Page 36 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

The dark elf barely registers the strike, claws flashing, slicing through the fragile flesh of his throat in one clean motion.

He staggers, eyes wide.

The smirk has not yet left his lips as his body collapses onto the stone, blood spilling in an expanding pool beneath him.

His head remains in my grasp.

The chamber is silent.

I turn it slightly, letting the still-shocked expression face the remaining guards.

The two naga warriors who escorted him do not look away. They had known this was coming.

I flick my tail in dismissal. “Send his body back to Jalith.”

One of the warriors inclines his head. “And the head, Lord Xirath?”

I glance at the lifeless face, the arrogant smirk still lingering, frozen in time.

The perfect message.

The perfect warning.

“Mount it on the gates.”

The warrior bows.

The body is dragged away, leaving only the crimson stain of a fool who had thought himself untouchable.

Jalith will receive his answer.

He will come.

I welcome it.

16

SEREN

Sweat trickles down my spine, muscles taut and burning from exertion. The training ground sprawls before me, its stone floor polished smooth from centuries of warriors honing their craft. The sky above is bruised with the last remnants of twilight, deep purple bleeding into black, the first stars winking between the shifting clouds.

Xirath watches from the edge of the ring, arms folded, expression unreadable.

I resist the urge to glare at him, though it takes every ounce of control I have.

“Again,” he commands, voice as even as if he were discussing the weather.

My fingers tighten around the short sword he’d tossed me earlier, the weight still unfamiliar. The grip is rough against my palm, the balance slightly off or maybe it’s just me.

I lunge, aiming for the straw target at the ring. The blade slices through the humid night, but the angle is wrong, too shallow. The edge barely nicks the target’s side, the force behind my strike dissipating before it can do real damage.

A slow clap echoes behind me.

“You strike like a human.” Xirath’s tail flicks against the hard stone, the sound a deliberate mockery. “And a poorly trained one at that.”

Teeth grinding, I turn to face him. “Apologies, my lord, for not being a centuries-old snake with a fetish for violence.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk, but close enough to make my irritation curdle into something sharper.

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