammers so loudly I can hear its frantic rhythm from across the small space. For a moment, we freeze like this. She clutching her offerings, me half-sprawled beneath the table, both uncertain.
Then she steps forward, her face set with determination.
"Careful," she says softly, and something in her tone makes me pause. Not fear, though that is present. Not disgust, though that would be expected. Something else. Concern, perhaps. As if my pain matters to her.
She sets down the jug before kneeling at my side, far closer than any human should dare approach me. The space beneath the table suddenly feels confining, a trap rather than shelter. She gestures toward the open area of the shed, her movements cautious as if approaching a wounded predator. And in this moment, despite my weakened state, that is exactly what I am.
"You need to come out from there," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "I can't help you properly if I can't see your wounds."
With a hiss of pain, I haul myself forward, scales rasping against the planks like dry leaves. My good arm sags under my weight, muscles trembling, the world dimming and twisting at the edges with every inch gained. The distance to open space stretches impossibly, as if the shed itself resists me. Serin steps back, offering space, though her eyes widen at my full length as I emerge.
"You really are... huge," she whispers, the satchel clutched like a shield before her.
I settle with my back against the rough planks, wincing as I try to shift my mangled tail into a position that does not send lightning bolts of pain shooting up my spine. The damaged scales catch against splinters in the wood floor, each tiny movement a fresh torment.
The clay jug sits within reach, and I grasp it with desperate need, raising it to my lips. The first swallow of water is painful against my parched throat, but I do not stop. I drain the vessel in long, ragged gulps, some of the precious liquid spilling down my chin and onto my chest.
