Chapter 1 

Matilda

The hold stinks of unwashed bodies and the bucket we share for waste. I wake to the sound I always wake to: wood creaking, metal groaning, women breathing in the darkness. Forty-three of us down here. Forty-three yesterday. The day before that, forty-four.

The woman who died was three bodies to my left. Fever took her. The demons dragged her up the ladder two days ago and we haven't seen her since. I never learned her name.

I learned that lesson early.

My spot is halfway down the center aisle, port side. Not the best position—that's closer to the ladder where air flows down from the deck. Not the worst—that's starboard aft where the bilge water collects and the rats are bolder. I claimed this space on the second day by sitting in it and refusing to move when a larger woman tried to shove me aside. She hit me once. I didn't hit back. Just stared at her until she realized I wasn't going to give her the fight she wanted.

You don't waste energy on fights you can't win.

The ship lurches. My stomach lurches with it, but I've learned to keep the nausea down. Vomiting means losing whatever meager nutrition they give us. Can't afford that.

Around me, women shift in the gloom. Some sleep. Some weep quietly. Some just stare at nothing. I do none of these things. I watch the ladder. I count the hours by the footsteps on the deck above. I listen to which demons are on duty by the weight of their footfalls.

The heavy ones are Volvath—the enforcers. They walk like they want the ship to feel them coming. The lighter ones are Soz'garoth, the overseers. They move quiet, which is worse. You don't hear a Soz'garoth until he's already beside you.

There's one Ur'gin too—a hellhound. I've heard him but never seen him. His claws make a specific scraping sound on the deck. The women near the ladder say he's the size of a horse, all muscle and fire-bright eyes. They say he can smell fear.

Maybe. Doesn't matter. Fear is just another thing to manage.

Light appears at the top of the ladder. The hatch opens. Two Volvath descend, carrying buckets. Feeding time.

The woman beside me—brown hair, sunburned nose, maybe thirty—tenses. She always tenses. Every time they come down, she acts like this might be the time they take her specifically. Like she's special enough to single out.

She's not. None of us are.

The demons move down the aisle, ladling slop into our bowls. It's gray and lumpy and tastes like nothing. Gruel with bits of something that might have been vegetables once. I eat it methodically, scraping the bowl clean with my fingers. Every mouthful is fuel. Every mouthful is survival.

"How much longer?" the woman beside me whispers.

I don't answer. I learned that lesson too.

On the fourth day, a girl—maybe sixteen, small and terrified—had been dragged toward the ladder by a Volvath. I'd stood up. Stupid. Reckless. But she'd been screaming and clawing and something in me couldn't just watch.

I'd grabbed the demon's arm. Actually grabbed it. "Leave her."

The Volvath had stopped. Looked at me. Then smiled.

He'd dropped the girl and taken me instead.

Up on deck in the burning sun, he'd held me by the throat against the mast while the others watched. "You want to be brave?" he'd said in Common, his voice like grinding stone. "Watch."

Then he'd gone back down and brought the girl up.

What he did to her took hours.

I'd stood there, held by two other demons, forced to watch every moment. Forced to hear every scream. Forced to understand that my bravery, my stupid fucking heroism, had made it worse.

When it was over, they'd thrown the girl back down into the hold like a sack of spoiled grain. She'd lived for two more days. Infection took her. She'd died whimpering my name like a curse.

I never learned her name either.

Now I know: resist selectively. Remember everything. Never mistake suffering for nobility.

Commotion above. Footsteps, rapid and purposeful. Voices shouting in Demon-tongue—I don't speak it, but I know the tone. Orders. Activity. Change.

The ship is slowing.

Around me, women lift their heads. Even the ones who've stopped caring about anything raise their eyes toward the deck. Change means something. Maybe something worse. Maybe something different.

Different is still something.

The hatch opens again. This time it's a Soz'garoth who descends—thin, almost elf-like, with skin like polished ash and eyes that glow faint yellow. He moves with unsettling grace, his horns curved and symmetrical, his leather coat immaculate despite weeks at sea.

"Up," he says in Common. His voice is smooth, educated. "All of you. Topside."

No one moves fast enough. A Volvath comes down behind him and starts dragging women to their feet. Hands grab me. I don't fight. Just stand when pulled, just move when shoved.

