Chapter 1

Talazar

The clash of steel against steel echoes across the training grounds as I watch the newest recruits struggle through their forms. Their movements lack the fluid precision that separates a warrior from a corpse, but they're learning. The obsidian scales along my arms catch the afternoon light as I demonstrate the proper angle for a killing strike, my fangs gleaming as I speak.

"Your blade should sing as it moves, not clatter like loose stones."

The young naga before me adjusts his grip, sweat beading along his bronze skin. I've seen a thousand like him—eager, untested, convinced they understand what it means to serve the realm. Most will learn. The rest will die quietly, forgotten.

A shadow falls across the training circle. I don't need to turn to know someone approaches with purpose; the shift in the air tells me everything. My golden eyes remain fixed on the recruit as he attempts another strike.

"Again."

"Warlord Voren."

The voice carries the breathless quality of someone who's run hard to find me. I finish watching the recruit's form—better, though still sloppy—before turning to face the messenger. Young, barely past his first century, with the nervous energy of someone who'd rather be anywhere else.

"Speak."

His throat works as he swallows. "There's been an incident in the city center, sir. The guard requests your presence."

I raise one brow, the venom lines along my neck catching the light. The training ground has gone silent around us, every recruit straining to hear what could possibly require the attention of a warlord. I gesture for them to continue their drills, though their movements remain distracted.

"An incident." The words taste flat in my mouth. "Elaborate."

"A theft, sir. In the main market. The perpetrator was caught, but—"

"But?" My voice drops lower, the kind of tone that makes grown naga reconsider their life choices. "Are our guards suddenly incompetent? Do they require my guidance to handle a common thief?"

The messenger's scales ripple with barely controlled anxiety. "The thief is... fighting back, sir. She managed to acquire a weapon and has barricaded herself. The guards could handle it, of course, but—"

"She?" 

"Yes, sir. A female. And there's a child involved."

I coil slightly, bringing myself to my full height. The motion is instinctive, predatory. "What manner of creature requires a warlord's attention to subdue? Is she some lost goddess? A dark elf in disguise?"

The messenger's expression shifts, and for a moment I catch something like disdain in his features. "She's human, sir."

The laugh that escapes me is sharp, humorless. Human. Of course. "A human has our mighty guards cowering behind their shields?"

"Not cowering, sir." His spine straightens with wounded pride. "But she's made a... scene. Drew a crowd. Started shouting about justice and corruption." He pauses, clearly uncomfortable. "The captain thought an example should be made. Public order."

I study his face, reading the unspoken message. A human making accusations in the market square, drawing attention, making our people listen to words that should never reach naga ears. The kind of situation that festers if left untended, that makes other humans think they can speak out of turn.

"An example." The words roll off my tongue as I consider. Public executions serve their purpose, remind everyone of their place in the natural order. But timing matters. Context matters. "Where in the market?"

"The main thoroughfare, sir. Near the fountain of Vatia."

Of course. The most visible location possible, where traders from across the realm gather to conduct business. Where every naga of consequence might witness whatever spectacle this human has created. Where whispers become rumors, and rumors become problems.

I nod once, decisive. "I'll handle it."

The messenger's relief is palpable. "Thank you, sir. The guards will be glad of your presence."

"Dismissed."

He retreats with obvious haste, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the sound of continued training. I watch the recruits for another moment, noting how their attention wavers between their drills and the conversation they've overheard. Word will spread quickly through the barracks—a human causing enough trouble to summon the Warlord himself.

Let them talk. Let them remember what happens when the natural order is challenged.

I turn from the training grounds, my scales catching the light as I move. The walk to the city center isn't long, but it gives me time to consider what I'll find. Humans in Nagaland exist at our sufferance, pets and playthings for those wealthy enough to afford such luxuries. Most understand their position instinctively, keeping their eyes down and their voices quiet.

But occasionally, one forgets.

