Page 2 of Craving His Venom

The corridor is hushed. I edge my way along walls decorated with carved serpent motifs. Each panel depicts swirling tails, fanged mouths, and coiling forms in a subtle monochrome style. Part of me wonders if these images are tributes to the five Naga gods—Vatia, Atia, Feher, Mynir, and Oella. They revere those deities in every corner of their domain.

A faint scuff of movement alerts me, and I freeze. A figure appears at the other end of the hallway. He’s half-shadowed, with broad shoulders and a lean build. Scales glint along his arms and part of his neck, arranged in a mosaic of black edged with faint greenish highlights. For a heartbeat, we watch each other. Then he steps into a shaft of light from a high window, revealing a face that seems half human, half serpent.

He’s not Vahziryn, I’m certain—this man’s posture is too casual, his features a touch rougher. Perhaps a guard or a retainer. Sharp, slitted eyes regard me with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. The shape of his nose is slightly crooked, and a scar runs across his chin.

“You’re the new purchase,” he says.

My voice feels small. “Yes.”

A faint snort escapes him. “Good luck.” He then brushes past me, boots tapping on stone.

I exhale slowly, relief trickling through me that he didn’t stop for more conversation. Keeping quiet is exactly how I plan to remain safe.

Sahrine finds me moments later. She beckons for me to follow. We traverse another hallway, stepping into a spacious chamber that appears to be some kind of sitting room. Largewindows frame the jungle beyond. The view is breathtaking: tall trees with red bark, vines trailing in curtains, and bright green ferns. In the distance, a swirl of mist hints at a waterfall.

Sahrine points me toward a small closet. Inside, I find cleaning supplies and a folded apron. Without a word, I slip it over my head.

“You’ll start here,” Sahrine says. “Dust these shelves and wipe down the tabletops. Lord Vahziryn prefers minimal disturbance, so move quietly.”

I bow my head. “Of course.”

She leaves me to my task. My motions are careful and deliberate. As I dust, I notice odd trinkets on the shelves: a cluster of shimmering feathers in a glass display, a few coiled serpentine sculptures, and vials of dried herbs with labels in the naga tongue. I can’t read their script, but the letters flow in elegant arcs.

Time crawls, yet I’m oddly grateful for this mundane chore. My heart steadies, and I slip into the well-practiced calm I learned at the academy. Polishing surfaces with gentle strokes, making certain each area is pristine. While I work, I think about the rumors tied to this warlord. They say he’s vicious in battle, that he once took down an entire troop of orcs with only a handful of soldiers. They also say he’s exiled because of something scandalous involving the High Nest, though the specifics are murky.

I wonder if any of that truly matters. Right now, I’m a servant with no plan beyond surviving. The best approach is to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

My cleaning is interrupted by the soft slither of scales. Immediately, my gaze darts to the doorway. A naga man stands there, though this one’s appearance is far more striking than the guard I saw earlier. He’s impossibly tall and moves with fluid grace. Iridescent black scales shimmer across his forearms,trailing up to broad shoulders. The intricate patterns frame a powerful torso that suggests lethal strength. Long obsidian hair flows behind him, nearly brushing his hips.

He’s unsettlingly gorgeous in an inhuman way. The lines of his face are sharp, with slitted amber eyes that catch the light and reflect it like a predator’s. He doesn’t speak. His presence alone makes the air feel charged, as though a storm is gathering just outside.

I dip my head in what I hope is respectful greeting. My voice is subdued. “My lord.”

He remains silent for a long moment, gaze roaming over me. I fight the urge to shrink into myself. While I have no desire to provoke him, I can’t hide the tremor that runs through my limbs. This must be Vahziryn. He exudes command with every breath, as if the entire manor and its inhabitants exist at his mercy.

When he finally speaks, it’s low and measured. “You’re the one they brought from the auction.”

My nod is small. “Yes, Lord Vahziryn.”

His eyes narrow slightly, studying my stance, my posture, the shape of my face. “They said you arrived only this morning. Have you eaten?”

I almost flinch at his question. Why would my well-being matter? “Not yet, my lord.”

He lifts a claw-tipped hand, gesturing in the direction of the corridor. “The kitchens will provide you a meal. Go now.”

He sounds neither kind nor cruel. Simply commanding. My thoughts swirl with confusion, but I know better than to hesitate. “Thank you.” I set aside the rag I was using and head for the door.

As I pass by, I sense his gaze tracking every step. His presence presses on my nerves, but I keep my back straight. Once I’m in the hallway, I realize my heart is pounding so fast it almost hurts.

Footsteps approach from another direction. A male voice, quiet but insistent: “Don’t linger, girl. Lord Vahziryn hates wasted time.”

It’s the guard from earlier, the one with the scar on his chin. Up close, I notice his scales are more irregular than those of a full-blooded naga. Perhaps he’s a half-blood. His tone is impatient, yet not entirely unfriendly.

I offer a small nod and keep moving. My plan is simple: do my job, remain inconspicuous, and avoid stirring Vahziryn’s interest any more than I already have. If he wants a silent servant, I’ll give him exactly that. The best way to survive is to be useful and unseen.

The corridor winds past several tall windows that frame the jungle. I catch glimpses of red sand, thick knots of vines, and brilliant flowers shaped like trumpets. Everything out there hums with life, some of it surely lethal. In the distance, a bird with metallic plumage swoops low, letting out a piercing call. For a moment, it reminds me of how big this world truly is.

The man leads me to a spacious kitchen. Here, the scents of raw meat and fresh-cut herbs swirl in the air. A pair of human servants stand near a huge wooden counter, chopping vegetables. They glance up at me with guarded eyes, then return to their work. The half-blood guard instructs them to give me a plate. Immediately, one sets aside a small portion of stew and hands it over.

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