Chapter 1

Amara

The forest floor is a lie. It promises softness in its carpet of red ferns and moss, but every root is a snare, every shadow a mouth. I know this place. I have known it since I was a child, learning which berries stain your fingers and which ones stop your heart. But today, the forest is not mine. It belongs to them.

The hunt is silent. Not the silence of peace, but the held-breath quiet of a predator before the strike. I hear no snapping twigs, no rustling leaves. Only the thud of my own heart against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat counting down my last moments of freedom. I risk a glance over my shoulder. A flicker of motion, a ripple in the air like heat off sun-baked stone. That’s all they give.

My lungs burn, each gasp a searing pain. The air is strong with the smell of damp earth and the strange, spicy aroma of the blue-barked trees that bleed a milky sap. It’s a scent I’ve always associated with home, with safety. Now it feels like a shroud. I stumble, my foot catching on a gnarled root, and pitch forward into the ferns. The ground rushes up to meet me, knocking the air from my lungs in a choked gasp.

And then they are there.

They don’t rush. They simply materialize from the dappled light, their forms coalescing from the shadows as if woven from the forest itself. Three of them. Naga. Taller than any man I have ever seen, their bodies a terrifying fusion of humanoid strength and serpentine grace. Dark crimson scales, like polished garnets, cover their chests and arms, catching the light in lethal patterns. Their lower bodies are clad in dark, functional leather, but I see the powerful curve of muscle in their legs, the thick, muscular tail that balances them with an unnatural stillness.

One of them steps forward, his face strong with predatory focus. Slitted pupils, the color of molten gold, fix on me. He has no expression, none of the tells I’ve learned to read in men—no tightening of the jaw, no flicker of the eyes. Just a cold, absolute purpose. A forked tongue darts out, tasting the air, tasting my fear.

I scramble backward, my hands sinking into the damp soil. A low hiss escapes him, a sound that vibrates in my bones. It is not a word. It is a statement of ownership. Mine.

He moves with a speed that defies his size. One moment he is ten feet away, the next he looms over me, a mountain of scaled muscle and chilling indifference. A large, clawed hand, each nail a shard of black obsidian, descends. It doesn't grab me, not in the brutish way a human captor would. It cups the back of my neck, the touch surprisingly gentle, yet unyielding. The scales are smooth, cool against my skin. The sheer strength coiled in that hand is terrifying. He could snap my neck with a twitch of his fingers. The thought is so clear, so certain, that a tremor runs through me.

He lifts me to my feet as if I weigh nothing. My bare feet dangle for a moment before finding purchase on the uneven ground. I stand before him, trembling, my chin barely reaching the center of his chest. I force myself to meet his gaze, refusing to cower. It is all I have left. My defiance is a tiny, flickering candle in a hurricane, but it is mine.

The other two naga flank him, their presence a suffocating weight. One of them produces a rope, not of hemp, but of some smooth, black fiber. My captor takes it, his golden eyes never leaving mine. He doesn’t bind my hands behind my back. He loops the cord around my neck, a leash. The humiliation is a physical blow, a hot flush that spreads across my skin. He leaves it loose enough to breathe, but tight enough that the message is clear. I am not a person. I am a thing to be led. An animal.

He gives a soft tug, and I stumble forward. The journey begins.

We travel for what feels like days, though the sun filtering through the dense canopy offers little sense of time. They move with a tireless, fluid grace, their tails sweeping silently behind them. They do not speak to me, or to each other. The only sounds are the whisper of their scales and the soft thud of their feet on the forest floor. They offer me no food, but one of them will occasionally press a waterskin to my lips, his movements efficient and impersonal. I drink, because to die of thirst is a stupid way to die.

My fear slowly crystallizes into a hard, cold knot in my stomach. It doesn’t lessen, but it changes. It becomes a lens through which I see everything with a painful clarity. I watch the way their muscles shift beneath their scales. I watch the way their heads tilt, their hoods flaring slightly at any unfamiliar sound. I watch them, and I learn.

The forest gradually thins, the familiar red ferns giving way to strange, crimson sand that glitters with flecks of black. The trees here are skeletal and blue, their branches clawing at a sky that has turned a bruised purple. We are in their lands now. Nagaland.

The Capital rises from the plains like a row of fangs. The architecture is nothing like the soft, rounded lines of human villages. It is all sharp angles and stark, towering structures of black stone that seem to drink the light. There is no ornamentation, no frivolous decoration. Only a brutalist functionality that is both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling. It is a city built by predators, for predators.

