Page 5 of Craving Their Venom
Her insight is a physical blow. It strikes me with more force than any blade. A man? I am not a man. I am a weapon. A tool of the King. A creature of violence and duty. The loneliness of my existence is a fortress I have built around myself, stone by stone. And this fragile human, with a few quiet words, has just found the gate.
A wave of fury, hot and blinding, washes through me. It is fury at her, for seeing too much. It is fury at myself, for allowing her to see it.
I tighten my grip in her hair, pulling her closer until our faces are inches apart. “There is no man here,” I snarl, letting her feel the full force of my rage. “There is only a General. And his appetites.”
I am about to show her exactly what those appetites entail, to erase her words with a brutal act of dominance, when a sharp rap comes at the door.
“General Zahir.”
The voice is calm, measured, and utterly unwelcome. It is a voice of incense and whispers, of prophecies and secrets. Kaelen.
My growl is a low, guttural sound of pure frustration. I release the human as if she is on fire, and she stumbles back, her hand flying to her throat, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and relief.
“What is it, mystic?” I roar at the door, not bothering to open it.
“I must see the human,” Kaelen’s voice replies, as serene as ever, completely unbothered by my rage. “It is a matter of great spiritual importance.”
Spiritual importance. I want to laugh. The only thing of importance here is my claim, and this silver-scaled priest dares to interrupt it.
“She is not available for your prayers and portents,” I snap.
The door opens. Kaelen stands there, a figure of infuriating calm in the doorway. His silver-blue scales seem to glow with an inner light, and his eyes, when they land on the human, are filled with that same unnerving, soul-deep intensity I saw in the throne room. He completely ignores me, his focus entirely on her.
“The prophecy awakens,” he says, a soft whisper that carries more weight than my roar. “And its heart is here. I must speak with her.”
He takes a step into my room, into my territory, his gaze never leaving the woman who stands trembling between us. He has challenged me. Not with a blade, but with the quiet, absolute authority of his faith.
The Prince has touched her. The Mystic now seeks her.
And I, the General, find myself caught in a battle I do not understand, fighting for a prize whose value I am only just beginning to comprehend. The hunger inside me is no longer simple. It is a raging, complex storm, and this human female is its eye.
4
KAELEN
The General’s rage is a physical force. It floods his spartan quarters, a suffocating tide of violence that smells of ozone and bloodlust. It beats against my senses, a discordant drum in the symphony of the cosmos. But I am a rock in this torrent, my calm a shield forged in silence and vision. My gaze is not on the snarling warrior, but on the woman he has cornered.
Amara.
The name came to me in a whisper of starlight the moment I first saw her, a name that does not belong to our tongue, yet feels ancient and true. She stands between us, a fragile vessel containing a storm. Her terror is a high, thin note, but beneath it, her spirit burns with the steady, unwavering light of a distant star. It is this light I have followed back from my exile. It is this light that the prophecy foretold.
Zahir’s crimson scales are flushed dark with fury, his powerful body coiled to strike. His hand is still fisted in her hair. I see the faint tremor in her limbs, the pallor of her skin. He is a hammer, and he sees only a nail. He cannot comprehend that she is the fulcrum upon which our entire world is about to turn.
“She is not for you, mystic,” the General growls, his voice a low threat that promises pain.
“She is not foryou, General,” I reply, my own voice quiet, yet it cuts through his rage like a shard of obsidian. I take a step into the room, crossing the threshold of his territory without invitation. The prayer beads at my wrist, carved from the fossilized bones of a leviathan, feel cool and heavy against my skin. “She is a key, not a toy for your warriors to break.”
His golden eyes narrow, the slits contracting to pinpricks of malice. “The King promised her to me.”
“The King is not the final arbiter of fate,” I say softly. “The gods have their own designs.” I extend a hand toward her, my palm open. It is not a command, but an offering. An anchor in the storm of his fury. “Come. You will be safe with me.”
Zahir’s growl deepens, a sound from the very bedrock of the earth. He is about to refuse, to challenge me. I can see the violence gathering in his shoulders. But he is a creature of tradition as much as he is of brutality. To defy a mystic invoking the gods in such a way is a taboo even he is reluctant to break. His grip on her loosens, and with a final, guttural snarl of frustration, he shoves her toward me.
She stumbles, her eyes wide and wild. I catch her arm, my touch gentle. Her skin is warm, her bones as delicate as a bird’s. The contact sends a jolt through me, a current of pure, undiluted life force that resonates with the ancient power humming in my own blood. The prophecy is not just words on a scroll. It is alive. It is here, trembling in my grasp.
I lead her from the room, leaving Zahir to his rage. I do not look back.
The corridors of the palace feel different with her at my side. The cold, imposing stone seems to recede, the shadows less menacing. Her presence changes the very quality of the air. We walk in silence, her steps light and hesitant next to my measuredstride. I lead her away from the barracks and the public halls, toward the secluded spire that holds my sanctuary.
