Page 8 of Naga General's Mate

Chapter 4

Brivul

Brivul coiled his massiveframe against the clinic’s sterile white wall, his blue scales gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Another day, another shift of watching desperate humans shuffle through the doors of the surrogacy clinic with hollow eyes and empty pockets.

“Papers.” His deep voice echoed through the reception area. The slender woman before him clutched her documents, her hands trembling.

The scent of antiseptic burned his nostrils as he inspected her papers. Back on Nirum, surrogacy clinics smelled of healing herbs and hope. Here, the stench of fear and desperation clung to every surface.

“Move along.” He waved her through, his violet eyes scanning the waiting room. Three more candidates huddled in the corner, whispering among themselves. Their fear-sweat made his tongue flick in distaste.

A year ago, he’d commanded armies. Now he checked paperwork and broke up the occasional fight between desperate surrogates and entitled clients. His muscles ached for real action, for the weight of a plasma rifle instead of this standard-issue stunner on his belt.

“Sir?” One of the clinic staff approached. “Dr. Voss needs you to escort a problematic client out.”

“Again?” Brivul growled, towering over the nervous attendant. “Third one this week.”

The same dance, different day. He’d sworn not to interfere in Jorvlen matters, but watching the corruption eat away at these humans gnawed at his conscience. Back home, surrogacy was sacred. Here, it was just another commodity to exploit.

His tail slithered against the polished floor as he made his way to the doctor’s office. The sound echoed through the empty hallway, a hollow reminder of how far he’d fallen—from leading charges against pirates to playing bouncer in a shady clinic.

“You can’t do this to me!” A man’s voice carried through the door. “I paid good money!”

Brivul’s jaw tightened. The scar there pulled tightly—a reminder of battles that actually meant something. He squared his shoulders and pushed open the door, ready for another meaningless confrontation in an endless string of meaningless days.

Hours later, at lunch time, Brivul slithered through the nearby bustling market, his tongue flicking to taste the mix of spices and sweat in the air. His security uniform felt restrictive after a morning of dealing with entitled clinic patients. His stomach growled at the scent of grilled meat wafting from a nearby stall.

A flash of movement caught his eye. A human woman with long black hair stood at a produce vendor’s stall, her chin raised. Something about her posture spoke of contained strength.

“These vegetables are half-rotted,” she said, her voice steady. “I won’t pay full price for produce that won’t last two days.”

The vendor, a pot-bellied Jorvlen, leaned over his counter. “Pretty thing like you should worry less about prices and more about pleasing your master.”

Brivul’s scales bristled. His claws dug into his palms, but he held his position momentarily.

“My price is fair considering the quality,” the woman countered, ignoring the lewd comment. A birthmark decorated her temple, catching the light as she sorted through the wilting produce.

“Maybe we could work out another form of payment.” The vendor’s tongue darted across his lips. “Something more… personal.”

The woman’s spine stiffened, but she didn’t back down. “Three credits for the lot, or I’ll take my master’s business elsewhere.”

Brivul found himself admiring her composure. Most slaves he’d encountered kept their eyes down, their spirits broken. This one had fire in her green eyes, even as she maintained a facade of deference.

The vendor made another crude suggestion, and Brivul’s tail twitched with suppressed anger. His warrior instincts screamed to intervene for some reason he didn’t quite understand.

Brivul quickly slithered forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the vendor’s stall. The rancid smell of rotting vegetables mixed with the vendor’s fear-sweat as Brivul rose to his full height.

“The lady offered three credits.” His deep voice cut through the market noise. “A generous price for your subpar goods.”

“This is none of your business,Niri.” The vendor’s fingers trembled as he adjusted his collar.

“Everything in this district is my business,” Brivul hissed, even though he knew that was a lie. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Shall we discuss your permit violations?”

The woman kept her gaze down, but Brivul caught the slight upturn of her lips.

“Three credits it is.” The vendor snatched the money from her outstretched hand and shoved the vegetables into her basket.

“Thank you, sir.” Her voice stayed soft, demure—a perfect slave’s response. But those green eyes flashed with triumph as she bowed her head to Brivul.

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