Page 62 of Craving His Venom

Silver-Scaled Councilor nods reluctantly. “Yes, but do not misunderstand. You will not be warlord of your father’s domain. The council reassigns it. Your household staff may remain or depart as they choose.”

I exchange a look with Mira, my mind whirling. I see no future in these halls. Freed from the council’s threat, we can choose our own path. The territory I once cherished is beyond my grasp. I’m not sure I mourn its loss. Mira’s presence at my side outweighs any ambition I once harbored.

“You may keep your life,” the councilor adds tersely, as though bestowing a grand favor. “But your title is forfeit. That is the council’s final word.”

A surge of resolve rises in me, meeting that final blow with a surprising calm. “I renounce the warlord rank,” I say, voice sharper than I expect. “I have no interest in wearing a name thatbinds me to a system so cruel.” I tighten my arms around Mira, feeling her lean on me with quiet gratitude. “We are done here.”

Silver-Scaled Councilor stiffens, some of the watchers shifting in alarm. Usually, an ex-warlord might slink off in shame or plead for partial restitution. I do neither. Instead, I turn on my heel, guiding Mira carefully toward the main doors. My coils shift around her to keep her upright. She walks with slow determination, her steps echoing in the high-vaulted space.

A ripple of whispers follows us. Some watchers appear scandalized, others oddly moved. Defiance thrums through me, each step carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid farewells. Let them see how little I value their manipulative throne. Let them whisper that I carried my mate out of this viper’s nest in full daylight.

At the threshold, a hush drapes over me. I pause, turning to glance at the half-empty dais, the place where I once believed my destiny resided. The council stares back in stony silence. Then, ignoring them, I sweep out into the corridor, supporting Mira all the way.

She exhales sharply once we’re beyond the chamber’s oppressive gloom. “It’s done,” she murmurs, voice tremulous with relief. “They can’t undo our bond. Nor can they declare our child a crime.”

I press a soft kiss to her temple, tail brushing her calf in reassurance. “We broke their hold,” I whisper. “We walk away with heads high.”

Crick and Talli hurry to join us, footsteps echoing on polished stone. Talli’s eyes glint with approval, while Crick’s lopsided grin underscores his pride. “I half-expected them to attempt one final ambush,” Crick mutters, glancing back warily. “But it seems they fear the public scandal of defying the old laws.”

Talli taps her staff, expression thoughtful. “Likely they’ll plan behind the scenes, but for now, you forced them to comply. Well done.” She cuts a rare smile at Mira, who returns it, albeit tiredly.

A throng of lesser nobles and curious onlookers mill in the hall, parting to let us pass. Our pace is measured, mindful of Mira’s fragile state. She remains upright, determined not to show weakness in front of these watchers. I feel her trembling under my hand, but she never stumbles. Pride and protectiveness swirl in me, fueling an almost giddy sensation. The once-looming shadow of condemnation has fractured.

At the grand entrance to the High Nest’s central building, bright sunlight floods the polished steps outside. I blink, adjusting to the brilliance. A crowd stands on the plaza—naga of every caste, half-bloods, even a few humans huddled on the fringes. They hush as we appear, curiosity etched on every face. Word must have spread about the final outcome: the human who survived venom, forging an unbreakable bond with a disgraced warlord.

I glance at Mira, silently asking if she can bear the spectacle. She squares her shoulders, lips curving in a faint, confident line. “I’m ready,” she whispers.

We descend the steps. The crowd mutters, eyes flicking to the coil of my tail around Mira’s waist. Some nudge each other in uneasy awe, others sneer. A few watchers step forward, not to attack but to stare in fascination. One or two half-bloods actually cheer softly, though they’re quickly shushed by anxious peers. The tension is thick, but no one dares block us.

About halfway down the steps, Mira’s breath catches, and I sense her legs quiver. Without hesitation, I sweep her into my arms, mindful of her condition. She tenses at first, wanting to stand on her own, but then exhales in acceptance, letting me cradle her. The crowd’s murmurs increase, a wave of startledgasps. Let them see that I claim her openly. I hiss under my breath, a subtle warning that no one should approach.

