Page 1 of Naga Warlord's Mate

Chapter 1

Andear

Sunlightscorchedtheancientstones of the training grounds. Andear’s red scales prickled in the oppressive heat as he watched his warriors train, their movements creating a symphony of clashing steel and grunts of exertion.

“Your stance is weak, Fik.” Andear’s words carried across the courtyard like a whip crack. “Square your shoulders. A real enemy won’t give you time to correct your balance.”

The young warrior adjusted instantly, his blue scales gleaming with sweat. The air hung thick with the musky scent of exertion and sun-warmed stone. The familiar smell once stirred Andear’s blood. Now, it just reminded him of endless repetition.

“Again,” Andear commanded, crossing his arms over his chest. His scar caught the light, a pale line against dark scales. “Until your muscles remember what your mind keeps forgetting.”

Two more warriors circled each other nearby, their blades singing. Andear’s keen eyes caught a telegraphed move.

“Sloppy moves, Mareth. In a real fight, you’d be dead three times over.”

“Yes, warlord.” The warrior’s response came without hesitation.

Andear slithered restlessly along the perimeter of the training ground. Each day blurred into the next—train, drill, correct, repeat. The warriors moved with precision born of fear andrespect, but where was the fire? The urgency? They trained for battles that never came.

“Hold.” The word cut through the clash of metal. “Switch partners. Fik with Mareth. Show me you’ve learned something today besides how to waste my time.”

The warriors scrambled to obey, but their movements felt hollow. Mechanical. Like actors playing at war rather than soldiers preparing for it. Andear’s jaw clenched as he watched them begin again, the same dance on the same cracked stones under the same merciless sun.

As the morning wore on, Andear’s claws dug into his palms as he watched another perfect, pointless drill. The warriors before him moved like water, but his satisfaction felt hollow. These weren’t soldiers forged in battle. They were dancers, rehearsing steps they’d never use.

“Switch positions,” he ordered, his voice carrying across the sunbaked courtyard. The memory of real combat scratched at his mind, taunting him with what was lost.

Five years ago, he’d led the charge against the Darkspine Rebellion. The clash of steel had meant something then. Each blow struck had been a statement, each parry a declaration of power. Now...

“Warlord?” Fik approached, his scales gleaming with exertion. “Should we run the flanking maneuver again?”

“No,” Andear commanded. “Pair up. Full contact sparring.”

At least he could give them a taste of real combat, even if it was just an echo. The warriors squared off, their movements careful, measured. Too measured.

“You think your enemies will give you time to consider your options?” Andear slithered into the ring. “Fight like you mean it, or don’t fight at all.”

The warriors’ strikes grew fiercer but still lacked the desperate edge of true battle. Andear remembered the burning in his lungs as he’d fought through the darkspine’s ranks, the way time seemed to slow and speed up all at once. His scar tingled with the memory.

“Better,” he growled, but the word tasted bitter. These warriors would never know that feeling—the clarity that came when every heartbeat might be your last. When victory meant survival, not just another mark in a training ledger.

“That’s enough.” He turned away from the sparring, unable to watch any more of this elaborate pretense. “Cool down exercises and then dismissed.”

The sun had barely reached its peak, but he couldn’t stomach another moment of watching war turned into sport. His warriors deserved better than this endless rehearsal for a performance that would never come. They deserved the chance to prove themselves as he had.

But peace, it seemed, had other plans.

The palace corridors echoed with Andear’s heavy slithering as he approached the council’s chamber later that afternoon. The familiar scent of incense and aged stone gave way to something else—tension, thick enough to taste.

Through the ornate doors, he caught fragments of heated discussion.

“The Xirath Dominion’s proposal—”

“The moon base would be purely scientific, they claim—”

Andear’s scales bristled as he entered. The council members sat around their circular table, data screens hovering before each of them. The word “Xirath” made his blood run cold. Memories of their documented atrocities flooded his mind.

“Warlord Andear,” Elder Keth acknowledged his presence with a nod. “Perhaps you can offer military insight on this matter.”

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