Chapter 1 

Mira

My feet ache from the long ride through dense jungle paths, but I press on, determined not to reveal the weakness coiling in my stomach. The carriage that carried me is gone, leaving me at the edge of a grand estate hidden in the heart of Nagaland’s humid darkness. I stand before walls made of pale stone and accented by winding vines of emerald and rust-red leaves. A wrought-iron gate stands open, silent as though waiting for me to step inside. Beyond it, the manor looms—a testament to power.

I was purchased yesterday at a high-end auction. The memory still trembles in my mind: a line of humans, each of us forced to keep our eyes on the ground as naga nobles strode by, chins lifted in disdain. They placed bids like they were haggling for cattle. One moment I was shivering on the auction block, and the next, a single word from someone in the darkness sealed my fate. My new owner never revealed himself that night; he simply gave instructions for me to be delivered here.

I move past the gate into a courtyard encircled by thick columns. The path is paved in flat stones that glisten with moisture. Naga craftsmanship is evident in every measured angle, each detail meticulously functional rather than purely ornamental. Still, I notice faint patterns along the columns: stylized serpents coiling upward toward the ceiling, their eyes marked with jade inlays. These subtle decorations remind me that the inhabitants here are not human and hold themselves far above those they consider lesser.

I pause at a massive wooden door banded in iron. There’s a carving at its center: a serpent’s head with flared hood, jaw parted in silent warning. My palms grow clammy, but I force myself to knock. Three quick raps echo in the damp air. No immediate reply follows, so I wonder if I should knock again. Before I decide, the door opens inward, revealing a female figure.

She’s taller than me by several inches—though I’m not short at five and a half feet. She has scales dusting her arms, and when she turns her head, I glimpse her eyes—white, milky, devoid of color. Yet she doesn’t stumble. She stands poised, shoulders angled with quiet strength. Her hair is gathered into a loose knot behind her head, shot through with silver.

“You are the new one,” she says, voice resonant and calm.

I swallow and nod, unsure whether to speak first. My training at the obedience academy taught me that speaking out of turn can be dangerous, especially with naga.

She inclines her head slightly. “I am Sahrine, the housekeeper. I maintain Lord Vahziryn’s estate.”

The name “Vahziryn” freezes the breath in my chest. I’ve heard rumors—everyone has. They speak of a naga warlord exiled from the capital, rumored to have venom potent enough to kill a man in seconds. I try not to show how those stories claw at my composure.

Sahrine gestures for me to follow. We step into a wide foyer. The floor is polished stone, half covered by a circular rug woven in deep greens and blacks. Wooden beams arch overhead, supporting the high ceiling. A faint echo follows our footsteps.

“You will address him as Lord Vahziryn,” Sahrine says. “But you will only see him if he requests your presence.”

My throat feels tight, but I push out a tentative response. “Yes, madam.”

She halts, turning her cloudy eyes in my direction with an uncanny accuracy that suggests she can see heat rather than light. “I’m not madam. Just Sahrine is enough.”

“I understand... Sahrine,” I say quietly.

She studies me for several seconds, then continues down a corridor flanked by tall windows. My gaze catches glimpses of lush vegetation outside, the enormous ferns and colorful, twisting vines. Deep in the distance, the drone of insects mingles with the haunting call of some unseen beast. Naga territory is known for wildlife more vibrant and deadly than anywhere else on Protheka.

At the end of the corridor, Sahrine stops by a dark wooden door. “Your room,” she says, pushing it open. She leads me in, revealing a small space with a narrow bed, a single dresser, and a tiny window high on the wall that allows slanted sunlight to fall across the floor. A plain wooden chair is tucked under a simple table.

When my gaze moves to the door itself, my heart stutters. On the outside, I notice three iron latches—each designed to lock whoever is inside. If they slide them closed, I won’t leave this room without their permission.

Sahrine’s voice remains calm. “You’ll be safe here if you keep to your duties. Lord Vahziryn doesn’t like chaos.”

“I’ll be careful.”

She places a small brass key on the table. “This is for the inside lock. You may secure yourself from within. No one in this household will intrude without reason. But do not misuse that privilege. If you cause trouble, the latches outside will see more use.”

I run my thumb over the key’s surface, noticing how worn it looks, as if many others have lived here before me. “I understand.”

Sahrine stands by the threshold, her posture rigid. “There’s a pitcher of water in the corner. You may wash up. If you need anything, speak quietly, and one of the staff will attend to you. We keep a certain atmosphere in this house.”

“What kind of atmosphere?” I ask, unsure if I’m allowed such a question.

She tilts her head, as though deciding how much to say. “An atmosphere of quiet, child. You’ll learn soon enough.”

With that, she steps out. The door closes gently, but the echo of finality resonates through my bones. I sit on the edge of the bed, studying my new surroundings. The walls are bare except for faint scratches near the dresser. The bedding is gray linen, worn but clean. There’s a single oil lamp on a shelf in case of darkness.