We climb the ladder in single file. My legs shake—weeks of sitting have stolen their strength. The woman ahead of me stumbles. I catch her elbow automatically, keep her from falling back into me.

She doesn't thank me. Smart.

Then I'm up, out, and the sun hits me like a hammer.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the blinding light. Tears stream down my face—not crying, just reaction. My skin, pale from weeks below deck, screams in protest. Around me, other women are sobbing, shielding their faces, stumbling.

Gradually, my eyes adjust.

We're in a harbor. Not the rough wooden piers of the port where we were taken—this is different. Stone quays. Organized. Permanent. Buildings rise in the near distance, made of pale sandstone that glows in the heat. Beyond them, temple spires reach toward a sky so blue it hurts.

Nagaland.

I've heard of it. Who hasn't? The desert kingdoms where the snake-people worship the Light and build monuments that scrape the heavens. Where humans are property when they're lucky, entertainment when they're not.

We're not lucky.

The harbor is busy. Other ships line the quays—merchant vessels, military galleys, slave ships like ours. Cargo is being loaded and unloaded. People move with purpose: demons, dark elves, a few humans in collar and chain.

And naga.

They're impossible to miss. Humanoid from the waist up, serpentine below. Their tails are thick and muscular, easily fifteen feet long, moving in smooth undulations that make no sound. The ones I can see clearly have scales in shades of green, blue, bronze—iridescent in the sunlight, beautiful and alien.

One of them is coiled near the gangplank, speaking with a massive demon in captain's colors. The naga's upper body is bare except for jeweled bands around his arms and throat. His scales are deep emerald. His hood—I didn't know they had hoods—flares slightly as he speaks, golden patterns catching the light.

He's negotiating. I can see documents changing hands. A purse of coin.

We're being sold.

"Line up," the Soz'garoth orders. "Single file. Face forward."

We obey. What else can we do?

Demons move down the line with buckets of seawater, sluicing us down. The water is cold and sharp with salt. It stings cuts I didn't know I had. My hair plasters to my skull. The thin shift they gave us—the only thing any of us are wearing—becomes transparent.

No one looks away. The demons don't care. The naga on the dock don't care. We're being cleaned like livestock before market.

Because that's what we are.

The Soz'garoth walks down our line slowly, examining each woman with clinical detachment. He carries a small brush and a vial of black ink. When he reaches the first woman, he dips the brush and paints a symbol on her forearm.

"Vessel 1," he announces.

The mark sinks into her skin like water into sand. No blood. No scarring. Just black ink that settles beneath the surface and stays there, stark against her pale skin.

She stares at it. Starts to cry.

He moves to the next woman. "Vessel 2."

Then the next. "Vessel 3."

Down the line. Methodical. Efficient. Each woman marked and numbered like amphorae in a wine merchant's inventory.

I'm twenty-fourth in line.

I don't look away when he reaches me. I meet his yellow eyes directly and watch him dip the brush. The ink gleams wetly.

He paints the symbol on my left forearm. The sensation is cold—not burning, but freezing. Like ice pressed against skin. The mark sinks in, settling deep.

"Vessel 24," he says.

I look down at my arm. The symbol is there, black and permanent. Not a brand. Not a tattoo. Something else. Something that sits under my skin like it belongs there.

They can number me, I think. They can't unname me.

Matilda. Matilda. Matilda.

I repeat it in my head like a prayer, like an anchor. My name is the one thing they haven't taken. The one thing they can't see. I'll remember it. I'll remember who I was before I was Vessel 24.

I'll remember everything.

The Soz'garoth finishes marking the last woman—Vessel 43—and returns to the front of the line. He clasps his hands behind his back and addresses us all in that smooth, terrible voice.

"Welcome to Nagaland. You have been purchased to serve the Proving of Scales—a sacred festival held once each decade to honor the five sibling gods of the Light. You will serve as vessels for young naga males proving their fertility and divine favor."

He pauses, letting that sink in.

"If you survive the Proving, you will be released. If you resist, you will be replaced. Your survival is your own responsibility. The temple provides shelter, food, and care sufficient to maintain your health. Everything else is your choice."

I look at the city rising behind the harbor. At the temple spires. At the naga moving with casual arrogance through streets that belong to them absolutely.

I look at my arm’s number. Then I make a decision.

Remember everything. Every face. Every rule. Every word. Every moment necessary to not only survive to to escape.