She winds an arm around my neck, face pressed to my chest. Despite the swirl of hundreds of eyes, a hush envelops us, as if time slows. I can’t recall the last time I felt such fierce devotion. Adrenaline pulses through me, tangled with triumph and the raw tenderness of her survival—for both of us. I meet the stares with unwavering resolve, silently proclaiming that if they attempt to harm her or our unborn child, they face me head-on.

We reach the bottom of the steps, Talli and Crick flanking us, glaring at anyone who draws too close. The crowd parts. I hold Mira firmly, tail trailing behind, guiding us through the throng. Step by step, we push beyond the heart of the High Nest, forging a path out of the oppressive capital. The city we exit is not the same place that once banished me in scorn. Now, it’s a city forced to witness our defiance, powerless to reverse it.

As we press onward, the crowd thins. By the time we reach the gates, only a handful of stunned onlookers trail behind. The guards stationed there glance at me uncertainly. I am no warlord now, only a man carrying his mate in full, unwavering claim. They stand aside without a word, letting us pass. The bright sky frames the moment, scorching away the last vestiges of the council’s looming shadow.

Mira lifts her head, hair drifting in a gentle breeze, hazel eyes reflecting relief. “We’re free,” she murmurs, voice still weak from the fever but lined with awe.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Free of them,” I confirm. My voice emerges husky, thick with a swirl of emotion. “No more bowing to a system that sought to bury us.”

Her lips curl in a small, bittersweet smile. “Now we can truly start over.”

18

MIRA

Ican’t stop smiling as I stand beside the oldest serpent tree behind the jungle manor, one hand braced on its massive trunk, the other resting on the gentle swell of my belly. The tree’s bark twists in sinuous patterns, etched with ancient runes that time and vines have half-consumed. Thick roots sprawl across the damp earth, forming natural arches where tiny flowers bloom in the shade. Overhead, the lush canopy filters sunlight into dappled gold, transforming this secluded clearing into an almost otherworldly sanctuary.

My heart thrums with anticipation. We’re back at the manor we once fled, but today it feels more like a haven than a cage. Vahziryn paces a few steps away, exchanging low words with Talli and Crick. His broad shoulders and black scales reflect the noon sun, every carved line of muscle powerful yet subdued. He no longer wears the warlord’s insignia—he renounced it publicly in the capital’s glare, swearing never to bow to the council again. Now he’s simply Vahziryn, the naga who risked everything for us. My mate. My chest warms at the truth of that word.

Today, we hold our private mating ceremony, recognized by old naga tradition and nurtured by our own hearts. I shiftmy weight, feeling the child move inside me. My belly has grown noticeably since the venom challenge—time passing in relief rather than fear. The disheveled courtyard we once saw is partially cleared, a testament to the handful of allies who remain loyal: Crick, Talli, even Sahrine in her quiet, watchful way. The staff that didn’t abandon us have helped restore a corner of the manor to livable condition, and now they discreetly linger around, ensuring we have everything we need for the ceremony.

I run my fingertips across the trunk’s ridges, recalling how Vahziryn used to speak of this particular serpent tree, rumored to be centuries old, maybe older than the nest itself. He said the ancients once made vows under these branches, forging pacts that no council could break. A breeze stirs overhead, rustling the leaves, as if the tree breathes with anticipation.

“Ready?” a soft voice asks at my side. I turn to see Talli, staff in hand, tattoos along her arms glimmering with faint color. She surveys my face, her unusual eyes hinting at a hidden well of knowledge. “The others are waiting by the trunk. It’s time to begin.”

I nod, nerves fluttering in my stomach. Although we survived the capital’s condemnation, forging a recognized bond, this ceremony is something personal, a vow we choose of our own will. My pulse races as I press a hand to my abdomen again, steadying myself. The baby shifts under my touch, a gentle reminder that we’re forging a future not just for Vahziryn and me, but for the life we created.

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