Page 7 of Craving Their Venom
“The woman is not property, Your Majesty,” I say, my voice calm and steady. “She is a nexus of fate. A prophecy I shared with you in confidence, a warning you chose to ignore, now walks in our halls. She must be protected, studied. The future of Nagaland may depend on it.”
“The future of Nagaland depends on the strength of my warriors!” Zahir snarls, taking a step forward. “And my warriors were promised a reward. A promise made by the King himself!”
“Enough,” my father commands, and the single word cracks like a whip, silencing the General. The King leans forward, a slow, reptilian movement. He looks from me, to Zahir, and then to the silent woman at my side. A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. He is enjoying this. He is enjoying the sight of his General, his Mystic, and by extension, his heir, all vying for this one, insignificant creature.
“A creature of such… importance,” he says, drawing out the word, savoring it. “Cannot be left to either of you. The General’s appetites are too base. The Mystic’s rituals too obscure. This has become a matter of state.”
He shifts his gaze to Varos. “The human will be placed under the direct charge of the Crown Prince. He will be her keeper. He will ensure her… safety.” The King’s eyes lock with his son’s, a silent, unmistakable order passing between them. “The matter is settled.”
The words fall like stones into a deep well. Zahir is seething. I feel a cold knot of dread form in my stomach. The king hasnot solved the problem; he has merely moved the pieces on the board. He has placed the heart and soul of the prophecy into the hands of the one serpent whose ambition is as cold and sharp as a winter shard of ice.
I look at Amara. She stands amidst the three most powerful naga in the kingdom, a pawn in a game she cannot comprehend, her fate decided by the whims of a tyrant. And I, who returned to guide the threads of destiny, find that they have been snatched from my grasp and woven into a tapestry of pure, political cruelty.
5
AMARA
The Prince’s palace are a prison of cold, silent luxury and I’m in one of the numerous chambers. After the King’s decree, I was moved from the mystic’s sanctuary of scrolls and starlight to this place of polished stone and sharp angles. It is a space that reflects its master perfectly. There are no personal effects, no clutter, nothing to suggest a life lived beyond duty and discipline. Just a large sleeping pallet covered in dark furs, a table carved from a single block of obsidian, and the ever-present, oppressive sense of being watched, even when I am entirely alone.
For three days, I am a ghost in this cage. Prince Varos does not appear. His absence is a statement, a wall of ice between us. He made it clear in the throne room that I am his responsibility, not his choice. A burden. A silent, naga guard delivers trays of food and water twice a day, his movements efficient, his gaze never once meeting mine. The food is bland, nourishing but joyless—stewed meat, hard bread, water. It is sustenance, not pleasure. It keeps the pet alive.
I am grateful for the solitude. It is a small mercy in this terrifying new world. It gives me time to let the frantic terror inmy chest settle into a hard, cold knot of resolve. I explore my prison. I trace the patterns in the stone floor, run my fingers over the cool, smooth surface of the obsidian table. I stand for hours at the high, barred window, which looks down upon a perfectly manicured garden of black-leaved plants and blood-red flowers. It is a beautiful, sterile landscape, a garden with no soul.
I do not see the General, with his raw, possessive hunger. I do not see the Mystic, with his sad, knowing eyes. There is only the silence, and the ghost of the Prince’s cold authority. In this silence, I find a strange sort of peace. I am a captive, a thing to be owned and traded, but in this room, I am simply Amara. I hum my mother’s songs, my voice a tiny thread of defiance in the vast, empty space. I refuse to let the silence swallow me whole.
On the evening of the third day, the silence is shattered.
The heavy door to my chamber swings open, and a trio of female naga enter. They are not guards. They are servants, their scales a muted grey, their movements practiced and deferential. They carry with them chests of silk and trays of cosmetics. My brief respite is over.
“The Prince commands your presence at the evening court,” one of them says, her voice a soft, sibilant whisper. She refuses to look at me, but at a point somewhere over my shoulder.
My heart begins to pound, a frantic, trapped bird against my ribs. “I…” I start to say, but I don’t know what words to use.I refuse? I am not ready?The words are meaningless here.
They descend upon me like a flock of predatory birds. Their hands are cool and impersonal as they strip the simple tunic from my body. I stand naked before them, exposed and vulnerable, my skin prickling with goosebumps under their dispassionate gaze. They lead me to a basin of warm, scented water and begin to wash me, their movements efficient, almost rough. They are not tending to a person. They are polishing an object for display.
They rub fragrant oils into my skin until it gleams. They comb my hair until it falls in a smooth, dark curtain down my back. Then they bring out the clothes. It is not a dress, but a series of silk panels in a shade of deep, midnight blue that shimmers with silver thread. They wrap them around me, leaving my arms, my back, and a sliver of my midriff bare. The silk is cool and heavy against my skin, whispering with every small movement. It is designed to entice, to display, to highlight my fragility.
They paint my lips with a dark berry stain and dust my eyelids with a shimmering silver powder. They clasp a collar of intricately woven silver around my neck. It is not a leash, but it feels like one. A beautiful, delicate symbol of my ownership.
When they are finished, they step back. One of them holds up a polished silver mirror. I stare at the reflection, and for a moment, I do not recognize the woman staring back at me. She is an exotic creature, a fantasy brought to life. Her eyes are wide and dark, her skin luminous, her body draped in the silks of a queen. But her expression is that of a sacrificial lamb being led to the slaughter.
“The Prince is waiting,” the lead servant says.
They lead me from the chamber. The Prince stands in the corridor, a pillar of cold, regal authority. He is dressed for court in a tunic of black silk embroidered with gold thread that accentuates the rare golden scales on his chest and arms. His gaze sweeps over me, a slow, appraising look that misses nothing. It is the look a merchant gives a prize mare, assessing its value.
“Acceptable,” he says, the single word a cold dismissal of the hours of preparation. He offers me his arm. His claws are retracted, but I am acutely aware of the power coiled in that hand. I hesitate for a split second before placing my hand on hisarm. His scales are smooth and cool beneath my fingertips. The contact is electric, a jolt of power that travels up my arm.
We walk in silence to the great hall. The sounds of the court wash over me as we approach—the murmur of dozens of sibilant voices, the strange, melodic strains of music played on instruments I cannot name, the clinking of crystal goblets.
The hall is a dazzling, terrifying spectacle. Hundreds of naga nobles are gathered, a sea of glittering scales and shimmering silks. The air is ripe with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the exotic perfumes of the court. I am the only human here. Every eye turns to us as we enter. I feel their gazes like physical things, crawling over my skin. I am the Prince’s new pet, on display for all to see. I lift my chin, my hand tightening on Varos’s arm.
He leads me to a raised dais at the side of the room, away from the throne where his father sits, but still in a position of prominence. We are seated on plush cushions, and a servant immediately appears with goblets of dark, fragrant wine.
“Do not speak unless spoken to,” Varos murmurs, his voice a low command near my ear. “Do not draw attention to yourself. You are an ornament. Nothing more.”
I nod, my throat too tight to form words. I am an ornament. A beautiful, silent thing to be admired. I focus on my breathing, on the simple act of drawing air into my lungs and letting it out again.
The evening wears on. Naga nobles approach the dais to speak with the Prince. They offer him obsequious greetings, their eyes flicking to me with open curiosity and veiled contempt. A particularly striking noblewoman, her scales the color of deep violet, lingers longer than the others. Her name is Lady Xaliya, and her smile is as sharp and beautiful as a shard of glass.
