Naga's Essence

Chapter 1

Salina

     “Shit. This place looks scary as fuck even in the daylight,” I mutter under my breath. 

Nakam is supposed to look unassuming, harmless even, when the sun is up.

     But it has never quite managed that.

     Instead, the dark twisted spires reach for the skies like gnarled limbs raising upwards in worship. There is a perpetual cloud of darkness that hangs over Nakam – some say the cloud arrived the day that a purna’s spell went horribly wrong.

     I don’t know the truth of it. I don’t think anyone does.

     All I know is that nothing really grows close to the ‘school’ building. And it is always dark, no matter how brightly or sharply the sun shines down on Milthar.

     I puff slightly as I run up the front steps. Ivy grows up the front steps of Nakam, and with a twist of my hand, I rot them. They wither into dust and fall away.

     An old teacher of mine, who died a long time ago when I first joined Nakam, practically beat it into me that I had to use my magic in even the most mundane situations because that would make me more powerful.

     “You need to be addicted to it! You need to be addicted to your magic! Your power! Your talent! Otherwise, your magic will begin to rot and so will you!”

     I haven’t ever really understood what he meant by that, but I took it to heart.

     Now, whenever I’m in Nakam, I use my magic as much as possible.

     You’re late, an anxious voice in my head says. I shove it away as I run through the narrow, silent hallways of Nakam.

     Callista is waiting for me in the training rooms.

     “Are you ready?” A wicked grin crosses her pretty face and I roll my eyes as I pull the dark, hooded cape off my shoulders.

     The cape hovers in the air as I focus on it.

     This should be easy.

     My shoulders tremble as the magic inside me strains against my instruction. But then with a wave of my hand, the cape settles on one of the many hooks that are attached to the wall.

     “I’m ready now.” I tell her. I am wearing a pair of tight, black trousers and a loose, black cotton shirt.

     The walls are mirrored, and I look at myself as Callista prepares to take me through our warm up exercises.

     I like what I see in the mirrors. And I know that as an assassin, my looks are my most important weapon.

     Waist-length silver hair that gleams in the sunlight and shimmers in the moonlight. Golden eyes that glint and glitter and terrify. A full mouth that has brought scores of men to their knees, and a lithe body, whipped into shape from years of training.

     That is what I am.

     An assassin.

     Sometimes I feel like I am living in a dream.

     Sometimes, I wake up and I think I am back in Prazh, about to go through the morning rituals with the rest of my coven.

     But then my world shatters. Because the reality is that most of my coven is dead. And those who are alive have banished me forever.

     And I am now an assassin, and I live in Milthar, and I attend a school which is, at night, a school for assassins.

     How did I get here?

     The question flits through my mind quickly. I flex my hands, and magic burns off them as I relive the series of events that led me to where I am.

     “I don’t feel like warming up today.” There is an edge to my voice.

     Callista looks at me with narrowed eyes, but she nods her assent.

     Then she leaps.

     Callista always has weapons hidden all over her body. She has managed to fit them into places I didn’t know were possible and should surely be painful.

     Now, as she arcs gracefully through the air, she pulls twin daggers from somewhere and throws them at me.

     I twist out from under her, and her daggers shatter two of the mirrors behind me.

     Sythar is going to be pissed.

     I focus on my hands, my wrists, where my magic waits for me.

     Sometimes I want to weep with joy that I always have my magic waiting for me.

     Callista is still in the air – she stayed there longer than should be possible for a human woman – and she is about to go tumbling down gracefully to the floor.

     Everything is energy. You have the magic of the arcane. Use it. Always remember, everything is energy. My old teacher’s voice ripples through my mind as I grab the energy around Callista’s body. I make it heavier than she is, and then I bring her crashing down to the floor.

     She lands on her side, because we have all been taught how to fall while causing the least damage to ourselves, and she rolls onto her feet immediately.

     I take a step backwards, wavering slightly, and Callista smiles again.

     “Don’t tell me you’re already tired.” She croons the words at me in her soft voice, a voice that, like my mouth, has brought scores of men to their knees.

