Page 53 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

The jungle closes in.

23

XIRATH

The trail is fresh, woven into the jungle like a wound that has yet to clot. Broken branches, uneven footprints pressed into damp soil, the faintest shimmer of blood where a body had dragged against the undergrowth.

The dark elves had taken her this way.

A slow breath steadies my grip on the hilt of my blade, claws flexing around the worn leather. Killing them will not be enough.

They need to suffer.

The hunt begins with silence. Not mine, the jungle’s. The usual calls of nocturnal creatures have faded, as if the world itself waits, holding its breath in quiet anticipation.

The stench of magic lingers, something old and rotted, woven through the fabric of the night. Dark elf sorcery, designed to deceive, to shroud.

They think they can hide.

Fools.

A shadow shifts ahead, movement barely perceptible against the moonlit branches. The familiar outline of an elven figure glides through the trees, his back to me, hands resting lightly against the hilt of his twin daggers. He moves with confidence, with ease, too unaware of the death following in his wake.

One strike is all it takes.

The snap of his spine reverberates through my palm as I wrench his body backward, claws slicing deep through the sinew of his throat. Blood sprays in a fine arc, hot against my forearm. His body crumples before he can make a sound, a lifeless heap swallowed by the earth.

The jungle absorbs his death without protest.

More are ahead. I can feel them, sense their presence threading through the trees. The dull murmur of voices drifts on the wind, careless, unguarded.

They are speaking of her.

The leader’s voice stands out, low and sharp, laced with amusement. “She ran fast, I’ll give her that.” A chuckle follows. “But it’s always more fun when they try.”

My muscles coil.

Another voice, more derisive. “Pity the naga didn’t come. Guess she wasn’t worth much after all.”

Idiots.

I came.

A branch snaps beneath my weight as I step forward, allowing them to hear. The voices cease.

Tension coils through the clearing, thick and sudden. The leader’s shadow shifts, eyes narrowing toward the darkened trees. They sense something now. Too late.

The first of them turns.

His dagger never makes it from its sheath.

My claws rip through his side, parting ribs as if they were nothing more than wet parchment. The gasp that leaves him is brief, choked off by the blood that floods his lungs before he hits the ground.

The others move, but they're slow.

Steel sings through the night as my blade finds its mark, carving through flesh and tendon with merciless precision.

One staggers backward, staring at me, disbelief widening his crimson eyes. He had not expected this. Not so soon. Not like this.

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