Page 4 of Naga General's Mate

A door slammed somewhere above, followed by Kurg’s distinctive heavy footsteps. Mila grabbed her bucket and pressed herself against the wall, making herself as small as possible. The kingpin’s bulk filled the hallway as he descended the stairs.

“Get this place spotless,” he barked at no one in particular. “I want it perfect for tonight’s party.”

Perfect meant hours more work, but Mila kept her face carefully blank. The less she reacted, the less likely she’d draw attention. She’d learned that lesson young, watching others who spoke up disappear.

When Kurg passed without a glance in her direction, Mila allowed herself a small breath of relief. She dunked her rag back in the bucket, ignoring the sting of chemicals on her raw skin. Tonight’s gathering meant more mess to clean, more chances to overhear dangerous secrets, and more reasons to stay invisible.

But staying invisible kept her alive and kept Priscilla safe. That was worth any amount of scrubbing.

Later that evening, crystal glasses clinked as Mila refilled wine for the seventh time. The sickly-sweet scent of expensive Jorvlen wine mixed with the heavy perfumes of Kurg’s guests made her stomach turn.

“Another successful venture.” Kurg’s laugh boomed across the dining hall. “The council will be pleased with our progress.”

The other kingpins raised their glasses. Their jeweled rings caught the light of the chandeliers, making Mila’s eyes water. Or perhaps it was the smoke from their cigars that curled through the air.

“To progress,” the guests echoed.

A drop of wine splashed onto the pristine tablecloth as Mila’s hand trembled, and the overseer’s eyes narrowed from across the room. She steadied herself, moving to the next guest.

“The shipping routes are secured then?” A woman in a crimson dress tapped her long nails against her glass.

“More than secured.” Kurg leaned back, his chair creaking. “Those meddling Niri won’t be a problem anymore.”

“And their… cargo?”

“Dealt with. Permanently.”

Laughter rippled around the table. Mila’s grip tightened on the wine pitcher. The same hands that ordered deaths now lifted delicate forks to their mouths, sampling the roasted meats and exotic fruits she’d helped prepare.

“Girl.” Kurg’s voice cut through her thoughts. “More wine.”

Mila approached his chair, keeping her eyes down. His cologne assaulted her senses—spice and leather barely masking something rotten underneath. Just like everything else about him.

“Careful now.” His hand brushed against hers as she poured.

The touch sent ice through her veins, but she kept pouring. Steady. Invisible. The wine reached the rim of his glass.

“Good girl.”

The words dripped like poison. Mila retreated, forcing her feet to move slowly, naturally. Not to run. Never to run.

“Speaking of cargo,” one of the kingpins said, “I hear you’ve got quite the collection of house slaves.”

“Only the best.” Kurg’s gaze swept the room, passing over Mila like she was furniture. “Though they’re all replaceable.”

The conversation moved on to trade routes and profit margins. Mila circled the table, pouring wine, collecting plates, existing in the spaces between their words. Each step brought fresh horrors to her ears, wrapped in pleasant dinner conversation.

The wine pitcher grew lighter with each pour. Three more glasses until she could retreat to the kitchen.

The market run tomorrow morning beckoned like a siren’s song—no guards, no oversight, just a simple delivery list and enough credits to cover the purchases. Freedom lay just beyond these compound walls.

“Where’s that pretty sister of yours?” The woman in crimson peered at Mila through her wine-hazed eyes.

Mila’s hand trembled. “In the kitchens, my lady.”

The memory of Priscilla’s face this morning flashed through Mila’s mind—dark circles under her eyes from another sleepless night but still managing a smile as she braided her golden hair. So much like their mother.

“More wine here.” A meaty hand waved an empty glass.

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