The scent hits me first—fear, sweat, and something else. Something metallic that speaks of blood already spilled. As I round the corner into the main thoroughfare, the crowd comes into view, a writhing mass of scaled bodies pressing forward with the morbid fascination of predators scenting wounded prey.

The fountain of Vatia dominates the center of the square, its carved serpents eternally poised to strike, water cascading from their fanged mouths in endless streams. But today, the usual flow of commerce has ground to a halt. Merchants abandon their stalls, leaving precious goods unattended as they crane their necks for a better view. The air thrums with anticipation, that electric tension that precedes violence.

I push through the outer ring of spectators, my presence creating ripples of recognition. Conversations die mid-sentence. Bodies shift aside without conscious thought, the same instinct that drives smaller creatures from a hunting ground. My reputation precedes me like a shadow, and today I'm grateful for it.

"Warlord Voren approaches," someone whispers, the words carrying across the crowd like wildfire. 

The inner circle parts more reluctantly, these naga close enough to see whatever spectacle has drawn such attention. I catch glimpses through the gaps—flashes of bronze armor, the gleam of drawn weapons, the taut postures of warriors in a standoff.

When the crowd finally gives way completely, I see her.

The woman stands with her back pressed against the fountain's base, one arm extended to grip what appears to be—I blink, certain my eyes deceive me—a market vendor's display pole. Someone has hastily sharpened the metal tip, creating a makeshift spear that she wields with surprising competence. Blood runs from a cut along her temple, another across her forearm, but her stance remains steady, defiant.

She's human, clearly. Dark skin gleams with sweat and determination, coils of black hair escaping from whatever style once contained them. But there's something in the way she moves, the fluid precision of her defensive positioning, that speaks of training far beyond what any slave should possess.

Six guards surround her in a loose semicircle, their bronze scales catching the afternoon light. I recognize the formation—containment rather than assault. They could have ended this in seconds, yet they hang back, weapons raised but unused. Their faces carry the particular frustration of warriors denied their purpose.

"Warlord." Captain Nizeth steps forward, relief evident in every line of his massive frame. His hood flares slightly in deference, though his golden eyes remain fixed on the human. "We were awaiting your orders."

"Orders?" I let my gaze drift across the scene, taking in details my subordinates have missed. "For one human with a sharpened stick?"

The captain's jaw tightens. "She's been speaking treasonous words, sir. Accusing the guards of—"

"I can hear what she's saying perfectly well."

And I can. Her voice carries across the square, each word sharp and clear despite the ragged edge of exhaustion.

"—don't care about your laws when they're built on blood! When children starve while your nobles feast on—"

"Enough." The word cracks like a whip, silencing not just the woman but the entire crowd. I step closer, studying her with the attention I'd give a particularly interesting tactical puzzle. "Tell me, human, what crime led to this dramatic display?"

She shifts slightly, adjusting her grip on the makeshift weapon. Her hazel eyes meet mine without flinching, a feat that impresses me despite myself. Most naga struggle to maintain eye contact when I focus my attention on them.

"Crime?" A bitter laugh escapes her. "The crime of keeping someone alive."

"Elaborate."

Her chin lifts in challenge. "I took medicine. Food. Things we needed to survive."

"Theft, then." I circle slightly, forcing her to track my movement. The guards adjust their positions accordingly, but I wave them back with a subtle gesture. "Punishable by public execution, as I'm sure you know."

"For trying to keep—" She catches herself, the words dying on her lips. Interesting. Whatever she was about to say, she's reconsidered its wisdom.

It's then I notice the way she stands, not just pressed against the fountain for protection, but positioned deliberately to shield something. Someone. The realization makes me pause mid-step, my golden eyes narrowing as I peer past her defensive stance.

A child crouches behind her, small hands gripping the fabric of her worn tunic. The boy can't be more than eight or nine, thin in the way that speaks of chronic hunger. His face is turned down, dark curls falling across his features like a curtain.

"And who might this be?" I ask, my voice deceptively casual.

The woman's grip tightens on her weapon. "No one. Just—"

"Look at me, child."