I touch my own arms, trying to calm my racing pulse. My skin carries a warm brown tone, marred by a burn scar on my left thigh—my permanent reminder of the raid on my childhood village. My hair is cut short to minimize fuss, tight coils that hug my scalp. At the academy, they taught us that maintaining a neat appearance is vital for pleasing one’s owner. My gaze drifts down to my calloused hands, ridges formed by years of scrubbing floors, washing dishes, cooking. That’s all I am to them—a maid, a servant. Something to be bought. Something that must remain invisible if I want to survive.

I have no illusions of respect here. My best chance is to obey quietly, to slip beneath notice. That is how I have lived this long. The less I appear to stand out, the more likely I am to see another dawn.

After rinsing my face with cool water from the pitcher, I step back into the hallway. The tension of this place presses upon me, yet a flicker of curiosity flutters in my chest. The estate is too big, too elaborate for a reclusive warlord. Why keep a large household if he prefers silence?

The corridor is hushed. I edge my way along walls decorated with carved serpent motifs. Each panel depicts swirling tails, fanged mouths, and coiling forms in a subtle monochrome style. Part of me wonders if these images are tributes to the five Naga gods—Vatia, Atia, Feher, Mynir, and Oella. They revere those deities in every corner of their domain.

A faint scuff of movement alerts me, and I freeze. A figure appears at the other end of the hallway. He’s half-shadowed, with broad shoulders and a lean build. Scales glint along his arms and part of his neck, arranged in a mosaic of black edged with faint greenish highlights. For a heartbeat, we watch each other. Then he steps into a shaft of light from a high window, revealing a face that seems half human, half serpent.

He’s not Vahziryn, I’m certain—this man’s posture is too casual, his features a touch rougher. Perhaps a guard or a retainer. Sharp, slitted eyes regard me with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. The shape of his nose is slightly crooked, and a scar runs across his chin.

“You’re the new purchase,” he says.

My voice feels small. “Yes.”

A faint snort escapes him. “Good luck.” He then brushes past me, boots tapping on stone.

I exhale slowly, relief trickling through me that he didn’t stop for more conversation. Keeping quiet is exactly how I plan to remain safe.

Sahrine finds me moments later. She beckons for me to follow. We traverse another hallway, stepping into a spacious chamber that appears to be some kind of sitting room. Large windows frame the jungle beyond. The view is breathtaking: tall trees with red bark, vines trailing in curtains, and bright green ferns. In the distance, a swirl of mist hints at a waterfall.

Sahrine points me toward a small closet. Inside, I find cleaning supplies and a folded apron. Without a word, I slip it over my head.

“You’ll start here,” Sahrine says. “Dust these shelves and wipe down the tabletops. Lord Vahziryn prefers minimal disturbance, so move quietly.”

I bow my head. “Of course.”

She leaves me to my task. My motions are careful and deliberate. As I dust, I notice odd trinkets on the shelves: a cluster of shimmering feathers in a glass display, a few coiled serpentine sculptures, and vials of dried herbs with labels in the naga tongue. I can’t read their script, but the letters flow in elegant arcs.

Time crawls, yet I’m oddly grateful for this mundane chore. My heart steadies, and I slip into the well-practiced calm I learned at the academy. Polishing surfaces with gentle strokes, making certain each area is pristine. While I work, I think about the rumors tied to this warlord. They say he’s vicious in battle, that he once took down an entire troop of orcs with only a handful of soldiers. They also say he’s exiled because of something scandalous involving the High Nest, though the specifics are murky.

I wonder if any of that truly matters. Right now, I’m a servant with no plan beyond surviving. The best approach is to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

My cleaning is interrupted by the soft slither of scales. Immediately, my gaze darts to the doorway. A naga man stands there, though this one’s appearance is far more striking than the guard I saw earlier. He’s impossibly tall and moves with fluid grace. Iridescent black scales shimmer across his forearms, trailing up to broad shoulders. The intricate patterns frame a powerful torso that suggests lethal strength. Long obsidian hair flows behind him, nearly brushing his hips.

He’s unsettlingly gorgeous in an inhuman way. The lines of his face are sharp, with slitted amber eyes that catch the light and reflect it like a predator’s. He doesn’t speak. His presence alone makes the air feel charged, as though a storm is gathering just outside.

I dip my head in what I hope is respectful greeting. My voice is subdued. “My lord.”

He remains silent for a long moment, gaze roaming over me. I fight the urge to shrink into myself. While I have no desire to provoke him, I can’t hide the tremor that runs through my limbs. This must be Vahziryn. He exudes command with every breath, as if the entire manor and its inhabitants exist at his mercy.

When he finally speaks, it’s low and measured. “You’re the one they brought from the auction.”

My nod is small. “Yes, Lord Vahziryn.”

His eyes narrow slightly, studying my stance, my posture, the shape of my face. “They said you arrived only this morning. Have you eaten?”

I almost flinch at his question. Why would my well-being matter? “Not yet, my lord.”

He lifts a claw-tipped hand, gesturing in the direction of the corridor. “The kitchens will provide you a meal. Go now.”

