Page 1 of Craving His Venom

1

MIRA

My feet ache from the long ride through dense jungle paths, but I press on, determined not to reveal the weakness coiling in my stomach. The carriage that carried me is gone, leaving me at the edge of a grand estate hidden in the heart of Nagaland’s humid darkness. I stand before walls made of pale stone and accented by winding vines of emerald and rust-red leaves. A wrought-iron gate stands open, silent as though waiting for me to step inside. Beyond it, the manor looms—a testament to power.

I was purchased yesterday at a high-end auction. The memory still trembles in my mind: a line of humans, each of us forced to keep our eyes on the ground as naga nobles strode by, chins lifted in disdain. They placed bids like they were haggling for cattle. One moment I was shivering on the auction block, and the next, a single word from someone in the darkness sealed my fate. My new owner never revealed himself that night; he simply gave instructions for me to be delivered here.

I move past the gate into a courtyard encircled by thick columns. The path is paved in flat stones that glisten with moisture. Naga craftsmanship is evident in every measuredangle, each detail meticulously functional rather than purely ornamental. Still, I notice faint patterns along the columns: stylized serpents coiling upward toward the ceiling, their eyes marked with jade inlays. These subtle decorations remind me that the inhabitants here are not human and hold themselves far above those they consider lesser.

I pause at a massive wooden door banded in iron. There’s a carving at its center: a serpent’s head with flared hood, jaw parted in silent warning. My palms grow clammy, but I force myself to knock. Three quick raps echo in the damp air. No immediate reply follows, so I wonder if I should knock again. Before I decide, the door opens inward, revealing a female figure.

She’s taller than me by several inches—though I’m not short at five and a half feet. She has scales dusting her arms, and when she turns her head, I glimpse her eyes—white, milky, devoid of color. Yet she doesn’t stumble. She stands poised, shoulders angled with quiet strength. Her hair is gathered into a loose knot behind her head, shot through with silver.

“You are the new one,” she says, voice resonant and calm.

I swallow and nod, unsure whether to speak first. My training at the obedience academy taught me that speaking out of turn can be dangerous, especially with naga.

She inclines her head slightly. “I am Sahrine, the housekeeper. I maintain Lord Vahziryn’s estate.”

The name “Vahziryn” freezes the breath in my chest. I’ve heard rumors—everyone has. They speak of a naga warlord exiled from the capital, rumored to have venom potent enough to kill a man in seconds. I try not to show how those stories claw at my composure.

Sahrine gestures for me to follow. We step into a wide foyer. The floor is polished stone, half covered by a circular rugwoven in deep greens and blacks. Wooden beams arch overhead, supporting the high ceiling. A faint echo follows our footsteps.

“You will address him as Lord Vahziryn,” Sahrine says. “But you will only see him if he requests your presence.”

My throat feels tight, but I push out a tentative response. “Yes, madam.”

She halts, turning her cloudy eyes in my direction with an uncanny accuracy that suggests she can see heat rather than light. “I’m not madam. Just Sahrine is enough.”

“I understand... Sahrine,” I say quietly.

She studies me for several seconds, then continues down a corridor flanked by tall windows. My gaze catches glimpses of lush vegetation outside, the enormous ferns and colorful, twisting vines. Deep in the distance, the drone of insects mingles with the haunting call of some unseen beast. Naga territory is known for wildlife more vibrant and deadly than anywhere else on Protheka.

At the end of the corridor, Sahrine stops by a dark wooden door. “Your room,” she says, pushing it open. She leads me in, revealing a small space with a narrow bed, a single dresser, and a tiny window high on the wall that allows slanted sunlight to fall across the floor. A plain wooden chair is tucked under a simple table.

When my gaze moves to the door itself, my heart stutters. On the outside, I notice three iron latches—each designed to lock whoever is inside. If they slide them closed, I won’t leave this room without their permission.

Sahrine’s voice remains calm. “You’ll be safe here if you keep to your duties. Lord Vahziryn doesn’t like chaos.”

“I’ll be careful.”

She places a small brass key on the table. “This is for the inside lock. You may secure yourself from within. No one in this household will intrude without reason. But do not misuse thatprivilege. If you cause trouble, the latches outside will see more use.”

I run my thumb over the key’s surface, noticing how worn it looks, as if many others have lived here before me. “I understand.”

Sahrine stands by the threshold, her posture rigid. “There’s a pitcher of water in the corner. You may wash up. If you need anything, speak quietly, and one of the staff will attend to you. We keep a certain atmosphere in this house.”

“What kind of atmosphere?” I ask, unsure if I’m allowed such a question.

She tilts her head, as though deciding how much to say. “An atmosphere of quiet, child. You’ll learn soon enough.”

With that, she steps out. The door closes gently, but the echo of finality resonates through my bones. I sit on the edge of the bed, studying my new surroundings. The walls are bare except for faint scratches near the dresser. The bedding is gray linen, worn but clean. There’s a single oil lamp on a shelf in case of darkness.

I touch my own arms, trying to calm my racing pulse. My skin carries a warm brown tone, marred by a burn scar on my left thigh—my permanent reminder of the raid on my childhood village. My hair is cut short to minimize fuss, tight coils that hug my scalp. At the academy, they taught us that maintaining a neat appearance is vital for pleasing one’s owner. My gaze drifts down to my calloused hands, ridges formed by years of scrubbing floors, washing dishes, cooking. That’s all I am to them—a maid, a servant. Something to be bought. Something that must remain invisible if I want to survive.

I have no illusions of respect here. My best chance is to obey quietly, to slip beneath notice. That is how I have lived this long. The less I appear to stand out, the more likely I am to see another dawn.

After rinsing my face with cool water from the pitcher, I step back into the hallway. The tension of this place presses upon me, yet a flicker of curiosity flutters in my chest. The estate is too big, too elaborate for a reclusive warlord. Why keep a large household if he prefers silence?

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