     “You did say you didn’t want to warm up,” she continues, and her voice is soft and sweet, and I remember Sythar’s favorite words.

     “A practice is a practice is a practice and a performance is a performance is a performance.”

     Right now, we may just be training, but for Callista, a training session is no different from a ‘real’ job. She is always sweet and soft and so, so deadly that I’d never want to get on her bad side.

     And the other students of Nakam are more afraid of me than they are of Callista, which is saying something.

     Callista leaps at me again and again and again.   

     I dodge knives and spears and swords deftly until she uncurls a whip from around her hips and twists it around my ankles.

     I fall until I remember that I don’t really have to and force myself up before I use my magic to stretch the fibers of the whip until it tears.

     Callista laughs lightly. Her tinkling laughter resounds around the room like the shattering of glass and dances away from me. I pull and drag at the energy she leaves behind her as she moves.

     More advice from my old teacher rings through my head.

     “Perfect the arcane magic. But never forget your most powerful asset. Make them rot.”

     She really shouldn’t have remained on the ground. The wooden ground, I think as I pull at the wooden floor.

     I can make anything rot. Even materials that have been made by humans or minotaurs or dark elves.  

     But wood is even easier. It was alive before. And I am so, so good at rotting the living.

     Callista’s eyes widen as the floor beneath her trembles and starts to crumble.

     The stink of rot magic fills the room, and my own knees go weak for a second as I force all the magic that lingers in my body towards my hands.

     There is magic everywhere inside of me.

     There is magic in the tendons that hold my bones together. There is magic in my muscles and nerves.

     There is even magic in the roots of my hair.

     And I am forcing it all into my hands.

     I do not know when I start murmuring the old purna chant. It is a chant we used to sing when the weather started changing.

     It is more a prayer than anything else, except the purna have no one to pray to except ourselves.

     I suppose I am praying to myself right now. I am praying that I don’t fucking collapse before I’ve defeated Callista.

     I almost laugh out loud when the floor gives way completely beneath Callista, who doesn’t move quickly enough to avoid falling.

     I fall to my knees, too. As I do, I remember the first time I used necromancy magic.

     I remember the stares I got and the whispered insults that I, only half-purna, could wield magic as powerfully as I did.

     I do laugh when Callista crawls away from the mess. With a wave of my hand, I force the high, small windows of the room to burst open so that we can let some air in.

     “Sythar is going to beat your ass,” Callista says, and there is proud laughter in her voice. “You just ruined his hardwood floors!”

     “He’s got the money to fix it.” I shrug. “How did your latest job go?” I ask her, changing the subject. She’s one of the best assassins here, and if I ever hope to actually get my first assignment, I know I should be taking notes from her.

     That is why she helps me with training. Because while I may have magic, she is slightly physically stronger than I am and more adept at hand-to-hand combat and weaponry.

     I’m catching up fast, though. I have to. I can’t use magic everywhere.

     “It was good,” she says, and we start walking out of the training room. I flick my wrist, and my cape settles onto my shoulders.

         “You easily could have done it, though,” she adds as an afterthought.

     “Why?”

     “This guy was an idiot. An older dark elf who just wanted an easy lay. I had to undress slightly to get him where I wanted him. You could have just winked at him, and he would’ve collapsed.”

     “Oh, please,” I scoff and then burst into laughter. “You’re gorgeous, and you’re also exaggerating.”

     “Can you believe we’re about to graduate?” she asks me wonderingly, and I shrug in similar disbelief.

     “What are your plans after graduation?” I ask her with genuine curiosity. This isn’t something we’ve discussed too much before.

     “I don’t know. Maybe Sythar will keep me on as an instructor. That feels like it would be nice.”

     “Yeah, you’re a good teacher so that would suit you.”

     “And your plans?”

     “I have my eye on a contract that I’m going to request after graduation. There is someone I need to get even with.”

     “That doesn’t sound like the best idea.” Callista’s voice is measured and gentle.

“I’m not changing my mind on this,” I reply firmly.