Page 18 of Craving Their Venom
The silence that falls is heavy, fraught with a new, unwelcome understanding. We are trapped. Not by each other, but by a destiny we did not choose, a game we have just now realized we are playing. And the human, Amara, is no longer the prize.
She is the board itself.
12
KAELEN
Ileave them in the wreckage of their own making. The scent of spilled blood—Zahir’s crimson, Varos’s royal blue—is a discordant tang in the air, a testament to their monumental, childish foolishness. They stand on opposite sides of the ruined strategy room, two poles of the same destructive magnet, their hatred for each other a force more tangible than the stone walls around them. They think they have fought over a woman. The truth is far more terrifying: they have fought over the fulcrum that will either balance our world or shatter it completely.
My words hang in the silence between them, a prophecy they are not yet equipped to understand. I do not wait for their response. They are deafened by the roar of their own pride. I need guidance that is not written on scrolls, wisdom that does not come from the stars, but from the source itself.
I move through the palace, a shadow in my own home. My path takes me downward, away from the opulent upper levels and the sterile functionality of the barracks. I descend into the forgotten heart of the palace, to the foundations laid when the world was young. The air grows cool and damp, the scent of chilled stone mingling with the dry, dusty perfume of immenseage. The crystal lamps here are few, their light swallowed by the oppressive darkness. This is a place the court has forgotten, a place of memory and power that they are too shallow to comprehend.
The door to the Oracle’s sanctum is not a door at all, but a section of wall carved with interlocking serpents. There is no handle, no lock. It opens only to those who know the correct sequence of pressure points, a secret passed from one mystic to the next. I trace the pattern with my fingers, the ancient stone cool and smooth beneath my scales. The wall recedes with a low groan, revealing a passage that smells of burning herbs and something else, something ancient and deeply sacred.
I enter and the wall seals behind me, plunging me into a darkness that is absolute. I walk by memory, my hand trailing along the rough-hewn stone. The passage slopes downward, coiling into the earth like a burrowing serpent. Finally, I see a faint, flickering light ahead.
The chamber is a natural cavern, its walls glittering with veins of raw, unpolished crystal that pulse with a soft, internal light. The air is layered with the smoke of a hundred different sacred herbs, burning in small clay bowls arranged in concentric circles on the floor. In the middle of the chamber, seated on a simple, unadorned stone throne, is the Elder Oracle Venali.
She is ancient, a relic from an age before my own. Her scales, once the color of jade, have faded to a pale, milky green, as translucent as old sea glass. She is blind, her eyes milky white orbs that see nothing of this world, but everything of the next. She does not move as I approach, but I know she has been expecting me. She feels the shift in the cosmic threads as keenly as I do.
I stop before her and bow my head, a gesture of profound respect. In this chamber, I am not a naga of royal blood. I am a supplicant, a seeker.
“The weave unravels, little serpent,” she says, her voice a dry, rattling whisper, like leaves skittering across stone.
“The threads are pulled by hands that are both known and unknown,” I reply, speaking the ritual language of mystics. “The serpents of the prophecy turn upon themselves, blinded by a new light that has appeared in our halls.”
Venali is silent for a long moment. The only sound is the soft hiss and crackle of the burning herbs. Her head tilts, as if listening to a conversation I cannot hear.
“A light is not a prize to be won,” she finally whispers, her blind eyes seeming to look straight through me. “It is a hearth meant to be shared. You cannot capture a flame in your fist. You can only warm your hands by it, or be burned.”
Her words are a riddle, as always, but the meaning strikes me with the force of a physical blow.A hearth that is meant to be shared.Not a prize. Not a tool.
“The prophecy speaks of a claim,” I press, my own voice a low murmur. “‘When three fierce serpents, born from royal blood, claim one heart of humanity…’ How can a heart be claimed if not by conquest?”
“You mistake the nature of the claim,” she rasps, a dry, rustling laugh escaping her thin lips. “To claim a mountain, you must climb it, respect its power, and stand upon its peak in humility. To claim a heart is not to conquer it. It is to kneel before it. True unity, Kaelen, is a form of surrender.”
Surrender. The word is anathema to a naga, especially to creatures like Varos and Zahir. The thought of either of them kneeling, of them surrendering their pride for anything, let alone a human, is impossible. And yet, I know with a chilling certainty that she speaks the truth.
The prophecy is not about magical power. It is not about forging a weapon to defeat our enemies. It is about forging a bond. An emotional unity that will be our salvation or our doom.The “heart of humanity” is not a magical artifact. It is Amara herself. Her compassion, her defiance, her very essence. And the three of us must not conquer her. We must… earn her.
The revelation is a terrifying weight in my soul. I have brought Varos and Zahir to the precipice of this truth, but I have not shown them how to cross it. I must try again.
I thank the Oracle and leave her to her sacred smoke and her silent conversations with the cosmos. As I ascend back into the cold, political world of the palace, my path is clear.
I send two identical messages, delivered by my most trusted acolyte, a silent boy who has served in my sanctuary for years. One goes to the Prince’s chambers, the other to the General’s barracks. The message is simple, written in the old runic script that only those of high noble blood can read.
The serpent in our halls grows bolder. The Orrery. Moon’s peak. Alone.
The Orrery is the name I give my sanctuary, my circular room of scrolls and starlight. It is the only place in this palace that feels like neutral ground, though I know they will see it as my domain.
I wait. I light the calming herbs, their smoke coiling toward the celestial map on the domed ceiling. I do not know if they will come. Their hatred for each other is a powerful, blinding force.
Zahir arrives first. Of course he does. He’s a creature of action, and the hint of a direct threat is a lure he cannot resist. He fills the doorway, a pillar of crimson and black, his presence a raw, violent energy that disrupts the quiet harmony of my sanctuary. His eyes scan the room, dismissing my scrolls and charts as meaningless clutter. He has a fresh scar on his cheek, a thin, blue line where Varos’s claws caught him.
Varos arrives moments later. He enters with his usual cold, silent grace, his golden scales catching the starlight. He is the picture of control, but I see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his hand hovers near the dagger at his belt. He and Zahirtake up positions on opposite sides of the room, two predators forced into the same cage, the air between them thick with unspoken violence.
“You have a flair for the dramatic, mystic,” Zahir growls, his arms crossed over his massive chest.
