Page 114 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

A flicker of movement above, a dark elf standing atop the parapets, barking orders into the fray below. His robes are embroidered with symbols of rank. A commander.

Xirath moves like a viper striking, fast and without mercy. He dodges between charging bodies, carving a path toward the stone steps leading to the parapet. His boots hit the stairs two at a time, sword dripping red in his grip.

The commander barely has time to react before Xirath’s blade is at his throat.

“Where is she?” His voice is low, a growl that shakes with the promise of slaughter.

The elf spits at his feet. “Dead soon enough.”

Xirath doesn’t wait.

His claws dig into the soft meat of the commander’s throat, lifting him off his feet. The elf thrashes, kicking, choking, but Xirath only tightens his grip.

“Tell me,” he snarls. “Or I carve the answer from your ribs.”

The commander’s face contorts in fury, even as his breath wheezes past crushed cartilage. But there is no fear, only the madness of loyalty.

Xirath hates dark elves.

He flexes his fingers. A sickening crunch. The commander’s body falls limp, his neck broken.

Useless.

But the war rages below, and there are more to question.

Xirath turns on his heel, stepping over the crumpled corpse. Fire glows in the distance, painting the walls in shades of orange and red. Screams echo. The minotaurs fight like beasts possessed, leaving ruin in their wake.

He will have his answers soon.

Jalith will not keep her.

50

SEREN

They drag me through the obsidian halls of Jalith’s fortress, my feet scraping against the polished floor. Chains coil around my wrists, digging deep into bruised skin, but the true prison isn’t metal.

It’s magic.

Ancient words hum through the air, weaving between the towering pillars of the ceremonial hall. The dark elves stand in rows, draped in silken robes, their faces lifted toward the domed ceiling as they chant. The sound isn’t loud, but it presses against my skull like iron, each syllable latching onto my limbs, my bones, my very breath.

They are binding me.

I thrash against the guards gripping my arms, my body refusing to submit even as my mind is trapped in an unseen vice. My muscles lock. My spine bows forward, dragged toward the center of the chamber, toward him.

Jalith stands at the altar, clad in deep amethyst robes embroidered with silver filigree, the patterns shifting like veins of molten metal. He watches me with the satisfaction of a hunter who has snared his prey at last.

The room is suffocating. Not from the heat of the torches, but from the weight of what’s happening.

They are forcing the mate bond upon me.

My body moves against my will.

Terror curdles in my gut as I stumble closer to Jalith, my boots catching against the marble, but I can’t stop. My breath tears from my lungs as the magic tugs at me, dragging me into the center of the spiraling runes carved into the stone floor. The symbols glow with eerie violet light, curling like grasping fingers.

The collar around my neck tightens.

Jalith smiles, stepping forward. "No need to struggle, little one. It will be over soon."

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