The command carries the weight of absolute authority, the kind of voice that compels obedience even from those who should know better. The boy's shoulders tense, and slowly, reluctantly, he raises his head.

The world stops.

Silver-ringed slit pupils stare back at me, set in irises that shimmer like molten metal. Eyes I've seen before, in a face that once smiled at me across war councils and shared meals. Eyes that belong to one bloodline alone, a bloodline that should have died eight years ago in a pool of blood and broken dreams.

My breath catches in my throat, the sound barely audible but somehow thunderous in my own ears. Around me, the crowd continues their restless murmuring, oblivious to the earthquake that's just shattered my understanding of the world.

Those eyes. Serakel's eyes.

I’d spent most of my life with the prince. I was his personal guard and his closest friend. And still, I could do nothing when he died. 

The venom lines along my neck pulse with sudden heat as my heart hammers against my ribs. I force my expression to remain neutral, years of political training overriding the chaos in my mind. But inside, memories cascade like falling stones.

Serakel and I traveling. Us out drinking. Nights he confided in me, wishing to leave his position and find real meaning. So many secrets he shared with me over the years. 

Never once had he told me he had a child. 

Yet here stands living proof that somehow, impossibly, that future had found a way to endure.

The boy's eyes dart away from mine quickly, clearly trained to avoid such direct contact. Smart. Anyone else seeing those distinctive features would recognize what they represent—a claim to the throne that could tear the realm apart.

My mind races through implications. If this child is truly Serakel's son, then he's the legitimate heir to the crown. Never mind that I’m certain he's half-human, never mind the scandal it would create. The bloodline doesn't lie, and those eyes mark him as royal beyond any doubt.

But why is he here, in the market square, hidden behind a human woman who clearly is trying to protect him? Was she once one of Serakel’s lovers? Did he even know about the boy?

I look at the woman again, noting details I'd missed before. The fierce protectiveness in her stance. The way she positions herself to shield not just his body, but his face from view. The practiced efficiency with which she handles her weapon, despite its makeshift nature.

She knows. She has to know something. And I need to know everything she does. 

"What's your name?" I ask her, my voice carefully controlled.

"Does it matter?" Her defiance hasn't wavered, though I catch the slight tremor in her hands. "You're going to kill me either way."

"Names have power," I reply, stepping closer. The guards tense, ready to intervene if she strikes, but I'm beyond caring about a sharpened pole. "I prefer to know who I'm dealing with."

She hesitates, clearly weighing the wisdom of answering. The boy—Serakel's son, the thought still feels impossible—presses closer to her back, and something in his movement seems to decide her.

"Nysera."

"Nysera." I taste the name, filing it away with all the other details I'll need to unravel this mystery. "And the boy?"

"Kalem."

The name washes over me. Serakel had a grandfather named Kalem, one he greatly respected. One that no one else would name their child after. 

The crowd grows restless around us, their bloodlust unabated by the delay. They came expecting swift justice, the kind of brutal efficiency that maintains order in the realm. Instead, they're witnessing what must appear to be an extended interrogation of a worthless human.

Captain Nizeth clears his throat pointedly. "Your orders, sir?"

I study the scene again—the defiant woman, the hidden prince, the hungry crowd, the frustrated guards. Too many moving pieces, too many variables to control in such a public setting. Whatever decision I make here will be witnessed by dozens of naga, discussed in taverns and noble halls across the city within hours.

The smart play would be simple. Execute them both, quickly and publicly. Eliminate the threat to stability that the boy represents, remove the woman who clearly knows too much. Maintain order, preserve the status quo, honor the promises I've made to the realm.

But Serakel's eyes stare up at me from his son's face, and I remember other promises. Older ones, spoken in blood and shadow. I swore to protect my friend and here is his bloodline. 

The faint ache that I always feel when I think of Serakel pulses through me. I barely survived his death, barely survived the ambush that ended him. And after, I awoke with strange magic—magic that punishes me whenever I think of my friend. 

But being this close to his son…It has the magic—the curse—reacting more than anything else ever has.