Page 19 of Craving Their Venom
“A serpent in our halls is not drama, General. It is a threat,” I reply calmly. I stand dead center in the room, the river of starlight from the oculus window pooling around my feet. “An enemy seeks to use your hatred for each other to tear this kingdom apart. The assassination attempt was not a beginning. It was an escalation. They are testing us, and we are failing.”
“I do not fear shadows,” Zahir snarls.
“You should,” Varos cuts in, his voice like chipping ice. “A shadow with a poison dart is as deadly as an army. What have you learned, Kaelen?”
I let the silence stretch for a moment, forcing them to focus, to truly listen. “I have learned that the prophecy is the key. It speaks of this very moment, of this very threat. It speaks of the three of us.”
Zahir lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Destiny. I forge my own destiny with steel, not with the ramblings of dead mystics.” But his posture is rigid, his tail giving a slight, agitated twitch. The seed of doubt I planted earlier has taken root.
“Prophecy is a part of our heritage,” Varos says, his gaze thoughtful. He, at least, understands the power of tradition. “But words can be twisted. How can you be certain of your interpretation?”
“And why us?” Zahir demands, his voice a low growl. “There are dozens of naga with royal blood in this city. Why these three ‘serpents’?”
I turn to him, my gaze steady. “Because there are no others like us. Look at yourselves. You, Zahir, are the embodiment of our kingdom’s strength, our martial fury. You are the serpent ofcrimson rage. And you, Varos, are the future of our throne, the embodiment of our ambition and our cold, calculating intellect. You are the serpent of gilded power. And I… I am the keeper of our ancient truths, the guardian of our connection to the gods. The serpent of silvered spirit. We are the three pillars upon which Nagaland rests. And we are at war with each other.”
The room is silent. My words hang suspended in the air, an undeniable, uncomfortable truth.
“Even if that is true,” Varos says finally, his voice tight, “it does not explain the most important piece. The human.”
“Yes,” Zahir agrees, his golden eyes narrowing. “Why her? She is a stray. A pet. How can a creature of no consequence hold the fate of our entire race?”
This is the heart of it. The part they cannot, will not, understand. I close my own eyes for a moment, gathering my thoughts, searching for the words that will pierce their armor of pride and logic.
“Because she is not a part of our world,” I say softly, opening my eyes to look at them. “And that is the source of her power. You see her as a thing to be owned, to be used. You cannot see the truth of her. But I can.”
I take a step forward, my voice resonating with a certainty that comes not from scrolls, but from my very soul. “When I look at her, I do not see a pet or a tool. I see a spirit forged in a world without scales or venom, a world where courage is not measured by the strength of one’s arm, but by the resilience of one’s heart. I see a soul that burns with a light so pure, so defiant, that it casts a shadow on the darkness festering in this court. I feel it. The cosmos itself pivots around her. You feel it too, though you name it lust or curiosity or a strategic problem. It is the pull of destiny. And it will either unite us, or it will tear us, and this entire kingdom, apart.”
I let my words settle in the starlit silence. The two most powerful warriors in Nagaland stare at me, their faces masks of conflicting emotions. The hatred between them is still a palpable force, a chasm that seems impossible to cross. But I can finally see a flicker of something else in their eyes. A shared, unwelcome burden. A dawning, terrifying understanding.
The alliance is not yet forged. The surrender has not been made. But the first step has been taken. They are no longer just rivals. They are bound together by a truth they both despise, and by a human woman who holds their fate in her small, fragile hands.
13
AMARA
The Prince’s chambers are a beautiful, silent hell. In the days following my branding, a strange and terrible routine takes hold. I am an exquisite doll, taken from my box each morning by the grey-scaled servants, washed, oiled, and dressed in silks that feel like whispers against my skin. I am fed delicacies on silver trays. I am a treasured thing. And I have never felt more like an object.
Varos is a ghost. He comes and goes, his presence a shift in the air, a sudden drop in temperature. He rarely speaks to me, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I am not looking. It is a heavy gaze, analytical and possessive, the gaze of a man studying a rare and dangerous artifact he has acquired at great cost. He has claimed me, but he does not want me. The contradiction is a constant, low-grade fever in my blood.
My only tether to my own humanity arrives on the morning, a small, bustling whirlwind of life in the sterile silence of my cage. She is a human servant, older than me by a decade perhaps, with a round, practical face and hands that are chapped and red from work. Her name is Kia.
She enters with the naga servants, carrying a tray of linens, but unlike them, she meets my eyes. Her gaze is quick, assessing, and holds not a trace of the fear or resentment I see in the others. It holds something far more dangerous: pity.
While the naga servants arrange my morning meal, Kia moves about the room, her movements brisk and efficient. She smooths the furs on my sleeping pallet, her back to the others.
“Eat the berries first,” she murmurs, her voice so low it is barely a breath of sound. “They’re from a southern isle. A sign of great favor. Let them see you appreciate it. It will bore them faster.”
I stare at her, stunned into silence.
“And that one,” she continues, flicking her eyes for a brief second toward the door, where a naga guard stands impassive. “Lady Xaliya. The one with the violet scales. She smiles like a flower, but her roots are pure poison. Never accept a gift from her. Never.”
Before I can respond, she has finished her task and is gone, leaving me with a tray of food that now seems laden with hidden meanings and a heart that is beating with something other than fear. Finally, I feel a flicker of hope.
Kia becomes my secret, my lifeline. She comes each day, her practical advice a shield against the subtle cruelties of the court. She teaches me the silent language of survival.That particular shade of blue is the Prince’s family color; wearing it is a statement.The General’s men are loyal to him above the King; do not mistake their brutishness for stupidity.The mystic is an unknown quantity; even the King is wary of him. His protection is a double-edged blade.
Our friendship is forged in whispers and shared glances. One day, she brings me a small, misshapen fruit, hiding it in a fold of linen. It is a common sun-apple from the human territories, its skin tough, its flesh tart and familiar. As I bite into it, the tasteof home explodes on my tongue, so sharp and poignant it brings tears to my eyes. I eat it huddled in a corner, shielding it with my body, a precious, secret treasure. When Kia sees the tear tracks on my face later, she says nothing, but her hand, as she takes the empty tray, brushes mine for just a second. It is a touch of shared, unspoken understanding. A touch that says,I see you. You are still a person.
It is this small, rekindled flame of self that I carry with me into the lion’s den.
