Page 11 of Craving His Venom

I offer a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll be there soon.”

He darts away without another word. I close the door, rubbing my arms to dispel the lingering chill. Food is a practicalnecessity, but part of me dreads stepping into the corridors again, unsure if I’ll sense Vahziryn’s presence, or if he’ll appear from some corner to unsettle me further.

Yet life in this manor demands courage. I slide on my shoes and head out, forcing my back straight. My footsteps echo in the corridor, carrying me toward the kitchen. Though fear clings to me, I feel a spark of something else—a quiet determination that, for once, I won’t let terror define me.

As I walk, the estate’s stillness folds around me like a shroud. In that hush, my mind circles back to the memory of the warlord’s eyes, the flicker of raw intensity in them. I try to imagine how he must appear to his own kind: a disgraced noble, exiled with rumors of curses and betrayals swirling around him. Perhaps that’s why he meets my gaze with such gravity—because he, too, stands apart.

The hush closes in, and my footsteps grow more certain. One thing I know: from this day on, I can no longer ignore him. Whether it’s from fear or fascination, he’s carved out a space in my thoughts. And something tells me that might be exactly what he intended, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

4

VAHZIRYN

Dinner tonight promises to be a chore. I feel the tension gathering in my chest from the moment Sahrine informs me of Lord Rahlazen’s impending arrival. He’s a minor naga noble from a neighboring territory—a distant cousin of some baron or another—yet protocol demands I host him with courtesy. We do not often receive visitors here, which is exactly how I prefer it. Unfortunately, Rahlazen stands out as the kind of aristocrat who thirsts for gossip and flaunts the arrogance typical of lesser-born naga lords hoping to curry favor with the capital.

I pace inside my private sitting room before heading to the dining hall. Thick columns flank me, each carved with the coiling shapes of serpents. Braziers in the corners cast a warm, flickering glow across the polished floor. My reflection stares back from a polished mirror: tall and broad-shouldered, with black scales that glint green in the firelight. Those scales adorn my forearms and the top of my powerful tail. My hair is bound loosely at the nape of my neck, the obsidian strands brushed to keep them from tangling. A high-collared robe of black silk drapes over my frame, simple yet finely made, reminding anyguest that I once belonged to a far more prestigious circle of naga society.

I flick my tail, unsettled. A swirl of memories churns—this house rarely sees visitors, partly because of my exile. And partly because I keep my domain free from the prying eyes of other naga. Rahlazen, however, must have gleaned the nerve to come unannounced for reasons I can only guess.

Sahrine stands at the threshold, blind eyes directed toward me. Her voice resonates softly in the hush. “My lord, your guest has arrived. He awaits you in the main dining hall.”

“Very well.” My reply emerges in a low rumble.

As I follow her from the sitting room, I notice how my claws tap lightly on the stone floor with each step. My staff has prepared a modest spread for the meal—fine enough to avoid offense but lacking the gaudy extravagance of the capital’s feasts. We pass a cluster of arches leading to the kitchens, and I see half a dozen human servants bustling to finalize the trays of food.

Among them is Mira, carrying a silver pitcher. Her frame is slender, her skin a warm brown hue kissed by the glow of lanterns. She wears a simple, dark dress with an apron tied neatly at the waist. When she notices me, she pauses for a single heartbeat before lowering her gaze, giving me that subtle nod of acknowledgement. A familiar twist of tension hits my gut.

Ever since her arrival, she’s been a quiet presence, yet somehow impossible to ignore. The lines of her face, the delicate shape of her jaw, the controlled grace of her movements...I cannot tear my eyes away for longer than a day. It infuriates me how she occupies my thoughts. I stamp down that flicker of heat and continue to the dining hall.

The hall itself features a long table of polished wood, ringed by tall-backed chairs. In the center stands a candelabrum wrought from iron, the flames dancing atop thick candles that drip slowly. At the far end, near the head of the table, LordRahlazen lounges with a smug curl to his thin lips. His scales have a gaudy shine in coppery red, a stark contrast to the midnight black of mine. He rises with a theatrical flourish, bowing low enough to show questionable sincerity.

“Vahziryn,” he greets, though he omits the title of “lord.” “You do me honor by inviting me to dine. I hope I haven’t come at a poor time.”

I coil my tail near my feet, adopting a stance of polite calm. “Any time is poor for unexpected visits, but you are here now,” I say, voice deliberately mild. “I will show hospitality as best I can.”

He laughs, though it holds no warmth. “I’m sure you will. After all, one hears so many rumors about your reclusive ways.”

I offer no direct reply, merely gesture for him to sit. Servants drift in, carrying trays laden with roasted game, braised vegetables, and fresh fruit from the local orchard. My household prides itself on simple, well-prepared meals that reflect the bounty of this region. At least we do not resort to the barbaric custom some naga practice of displaying raw meat drenched in blood for shock value.

I settle at the head of the table, with Rahlazen to my right. The servants begin pouring drinks, a light wine steeped with herbs. One by one, they set plates, moving with silent efficiency. When Mira enters, carrying a bowl of spiced root vegetables, my attention zeroes in on her again. She moves carefully, that same deliberate grace. I can almost taste the tension in the air, as if she senses Rahlazen’s presence poses a threat she cannot name.

Her eyes flick up, meeting mine for the barest second. A spark travels through my chest, sharp enough to leave me breathless. Then her gaze lowers, as though she’s reminding herself of her role. My jaw tightens. I resent how a mere human can stir me so profoundly—and yet some part of me thrills at the thought that she lingers in my domain.

Rahlazen’s nasal voice slices through the hush. “You keep quite a few humans here, I see. Are they all so docile?” He snorts, surveying the nearest servant with a sneer. “I prefer to keep them out of sight when I’m dining. Some are so...filthy.”

Anger flares, but I bury it under my calm facade. “They serve their function,” I say, placing a morsel of meat on my plate. “No more, no less.”

He arches a brow. “Indeed. I suppose exiles can’t be too picky.”

My tail flexes. “Exile,” I repeat, my voice cold. “Is that the word the capital uses for it these days? I would have thought they’d prefer the term ‘self-imposed retreat,’ given their eagerness to wash their hands of me.”

Rahlazen’s grin widens, revealing pointed fangs. “Oh, there are many words used, but let us not dwell on such matters. I come for more pleasant pursuits. There’s talk that orc skirmishes have increased near your borders.” He leans forward as if we’re confidants. “Have you noticed any mounting threat?”

I give a measured nod. “Orcs are always a threat on this frontier. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Pity,” he sighs theatrically. “I was hoping for stories of your prowess in battle. You once had quite the reputation, Vahziryn. Some said you were unstoppable.”

I slice into my food, controlling the tension that works its way through my shoulders. “We are not at war, Rahlazen. I see no need for theatrics.”

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