He sounds neither kind nor cruel. Simply commanding. My thoughts swirl with confusion, but I know better than to hesitate. “Thank you.” I set aside the rag I was using and head for the door.

As I pass by, I sense his gaze tracking every step. His presence presses on my nerves, but I keep my back straight. Once I’m in the hallway, I realize my heart is pounding so fast it almost hurts.

Footsteps approach from another direction. A male voice, quiet but insistent: “Don’t linger, girl. Lord Vahziryn hates wasted time.”

It’s the guard from earlier, the one with the scar on his chin. Up close, I notice his scales are more irregular than those of a full-blooded naga. Perhaps he’s a half-blood. His tone is impatient, yet not entirely unfriendly.

I offer a small nod and keep moving. My plan is simple: do my job, remain inconspicuous, and avoid stirring Vahziryn’s interest any more than I already have. If he wants a silent servant, I’ll give him exactly that. The best way to survive is to be useful and unseen.

The corridor winds past several tall windows that frame the jungle. I catch glimpses of red sand, thick knots of vines, and brilliant flowers shaped like trumpets. Everything out there hums with life, some of it surely lethal. In the distance, a bird with metallic plumage swoops low, letting out a piercing call. For a moment, it reminds me of how big this world truly is.

The man leads me to a spacious kitchen. Here, the scents of raw meat and fresh-cut herbs swirl in the air. A pair of human servants stand near a huge wooden counter, chopping vegetables. They glance up at me with guarded eyes, then return to their work. The half-blood guard instructs them to give me a plate. Immediately, one sets aside a small portion of stew and hands it over.

I thank them under my breath, taking the bowl to a quiet corner. The guard leaves without another word, boots thumping on the stone floor. In that corner, I notice a low stool, so I settle there to eat. My spoon clinks softly against the wooden bowl. The stew is simple—root vegetables, shredded meat, and a few herbs—but it’s warm, and it grounds me.

As I eat, I can’t ignore the tension in the kitchen. Nobody speaks above a whisper. It’s as if the entire household is trapped in some unspoken rule: keep the peace, never cause a stir. Every face I see is drawn with concentration, as though each person fears the consequences of a single mistake.

I set down the spoon, appetite dwindling. My mind circles back to what I’ve heard of this warlord. If even half the rumors are true, it’s no surprise the staff treads carefully. Yet my initial meeting with him was subdued. He didn’t roar commands or menace me with a whip. Instead, his voice, though quiet, carried an undercurrent of threat, as if violence is coiled beneath his stillness.

Finishing the last bite, I stand and deposit the empty bowl in a washbasin. One of the servants glances at me. She’s a small woman with tired eyes, her hair bound in a neat braid. “You should hurry back before you’re missed,” she whispers.

“I will,” I reply softly.

My next steps take me into the corridor once more. A series of paintings line one wall—renderings of jungle scenes, but each with a serpentine figure emerging from vines. I pause before one depicting a tall naga crowned with twisted horns and swirling tattoos. A faint plaque at the bottom reads: High Warlord Kayzhar, though the letters are in the naga script, so I can only guess.

A prickle at the back of my neck warns me that I’m being watched. Turning, I spot no one. Yet the sense lingers, prompting me to move faster. I don’t want any reason for Lord Vahziryn or his staff to suspect me of prying. In truth, all I can think about is returning to my modest room, the one with the locks on the outside, simply because it offers a semblance of refuge.

When I arrive, relief washes over me as I see the door is still unlocked from the inside. I slip in and close it gently, pressing my forehead against the wood. My pulse gradually settles.

This entire place feels like the hush before a storm. Everyone acts as though something catastrophic might erupt if they dare raise their voices. Perhaps Vahziryn’s quiet is more dangerous than any shouted rage. The stories from the auction swirl in my head: how he once annihilated a foe with a single strike of venom, how he never forgives disobedience.

Still, I think of the way he watched me in that sitting room, the moment he asked if I’d eaten. The concern was minimal, but it existed. I can’t decide if it’s genuine or a calculated display of authority. Maybe both.

My only certainty is that survival depends on not rousing his temper, or anyone else’s. I glance around the small room. It’s plain, but it’s mine for now, and that is enough. Sitting on the bed, I let a deep breath escape my lungs. Tomorrow, I’ll continue my duties and stay in the shadows. If I remain silent and useful, perhaps I can avoid drawing the warlord’s gaze again. That’s the lie I cling to, the belief I’ve carried for years: if I don’t stand out, then I won’t become prey.

Yet something whispers in my mind that he’s already noticed me in ways no master has before. And I can’t shake the feeling that in this household, silence might not be enough to keep me safe.

I close my eyes, forcing the thought away. I’m not about to test that theory. My life, from this moment forward, belongs to Lord Vahziryn, whether I wish it or not.

All I can do is blend into the stillness. If I’m lucky, he’ll forget I exist, and I’ll fade into the rhythms of this strange, quiet manor. I have to believe that’s possible. Otherwise, I might never find the courage to draw another breath.