Page 17 of Craving Their Venom
He does not look up as I enter, though he knows I am here. I can see the slight, almost imperceptible tensing of the muscles in his back.
“The air in here is too clean for a beast from the yards, General,” he says, his voice sounding like a low, mocking drawl. “You will track blood and sweat on my maps.”
“I have come for what is mine,” I growl, my voice a low rumble that seems to shake the very dust motes in the air. I plant my fists on the edge of the map table, leaning my weight forward, making the polished wood creak in protest. “The human. The King promised her to my warriors.”
“The King’s promises are subject to the needs of the state,” Varos replies, finally lifting his head. His golden eyes are chips of ice. “The human is now a key witness in the attempt on my life. A strategic asset. Her well-being is a matter of royal security. Surely even your brutish mind can comprehend the necessity of that.”
His condescension is a physical thing, a slime that coats his words. He uses logic and politics as a weapon, a shield of words to hide his theft.
“I comprehend betrayal,” I snarl, my tail lashing behind me, the tip slapping against the stone floor with a sharp crack. “I comprehend the sight of my prize, draped in your colors, paraded through the court on your arm like a trophy.”
“She is my responsibility. And my property,” he says, his voice dangerously soft. “As you were so keen to remind her yourself.”
The implication strikes me like a blow to the head. The thought of his spies watching me, reporting my actions back to him, sends a fresh wave of black fury through me.
“You will not keep her,” I vow, my voice dropping to a low, guttural threat. “I will go to the King. I will tell him how his heir dishonors the word of the throne, how he provokes his own General for the sake of a human pet. We will see how the needs of the state weigh against the loyalty of the entire army.”
Varos laughs. It is not a sound of amusement. It is a cold, brittle thing, like ice shattering. “Go to him. Please. Run to my father and complain about your stolen toy. Do you truly believe he cares for the fate of one human? He cares that his two most powerful weapons are at each other’s throats in open court. He cares that you, his great General, are allowing your appetites to make you a liability. Your rage is a blunt instrument, Zahir. And it is beginning to bore him.”
Every word is a deliberate, calculated strike, aimed at the heart of my pride, my honor. He is right. The King would see this as a weakness in me, not a transgression in his son.
“And your ambition is a poison that will choke this kingdom,” I retort, my hands clenching into fists so tight my claws dig into my own palms. “A Prince of your standing, with your silks and your whispers, does not intimidate me.”
“And a brute with a blade does not frighten me,” he shoots back, his eyes blazing with a cold, hateful fire.
The tension in the room snaps. I am not a General. He is no longer a Prince. We are two males, locked in a primal battle for dominance. I shove the heavy map table aside, sending carved markers scattering across the floor with a clatter. It is a raw, undisciplined act of fury, and I see a flicker of contempt in his eyes at my lack of control.
He does not wait for me to charge. He moves first, a blur of black and gold. He comes at me not with a weapon, but with his own body, his attack as precise and vicious as a dagger strike. He aims a kick at my knee, trying to cripple me, to bring me down to his level. I twist away, the blow landing on my thigh with a dull thud. I grab his tunic, using his own momentum to pull him off balance.
We crash against the wall of scrolls, the ancient parchments rustling in protest. His claws rake at my face, and I feel a sharp, hot line of pain as they slice through the scales on my cheek. The scent of my own blue blood fills the air, sharp and metallic. The pain only fuels my rage. I slam my head forward, my brow connecting with his with a sickening crack.
He staggers back, a dazed look in his eyes. I press my advantage, my fist crashing into his gut, driving the air from his lungs in a choked gasp. He is a duelist, a strategist. But in a brawl, in a raw contest of strength and savagery, he is no match for me.
I have him by the throat, my claws digging into the soft flesh beneath his jaw, when a third voice cuts through the haze of my fury. Our confrontation this time is even more forceful.
“And so you dance to their tune.”
The voice is quiet, yet it carries an authority that stops me cold. Kaelen.
He stands in the doorway, a figure of infuriating calm amidst the wreckage. His silver-blue scales seem to absorb the angry energy in the room, his twilight eyes are filled with a profound,weary disappointment. He looks at the overturned table, at the blood on my face, at my hand on the Prince’s throat, and he shakes his head slowly.
“Whose tune?” Varos chokes out, his hand clawing at my wrist.
“The tune of those who wish to see this kingdom burn,” Kaelen says, his gaze moving between us. “Do you think the assassination attempt was a random act of a lone dissident? Do you think the whispers in the court are mere gossip? You are fools. Blinded by your own pride.”
He steps in, his presence a sudden, chilling calm. “There is a faction within Nagaland, a serpent nesting in our own halls, that seeks to ignite a civil war. They are watching you. They are studying your weaknesses. And they have found it. This rivalry. This fight over a human woman.”
He looks directly at me, and his eyes are as old and deep as the night sky. “They knew you would see her as a prize, Zahir. They knew your honor would demand you claim her.” Then his gaze shifts to Varos. “And they knew you would see her as a tool, Varos. A pawn to assert your dominance over your rival. They are playing you against each other with masterful precision.”
The rage begins to recede, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. What he says… it has the chilling ring of truth. The assassination attempt. The timing. The way the court has seized upon this conflict. It is all too perfect.
“The prophecy I spoke of,” Kaelen continues, his voice a low, urgent whisper. “It is not a child’s tale. It speaks of a time when Nagaland will face a choice between unity and destruction. It speaks of three serpents of royal blood. And it speaks of a human heart that will be the catalyst. She is not a prize. She is not a tool. She is the fulcrum. And while you two fight over who gets to possess her, our true enemies are preparing to use her to shatter this kingdom into pieces.”
The fight drains out of me. I release my grip on Varos’s throat, and he stumbles back, gasping for air, his hand on his neck. We stand there, panting, surrounded by the evidence of our own foolishness. The hatred between us is still a raw, living thing. The rivalry is not gone. But it is now overshadowed by a much larger, more terrifying threat.
A faceless enemy. A serpent in our midst.
We are no longer just rivals. We are the three serpents mentioned in the prophecy. And we have been dancing on the edge of a blade, completely unaware of the hand that holds it.
