Page 92 of Season of Naga: Volume 2
“I promise,” he says firmly. “And a Talon always keeps his word.”
I absorb all he’s said and lean into his touch. His eyes widen slightly, a flash of disbelief quickly replaced by something that looks painfully like hope. I close the distance between us and press my lips to his.
The kiss is nothing like our desperate embraces in the grotto, fueled by need and forbidden desire. This is slower, deeper, weighted with everything we’ve both been holding back. His hands slide from my face to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair with careful restraint. I can feel him holding back, letting me set the pace, afraid of frightening me away.
I press closer, my hands finding his shoulders, mindful of his wounds but needing him to know I’m not afraid. Not anymore. The kiss deepens, and I pour everything into it: my lingering hurt, my fragile hope, all the love I have for me.
When we finally part, both breathless, his forehead rests against mine. A new beginning has been written in the narrowspace between our bodies, in the mingled rhythm of our breathing.
Our moment is shattered when the Flame room erupts with new urgency. I pull away, startled by the sudden commotion, to see Sareth and a squad of Talons bursting through the entrance.
In Sareth’s massive arms lies a tiny, limp form. It’s a youngling with iridescent scales of a soft lavender. Blood smears her side, and her small face is contorted with pain. Lurok’s hand tightens on my shoulder as we both turn to witness the chaos unfolding.
“Sovereign!” Sareth’s voice cuts through the room, his usual stoicism fractured by urgency. He moves directly toward Varok, who straightens immediately, his golden eyes narrowing at the sight of the injured young.
“We found this little one,” Sareth reports, looking down at the small form in his arms, “locked in an underground cell. She is the seer Thorne spoke of.”
“Bring her here,” Varok commands, gesturing to an empty cot near the sacred flame, then bellows, “We need a healer!”
As Sareth lays the youngling down, I catch a clearer glimpse of her face, and my heart stutters. For a disorienting moment, I think it‘s Zara—the same delicate features, the same pale iridescent scales that shift between pearl-white and soft lavender. But that’s impossible. Zara has been here in the temple with us, helping the healers.
“Her scales,” I whisper to Lurok. “They’re just like?—”
Before I can finish, Zara herself hurries in from the adjoining chamber, a fresh basket of bandages in her small hands. She freezes at the threshold, her eyes wide and fixed on the newcomer. The basket slips from her fingers, bandages scattering across the stone floor.
The room seems to hold its breath. Then the wounded youngling stirs, her eyes fluttering open; the same impossibleviolet as Zara’s. She spots Zara across the room and reaches out a weak, trembling hand.
“Sister,” she whispers, the word barely audible yet somehow filling the entire chamber.
Zara doesn’t move. Her small frame seems rooted to the spot, her face a portrait of shock and disbelief. Then something shifts in her expression, recognition flooding in like a rising tide.
“Zela,” she breathes, the name emerging like a forgotten prayer suddenly remembered.
And then she’s moving, darting between healers and wounded warriors with preternatural grace until she reaches the cot. The two younglings stare at each other, mirror images separated by years of unknown suffering. Zara’s hand rises, trembling, to touch the other female’s face, hesitant, as if afraid she might be dreaming.
“I remember now,” Zara says, her voice small but clear. “I do not know why I forgot. You were taken by the humans when the hatchery was destroyed.”
“I remembered you,” whispers back. “Every day. I hoped to see you again.”
Tears spill down Zara’s cheeks as she climbs onto the cot, careful not to disturb her sister’s wounds. Their foreheads touch, and a soft keening sound rises from both their throats. It’s a sound of mourning and recognition that tears at my heart.
Lurok rises from the cot beside me, his wounds temporarily forgotten as we approach the reunited twins. Drawn by the raw emotion emanating from the small forms huddled together on the cot.
“We found her in the Blackwood Forest, in the humans’ hidden camp,” Sareth explains to Varok, his voice lowering as he moves away from the reunited twins. “We were staking out their position for days, hoping to find some trace of Malikor.”
We move closer, drawn by the gravity in Sareth’s tone. Lurok’s hand rests protectively at the small of my back.
“We were waiting for an opening to sneak inside. Then suddenly, they all left. It was strange, like they received orders to abandon the camp immediately.”
“They were called into battle by Halvane,” Varok hisses.
“We seized the opportunity,” Sareth continues. “We found her locked in an underground chamber. There were... instruments. Tools.” His massive hands clench into fists. “They were taking samples of her scales, her blood. There were notes, drawings of her anatomy.”
“Did you bring back any of the humans’ notes?” Varok asks, “Maybe there is something in them that could help us find Malikor.”
Sareth nods. “We took everything. Scrolls, maps, strange devices. Traven is taking it all to the war chamber now.”
“And Malikor?” Varok presses, though his eyes have darkened with fury at Sareth’s report.
