Page 8 of Craving His Venom

He looks me up and down with a kind of resigned acceptance. “You find everything you need in this place? Or is the quiet making you paranoid?”

I chew the inside of my cheek. “I prefer quiet to...other alternatives,” I reply, recalling the chaos of previous masters.

His mouth twitches. “Guess you have a point. This estate might feel like a tomb sometimes, but you don’t have to worry about a beating every time you trip over your own feet. Lord Vahziryn’s not that sort.”

Relief mingles with apprehension. “You sound like you admire him.”

“Admire might be the wrong word,” Crick says. “Let’s say I respect that he stands apart from the usual naga cruelty. Don’t get me wrong—he can be vicious if provoked, but he isn’t the type to torment servants for fun.”

I hesitate. “That’s good to know.”

He studies my face more closely. “You’re curious about him?”

My stomach dips. “I just want to do my job without making mistakes.”

Crick smirks. “Then you’ll be fine. He’s not as unpredictable as some claim. If he was, I wouldn’t stay. Take that as comfort, if you like.”

I nod, unsure how to respond. It’s a relief to hear someone confirm my sense that Vahziryn is different, though the word “vicious” still rings in my mind. Before I can ask more, Crick shrugs and walks away, leaving me in the corridor with a swirl of questions.

With the cleaning supplies safely stowed, I decide it’s time to fetch something to eat from the kitchens before resuming tasks in another part of the manor. The walk there is quick, and the aroma of broth and freshly cut herbs greets me. A few other human servants bustle about, chopping vegetables and stacking plates. They shoot me curious glances, but nobody tries to speak. Perhaps my reticence signals that I’m not here for gossip or companionship. That suits me. I gather a small bowl of soup and some bread, carrying them to a narrow corner table.

While I sip the soup, my thoughts wander to the idea of Vahziryn as an exiled warlord who might carry a curse. The notion of curses in this world is not foreign—magic seeps into corners of Protheka in strange ways. Yet something tells me his “curse” might be more figurative than literal, the result of betrayal rather than dark sorcery.

As I finish my meal, Sahrine appears in the doorway of the kitchen. Her robe is a deep shade of forest green, matching the faint scales near her throat. She stands still for a moment, as if gauging who’s present. Despite her lack of traditional vision, she focuses on me.

“Mira,” she calls in that low, level tone. “I require your assistance in the greenhouse.”

I put down my spoon, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

She leads me through winding corridors, eventually stopping at a door with a large serpent carving across its surface. When she pushes it open, warm, humid air rushes out. Inside lies a greenhouse brimming with exotic plants—vines with leaves the color of rubies, blossoms shaped like trumpets, and spiny fronds that curl inward when touched. The glass ceiling allows sunlight to spill across rows of potted greenery arranged on wide tables.

Sahrine moves with careful precision, navigating around the tables as though she can sense the warmth each plant radiates. “Lord Vahziryn keeps a small collection of rare flora here,” she explains. “We cultivate them for medicinal or ornamental purposes. You’ll help me water them and check for pests.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Me? I didn’t expect?—”

She snorts softly. “Don’t assume your duties end at scrubbing floors. A functional estate needs every hand where it counts.”

Her words carry an undercurrent of challenge, and I nod, ready to prove my usefulness. She instructs me on which plants need a light sprinkling versus a thorough soak, explaining how to test the soil around their roots. Some leaves have spines or miniscule stingers, so I’m careful not to brush them with my bare skin.

While I work, I notice a cluster of broad-leafed vines with faint purple patterns. They grow near the greenhouse’s far wall in large ceramic pots. “What are these for?” I ask quietly.

Sahrine glides closer, her expression thoughtful. “They’re used in certain venom-brewing techniques. Lord Vahziryn consults with an alchemist who refines his venom for specialized use.”

I blink. “Is that standard among naga?”

“Not all. Some rely on raw venom. But a warlord with cunning can enhance his abilities.” She strokes a leaf, her fingertips deft. “It can help with healing, or become a potent poison in battle. Depends on the brew.”

My heart stutters at the reminder that behind Vahziryn’s calm exterior lurks the capacity for lethal force. Naga venom is legendary, rumored to bring swift death if harnessed correctly.

Sahrine reads my tension, perhaps from the shift in my body heat. She says, “Don’t be too alarmed. His interest in venom is more pragmatic than cruel.”

I choose not to reply, uncertain whether I trust that statement. My hands resume their task, carefully watering a row of delicate blossoms shaped like tiny cups. Despite my wariness, I find the greenhouse strangely soothing. The air is damp but fresh, carrying the scent of soil and greenery rather than fear.

Once we finish, Sahrine nods her approval. “You’ve done well.” A pause. “Lord Vahziryn’s domain is not what you’re used to. But if you stay mindful, you’ll find it less perilous than you imagine.”

She sets a small watering can on the edge of a table, then straightens. “I must check on the storeroom next. See yourself out of here and return to your assigned duties.”

I bow my head. “Thank you, Sahrine.”

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