Page 48 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

The ring digs into my finger, burning with an unseen pulse of magic. Jalith cannot reach me while I wear it, but if they get me back to him…

No.

I refuse.

The dark elf leans close, his breath a whisper against my ear.

“Your master waits, little thief.”

They drag me into the dark.

21

XIRATH

Blood slicks the battlefield, thick and steaming under the rising moon. The earth itself drinks greedily, dark soil glutted with the remains of the fallen. Bodies litter the ground, minotaur and naga alike, limbs twisted, throats gaping. The clash of steel and the raw sounds of dying warriors reverberate through the canyon walls.

The minotaurs fight like animals, brute strength their only strategy. They charge, swing, crush. But my warriors cut them down with precision, their movements honed by centuries of warfare.

A blade slashes toward my sides. I sidestep, tail snapping out, knocking my attacker off balance. My claws tear through flesh, parting tendon and bone. The minotaur lets out a strangled bellow before crumpling, his massive body sending tremors through the ground.

Something is wrong.

The minotaurs were relentless, pushing hard against our defenses, forcing their way through the lower ridges. And now… they falter.

The shift is subtle, a hesitation in their footwork, a flicker of uncertainty in their beady eyes. Warriors who moments ago fought with reckless abandon begin falling back, hooves crunching over the mangled remains of their kin.

Retreating.

This was never about conquering Nagaland.

This was a distraction.

I snarl, ripping my sword free from the last body before turning toward my commanders. “Fall back to the stronghold. Kill any who remain.”

Veynar steps forward, wiping his blade against his armored forearm. “They’re retreating.” His slitted eyes narrow with suspicion. “They wouldn’t leave unless?—”

My heart slams against my ribs.

Seren.

The stronghold was never their target.

She was.

Heat flares beneath my skin, a sharp, coiling burn that has nothing to do with battle-rage. My legs move before I make the decision, sprinting toward the war steeds still waiting along the ridge.

Veynar curses, following at my heels. “My lord, if we do not regroup, the other Lords?—”

A sharp snap of my tail against the stone silences him.

“If we do not regroup,” I growl, “Nagaland will survive. But if Seren is gone?—”

The thought does not finish.

Cannot finish.

I vault onto my steed, claws digging into the thick saddle leather. The beast shudders beneath me, sensing the fury rippling through my body.

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