Page 3 of Naga Warlord's Mate

Andear turned sharply away from the gates, forcing his attention back to his duties. But even as he strode away, that sense of recognition—and the irritation it brought—lingered like an itch beneath his scales.

Chapter 2

Priscilla

Thesunlightcaughtinthe intricate carvings above the palace gates. Priscilla traced each line with her gaze, mapping the ancient Niri script that wound through battle scenes of warriors. Her fingers itched to capture the details in her sketchbook.

A group of Niri warriors strode past, their scales glinting in the afternoon sun. One nodded briefly in her direction—more acknowledgment than she usually received. The rest simply looked through her, as if she were part of the architecture she studied.

“The detail work here is incredible,” she murmured to herself, pulling out her small sketchbook. “The way the light catches each groove...”

“The gardens are not open to the public today,” a guard called out to her.

“Oh, I know.” Priscilla didn’t lower her gaze as she might have once done back on Jorvla. Freedom had taught her that much, at least. “I’m actually here for the art program. The university said I could look around today.”

“Did they now?” His scales rippled with skepticism.

She pulled out the creased letter from her bag. “Professor Taelan specifically mentioned the architectural features at the palace. See?” The paper trembled slightly in her hands, but her voiceremained steady. “The integration of ancient Niri symbolism with modern defensive structures is part of our current study.”

Around them, palace life continued its steady rhythm. Domestic specialists hurried past with arms full of linens while merchants argued prices in the shade of massive columns. A pair of noble Niri women in elaborate robes whispered behind ornate fans, their eyes sliding dismissively over Priscilla’s simple dress.

The guard studied her letter longer than necessary. “Very well. Stay where I can see you.”

“Thank you.” Priscilla turned back to the arch, determination straightening her spine. Her pencil soon moved across the paper, capturing the fierce grace of a warrior in battle.

Her hand paused as voices drifted from nearby—a group of university students, laughing and discussing their latest projects. Just like Mila was probably doing right now.

“At least someone knows what they’re doing with their life,” she muttered, smudging a line with her thumb. The warrior she’d drawn looked wrong—too rigid, too perfect. Like the facade she maintained.

The message crystal in her pocket hummed. Mila’s daily check-in, no doubt.

Her sister’s voice emerged, warm and confident: “Hey Cilla! Just finished my advocacy meeting. We’re making real progresson human housing rights. Brivul says hello. Don’t forget dinner tonight. I’m making that spiced grain dish you like.”

Priscilla’s throat tightened as she tapped out a quick response: “Thanks. Still at the palace. Sketching.”

She gave the same response most days. While Mila fought for human rights, built a life with Brivul, and changed the world, Priscilla drew pictures.

Her gaze drifted to her hands. The scars had faded, but memory traced each one. The burn from spilled tea when she’d served Kurg’s guests. The thin line across her palm from scrubbing floors with caustic cleaner. Back then, every minute had been accounted for. Wake at dawn. Serve breakfast. Clean. Serve lunch. Clean more. Serve dinner. Sleep. Repeat.

“Stars help me,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against the cool stone wall. “I’m actually missing the routine of being enslaved.”

A bitter laugh escaped her. Here she was, free to draw, to study, to walk where she pleased. Yet each choice felt like a step into the void, with no gravity to guide her. Her pencil tapped against the paper, creating a constellation of meaningless dots.

The guard shifted, reminding her of his watchful presence. “Time’s almost up.”

“Right.” Priscilla gathered her materials, each movement precise—another habit from her past life. “Thank you for your patience.” Priscilla tucked her sketchbook away and walked along the palace grounds, her steps measured against the ornate stone pathways.

The latest “opportunity” letter burned in her pocket—another polite inquiry about surrogacy from a noble Niri family.

“Your human genetics would be perfect for carrying our child,” she muttered, mimicking the aristocratic tone. “We offer generous compensation and the finest medical care.”

A bitter taste filled her mouth. She’d received three such offers this month alone, not counting the “domestic specialist positions” that were just prettier words for servant work.

Two Niri women passed by, their conversation drifting over.

“The human help these days—so picky about their positions.”

“Can you blame them? Freedom’s gone to their heads.”

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