Page 4 of Naga Warlord's Mate

Priscilla’s fingers curled into fists. She forced them to relax, one digit at a time, the way Mila had taught her. The afternoon sun beat against her neck as she walked faster, needing to move.

“Did you see the notice board?” A young human woman called out to her friend ahead. “Another surrogate position. Pay’s good.”

“Better than cleaning,” her friend replied. “My feet are killing me from scrubbing floors.”

Priscilla’s stomach twisted. Was that all they were good for? Breeding and cleaning? She’d spent enough years on her knees, enough time serving others’ needs. The art supplies in her bag weighed heavily—her attempt at something more, something that was hers alone.

The message crystal chimed in her pocket again. Brivul this time: “Dinner’s at seven. Mila’s worried you’re not eating enough these days.”

She didn’t respond. They meant well, but their concern sometimes felt like chains of a different sort. Their spare room, their food, their guidance—all necessary, all appreciated, all slowly suffocating her.

“I need my own place,” she whispered to a passing breeze. “My own life.” But what kind of life? The university classes helped, but they weren’t enough. She needed something more, something that proved she was beyond her biology or her past.

The sound of clashing metal drew her attention. The training grounds must be nearby. Perhaps she could find something worth sketching there—movement studies, dynamic poses.Anything to keep her mind off the weight of expectations pressing down on her shoulders.

The training grounds soon sprawled before Priscilla, a vast expanse of worn stone and ancient pillars. She settled onto a low wall, her sketchbook balanced on her knees, and began to capture the fluid movements of the warriors training below. Their forms flowed like water, each strike precise, each block calculated.

Her pencil stilled for a moment. These weren’t the mechanical movements she’d learned as a slave—the proper way to serve tea, how to bow, when to speak. These were movements of power, of choice.

“Perfect form,” the warlord called out to his student. “Now shift your weight to your back foot. Feel the ground beneath you.”

Priscilla’s fingers tightened around her pencil. What if she’d learned to fight instead of serve? What if her muscles remembered defensive stances instead of submissive poses?

Before she could second-guess herself, she slipped down from her perch and edged closer to the training area. Ancient columns provided cover as she moved between shadows, her heart thundering against her ribs.

A pair of warriors demonstrated a series of strikes. Priscilla’s body moved before her mind could stop it, mimicking theirstance. She planted her feet shoulder-width apart, just as they did. Shifted her weight. Raised her arms.

The movement felt foreign, but thrilling. Wrong, yet so right.

“Keep your core tight,” she whispered to herself, copying the warlord’s words. Her muscles trembled with the unfamiliar position, but she held it.

Another sequence caught her eye—a defensive move that flowed into a counter-attack. She followed along, her movements clumsy but determined. Each step, each turn, each strike filled her with a wild sort of joy.

“I am not weak,” she breathed, executing a turn that made her dress swirl around her legs. Her body remembered years of forced grace, but this… this was different. This was power on her own terms.

A warrior demonstrated a kick. Priscilla copied it, stumbling slightly but catching herself. Her laugh echoed softly off the stone. For the first time since coming to Nirum, she felt truly alive.

The joy of movement shattered as a deep voice cut through the air like a blade. “You do not belong here.”

Priscilla’s heart lurched as she spun around, her dress tangling around her legs. The warlord towered over her, his massive frame blocking out the sun. His red scales rippled with goldundertones as he crossed his arms, the scar on his left arm stark against his scales. His presence filled the space between them.

“This is the warriors’ training ground,” he said, each word precise and cutting. “Not a playground for curious humans. I am Warlord Andear, and you are trespassing.”

Heat crept up Priscilla’s neck, but she kept her chin raised. His golden eyes narrowed, and something flickered across his face—recognition, perhaps?—before his expression hardened again.

“These grounds are restricted to warriors and those in training,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “You endanger yourself and distract my warriors. Leave. Now.”

The command hit her like a splash of cold water, reminiscent of orders from her past. But she wasn’t that person anymore. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The familiar urge to bow, to retreat, to make herself smaller rose up, but she crushed it down.

His gaze raked over her again, lingering on her face as if trying to place her. The intensity of his stare made her skin prickle, but she held her ground. The old Priscilla would have already fled, mumbling apologies. But freedom had given her a taste of something else—something that felt suspiciously like defiance.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken challenge. Around them, the training had stopped, warriors pretending not to watch while stealing glances at theirconfrontation. The sun beat down on Priscilla’s shoulders, and sweat trickled down her spine, but she didn’t move. Wouldn’t move. Not until she’d said her piece.

She drew in a deep breath, gathering her courage like armor around her shoulders. The words sat ready on her tongue, waiting to be unleashed.

Chapter 3

Andear

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