Page 23 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

I have heard these words before.

From men who believed they were owed something.

From masters who thought possession was the same as devotion.

From Jalith.

Xirath doesn't respond immediately.

Instead, he lifts his head slightly, a predator deciding whether to strike.

Veyron doesn't wait.

He moves.

Fast.

Too fast.

I don't even see the moment Xirath reacts.

One second, Veyron is lunging.

The next, Xirath has him pinned, his tail wrapped so tightly around Veyron’s neck that the larger naga cannot move.

The crowd falls utterly silent.

Xirath leans in, his fangs bared, his voice cold enough to freeze bone.

"You will not challenge me today," he repeats, slower this time, letting each word carve itself into the stillness.

Veyron doesn't struggle. Xirath releases him, shoving him back with effortless strength.

Veyron doesn't try again.

Instead, he touches a hand to his throat, where the scales have been marked by the ghost of Xirath’s hold.

A warning. And a promise.

Xirath finally looks at me.

Not asking.

Not forcing.

Just waiting for my reaction. And I don't look away.

11

SEREN

The jungle presses close, humid and thick, vines hanging low as if listening. The pulsing glow of the flora casts a ghostly shimmer against my skin, marking my passage like a trail for unseen things.

I should be afraid.

I am not.

I move deeper, the weight of Nagaland at my back, its great stronghold now a distant shape against the cliffs. I do not run. Running means desperation, means fear, and I refuse to be hunted. Not by him. Not by this place.

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