Page 2 of Sereis
“No! I haven’t even met Lord Series.”
“And you never will, if you don’t master the pours.” Tam grabbed an empty pitcher, filling it with water from the carved basin. "Here, you need practice. Show me the seventeen pouring techniques. You keep mixing up number eleven and number fourteen."
"They're identical—"
"Not to Caelus." He positioned himself like a seated lord, imperious and demanding. "Number eleven, the Cascade of Consideration."
I adjusted my grip on the pitcher, angling it just so. The water had to arc precisely, creating what Caelus called "a waterfall of respect." It was absurd, like everything he demanded, but my hands moved through the motion anyway. Muscle memory from three years of service.
"Better. Now fourteen, the Tempest's Blessing."
This one required a spiral pour, the water turning clockwise exactly three times before landing in the cup. I managed two and a half rotations before Tam shook his head.
"Again. You know he'll demand it at least once tomorrow, probably for someone important."
We worked through all seventeen, my arms aching by the end. Tam's left sleeve had torn during his wrestling match with the levitating tray, a long rip from elbow to cuff. I fetched my bone needle and the thread I kept hidden in my pallet's seam.
"Sit," I ordered, and he complied, knowing better than to argue when I had that tone.
The stitches came automatic, tiny and perfect like my mother had taught me before the selling. Each one precisely spaced, creating an almost invisible mend that would hold better than the original weave. She'd believed in making broken things beautiful, in finding worth in the wounded.
"You could have been a seamstress," Tam said quietly, watching me work. "In another life."
In another life, I might have been many things. But this was the life I had—collar heavy on my throat, hands that knew seventeen ways to pour wine for a chaotic Dragon Lord, and a friend who helped me remember I was more than property, even when the brand on my neck said otherwise.
"There." I tied off the final stitch. "Good as new."
Above us, something shook the ceiling—probably Caelus rearranging his entire pavilion again. Tomorrow, the Dragon Lords would gather. Whatever grievance had driven Davoren to invoke that right, it was serious enough to drag Sereis from his isolation.
The younger girl had finished eating, color returning to her cheeks. She caught my eye and mouthed "thank you" before scurrying back to her assigned tasks.
"Come on," Tam said, lifting the tray of goblets with practiced ease. "Let's get these to the introductory chamber before Caelus decides they should actually be arranged by the lunar calendar or something equally ridiculous."
I followed him toward the carved steps, my mother's perfect stitches holding his sleeve together, the weight of tomorrow's gathering pressing down like the collar around my neck.
Theintroductorychamberhitme like a physical force—all that space, all that light, after the cramped heat of the servants' quarters. The transparent walls rose a hundred feet, volcanic glass so pure you could see straight through to the platforms beyond. My worn boots whispered against floors polished to mirror-black, and I caught my reflection fractured in the obsidian: small, dark-haired, collar tight around my throat.
"Pattern of the eternal storm!" Caelus's voice rang out before I'd taken three steps. "No, no, NO! Can't you see it? The cushions should spiral—counterclockwise—representing the cycle of tempests!"
He stood in the center of chaos, silver-white hair floating around him like he carried his own private wind. Thirteen servants scrambled to rearrange silk cushions that had already been moved four times in the past hour, their faces blank withthe particular exhaustion that came from serving the Wind Master.
"The blue ones represent rain," he continued, gesturing wildly. "So obviously they go on the outside. But wait—" His eyes lit with fresh inspiration. "What if we arranged them by electrical conductivity instead? Yes! Bring the copper-threaded ones to the center!"
Tam shot me a look that saidkill me nowas we set down our tray of goblets. A servant girl—maybe sixteen—collapsed a cushion pile in her haste to follow his latest command. Caelus didn't even glance her way.
"You there!" He pointed at two men struggling with an enormous silk banner. "That needs to ripple! Like actual wind! Use the enchantment I showed you!"
"My lord," one ventured carefully, "you haven't shown us—"
"Haven't I?" Caelus frowned, then laughed—bright and careless as breaking glass. "Well, figure it out! Improvisation breeds innovation!"
Through the transparent walls, movement caught my eye. The other Dragon Lords were arriving.
Davoren entered first, and even through volcanic glass, his presence burned. Not literally—though steam did rise from his footsteps—but something about the way he moved spoke of barely leashed violence. Beside him walked a woman who had to be Kara, his human mate. The golden marks on her skin glowed like living tattoos, shifting and swirling with each step. She kept one hand on his arm, and I realized with a start that she was calming him, this ancient being of fire and fury.
Her other hand rested protective over her stomach. The gesture was subtle, but I'd seen it enough in the ash wastes—women checking, always checking, that what grew inside them still lived.
"More servants!" Caelus called out, though we were all already here. "The ceremony begins in minutes and nothing is RIGHT!"
