Page 3 of Craving His Venom

I thank them under my breath, taking the bowl to a quiet corner. The guard leaves without another word, boots thumping on the stone floor. In that corner, I notice a low stool, so I settle there to eat. My spoon clinks softly against the wooden bowl. The stew is simple—root vegetables, shredded meat, and a few herbs—but it’s warm, and it grounds me.

As I eat, I can’t ignore the tension in the kitchen. Nobody speaks above a whisper. It’s as if the entire household is trappedin some unspoken rule: keep the peace, never cause a stir. Every face I see is drawn with concentration, as though each person fears the consequences of a single mistake.

I set down the spoon, appetite dwindling. My mind circles back to what I’ve heard of this warlord. If even half the rumors are true, it’s no surprise the staff treads carefully. Yet my initial meeting with him was subdued. He didn’t roar commands or menace me with a whip. Instead, his voice, though quiet, carried an undercurrent of threat, as if violence is coiled beneath his stillness.

Finishing the last bite, I stand and deposit the empty bowl in a washbasin. One of the servants glances at me. She’s a small woman with tired eyes, her hair bound in a neat braid. “You should hurry back before you’re missed,” she whispers.

“I will,” I reply softly.

My next steps take me into the corridor once more. A series of paintings line one wall—renderings of jungle scenes, but each with a serpentine figure emerging from vines. I pause before one depicting a tall naga crowned with twisted horns and swirling tattoos. A faint plaque at the bottom reads: High Warlord Kayzhar, though the letters are in the naga script, so I can only guess.

A prickle at the back of my neck warns me that I’m being watched. Turning, I spot no one. Yet the sense lingers, prompting me to move faster. I don’t want any reason for Lord Vahziryn or his staff to suspect me of prying. In truth, all I can think about is returning to my modest room, the one with the locks on the outside, simply because it offers a semblance of refuge.

When I arrive, relief washes over me as I see the door is still unlocked from the inside. I slip in and close it gently, pressing my forehead against the wood. My pulse gradually settles.

This entire place feels like the hush before a storm. Everyone acts as though something catastrophic might erupt if they dare raise their voices. Perhaps Vahziryn’s quiet is more dangerous than any shouted rage. The stories from the auction swirl in my head: how he once annihilated a foe with a single strike of venom, how he never forgives disobedience.

Still, I think of the way he watched me in that sitting room, the moment he asked if I’d eaten. The concern was minimal, but it existed. I can’t decide if it’s genuine or a calculated display of authority. Maybe both.

My only certainty is that survival depends on not rousing his temper, or anyone else’s. I glance around the small room. It’s plain, but it’s mine for now, and that is enough. Sitting on the bed, I let a deep breath escape my lungs. Tomorrow, I’ll continue my duties and stay in the shadows. If I remain silent and useful, perhaps I can avoid drawing the warlord’s gaze again. That’s the lie I cling to, the belief I’ve carried for years: if I don’t stand out, then I won’t become prey.

Yet something whispers in my mind that he’s already noticed me in ways no master has before. And I can’t shake the feeling that in this household, silence might not be enough to keep me safe.

I close my eyes, forcing the thought away. I’m not about to test that theory. My life, from this moment forward, belongs to Lord Vahziryn, whether I wish it or not.

All I can do is blend into the stillness. If I’m lucky, he’ll forget I exist, and I’ll fade into the rhythms of this strange, quiet manor. I have to believe that’s possible. Otherwise, I might never find the courage to draw another breath.

2

VAHZIRYN

The corridors of my estate lie swathed in silence this morning, exactly as I demand. A dim stretch of sunlight seeps through tall windows, illuminating floating specks of dust. I stand at the far end of the main hallway, near a tall column carved with coiling serpents. My gaze tracks the newest addition to my household staff: the human named Mira.

She is barely visible from this distance, kneeling on the polished floor to wipe away footprints left by the night patrol. I catch her slight movement, the careful drag of a cloth against stone. Her posture remains subdued, shoulders bent inward, as though every breath must be hushed. It should please me—I purchased a servant known for her silence and unobtrusiveness. Yet that very quality draws my attention more than any amount of chatter would.

I tense my claws at my sides. My fingernails are thick and tapered, each with a dark sheen that hints at my naga heritage. Scales cover my forearms in a pattern of black edged with midnight green. Those scales continue up past my elbows, merging into skin near my biceps. Beneath my robes, I feel the shift of my powerful tail, coiled around my waist to keep it fromdragging. I have the legs of a man, but the elongated tail extends behind me, muscular and serpentine, granting me extra balance and speed when I need it.

In my youth, I stood nearly seven feet when fully upright, with a slender, athletic build. Over the years, training and the realities of war have carved muscle into my frame, leaving me broad in the shoulders and trim at the waist. My hair is black, falling thick and loose halfway down my back. Most often, I bind it in gold clips or let it drape freely, as it does now. My face is sharp-featured, with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes that reflect an amber gleam in low light.

At the moment, my eyes remain fixed on the human. She wears a dull gray shift beneath a plain apron. I notice how her hair—coiled close to her scalp—catches the morning glow, giving it a soft sheen that contrasts with her deep brown complexion. She reminds me of a small creature always prepared to flee. Yet there’s an efficiency to her movements that betrays hidden discipline.

I shift my stance, and my tail sways, producing a subtle rasp against the stone. Mira’s head lifts. For an instant, her gaze sweeps across the hallway, and I sense her wariness like an electric current. She sees me, though I remain partially hidden behind the carved column. Her eyes dart away quickly, returning to her task with renewed focus.

Why do I linger here, observing her instead of tending to more pressing matters? I have orc incursions to study and reports to review. There’s also the matter of resupplying certain potions my venom-brewer has been perfecting. Yet my feet refuse to move away. I grit my teeth, unsettled by the compulsion that roots me in place.

For a heartbeat, I recall the day she arrived: the hush that fell over my household when she stepped through the doors, looking frightened but strangely resolute. I asked if she had eaten, andthe softness in her answer cracked something inside my chest. She seemed surprised I bothered to inquire. No servant in my domain starves, but humans I’ve encountered seldom believe that until they experience it.

I exhale quietly. Attachment is a weakness—one I vowed never to entertain again. My exile from the capital taught me that caring leads to betrayal. Yet here stands a human who moves in near silence, offering me no reason for suspicion beyond the fact I notice her too frequently.

I roll my shoulders, forcing myself to step forward. I must pass by her to reach my study. The air shifts as I approach. She senses me, though she pretends focus on her scrubbing. When I’m close enough, I speak, keeping my voice low.

“You can continue that later. There are tasks in the eastern wing that need your attention.”

She flinches at the sound, then gathers her rag and rises to her feet. Her eyes remain directed at my chest, not quite daring to meet my stare. “Yes, my lord.”

That voice is almost a whisper, but it carries an edge of composure. She doesn’t quake like many humans do. Nor does she speak out of turn. I nod, stepping aside to let her pass. The swirl of air around her carries a faint scent of soap and the warmth of her skin. It lingers even after she moves away.

I stand there longer than necessary, caught in the remnants of that scent. Then I shake my head and make my way to the study, determined to bury myself in more productive concerns.

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