As we enter the city gates, the air changes. It hums with a silent, oppressive power. Naga move through the wide, clean streets with the same lethal grace as my captors. They are a kaleidoscope of colors—some with scales of jade green, others of sapphire blue or onyx black. They all turn to look at me, their slitted eyes cold and appraising. I am a novelty. A curiosity. A piece of flesh on a leash. I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and keep walking. I will not give them the satisfaction of my terror.

I am led through the city to a vast, central palace that seems carved from a single mountain of obsidian. Inside, the air is cool and smells of strange incense and something else, something metallic and clean. The halls are vast, the ceilings so high they are lost in shadow. We pass guards in polished black armor, their faces hidden behind visored helms, their tails resting in perfect, coiled stillness.

We arrive at a pair of massive, carved doors. My captor halts, his grip on the leash tightening for a moment before he removes it. The sudden freedom is dizzying. He gives me a slight push forward. The doors swing open on silent hinges, revealing a throne room that steals my breath.

It is a cavernous space, lit by glowing crystals embedded in the walls that cast a cold, blue light. A throne of jagged, unpolished black stone dominates the far end of the room, and upon it sits the King. He is ancient, his crimson scales faded to a dull rust, his body stooped with age but his eyes sharp and cruel.

The court is assembled. Dozens of naga, draped in fine silks and glittering jewels, line the hall. They are beautiful and terrifying, their faces impassive masks of aristocratic disdain. They look at me as one might look at a new piece of art, or a prized hound.

My captor forces me to my knees on the polished stone floor. It is cold against my bare skin.

“A new pet for the royal collection, Your Majesty,” my captor’s voice is a low rumble, the first words he has spoken. “Captured on the western border. She is unbroken.”

The King, Ishada Vhasma, leans forward, his forked tongue flickering out. “Unbroken things can be the most amusing.” His voice is a dry rasp, like stones grinding together. A cold, mocking laugh echoes in the vast hall, and the court joins in, a chorus of soft, sibilant hisses.

My gaze sweeps the room, cataloging, memorizing. I will not be a pet. I will not be an amusement. My eyes land on three figures standing near the throne.

One is clearly the Prince. He stands beside the King, his posture rigid and formal. His scales are a rare, brilliant gold, scattered across his chest and arms like treasure. His face is cold authority, but his eyes, when they meet mine, hold a flicker of something other than disdain. It is a sharp, assessing intelligence, a weighing and measuring that is almost as unnerving as the open cruelty of the others.

To the King’s other side stands a warrior. He is larger than the others, his crimson scales marked with the silvery lines of old scars. A particularly vicious one cuts across his chest. His power is a palpable thing, a brutal aura of violence that makes the air around him feel thin. He watches me not with curiosity, but with a raw, possessive hunger that makes my skin crawl. It is a wolf singling out a lamb from the flock.

And then there is the third. He stands slightly apart from the others, half-hidden in the shadows of a great pillar. His scales are an iridescent silver-blue, shifting in the light. He is a mystic, a priest, I realize, from the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist. He is not looking at me with cruelty or hunger or even royal assessment. He is looking at me with a startling, soul-deep intensity, as if he is seeing not just my flesh and bone, but the very shape of my spirit. There is a sadness in his eyes, a weight of knowledge that seems too heavy for one being to bear.

The King makes a dismissive gesture with a clawed hand. “Take it to the menagerie. See that it is cleaned and prepared. The General may have use for it later, for his warriors’ entertainment.”

The warrior with the scarred chest—the General—gives a slight, predatory smile. The Prince’s expression remains unreadable.

I am pulled to my feet and led away, down another series of cold, silent corridors. My quarters are a gilded cage. The floors are covered in soft furs, the walls hung with silken tapestries. A basin of steaming, fragrant water sits in the room. It is a room more luxurious than any I have ever known, and it is a prison.

The naga guard who brought me here gestures to the bath. “Clean yourself,” he commands, his voice flat. “You will be summoned.”

He leaves, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, the sound of a lock sliding into place echoing in the silence. I am alone.

I stand in the middle of the opulent room, the silence pressing in on me. The fear is a living thing inside me, a cold serpent coiling in my gut. But beneath the fear, something else stirs. A spark. A tiny, defiant ember of rage.

I will not be a pet. I will not be entertainment. I will not be broken.

I walk to the basin, the steam warming my face. I look at my reflection in the water. My face is smudged with dirt, my hair a tangled mess, my eyes wide with a terror I refuse to let them see. I take a deep breath, and the scent of the water—herbs and flowers—fills my lungs. It is meant to be soothing, to make me docile.

I begin to hum. A quiet, tuneless melody from my childhood, a song my mother used to sing to ward off nightmares. It is a small act, a meaningless rebellion. But in this cold, silent palace, in this gilded cage, it is the only weapon I have. And I will use it. I will survive. And one day, I will make them see the woman, not the pet. One day, they will learn my name.