Page 110 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

I stride into their midst, unchallenged. But watched.

A dozen of them turn, towering forms shifting, the weight of their presence enough to still the air.

One steps forward, Grathor.

The largest among them. The most vicious.

He regards me, head tilting. “The Naga Lord comes crawling?”

I rip my blades from my back and let them drop.

Steel clangs against the earth.

A challenge.

The camp stills.

The warlord at the back of the gathering exhales, amused. “You wish to die here, Xirath?”

I roll my shoulders. The fight is inevitable. “I need warriors.”

Grathor grins, shifting his weight. “Then prove yourself.”

The minotaurs roar.

A fight. A test of strength.

Good.

I move first.

Grathor barely has time to lift his war axe before I drive into him, teeth flashing, claws striking.

Steel meets flesh.

The world is nothing but blood and motion.

Grathor swingsbut I am faster.

I lunge under the arc of his axe, my tail whipping out, knocking his feet from beneath him.

He does not fall.

He is too strong.

But I do not need him to fall.

I sink my fangs into his throat.

His roar of pain shakes the trees, his fists hammering into my ribs.

Something cracks.

I ignore it.

Hold.

Tear.

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