Page 34 of Craving Their Venom
They are close.
My rage, which has been a cold, focused thing, now ignites into a blazing inferno. I see her. I see her in my mind’s eye, trapped in an iron cage, her eyes wide with the same terror I see in the dead guard’s face.
I look at Varos. His face has become a mask of cold, lethal fury. The political strategist is gone. The Prince is gone. All that remains is the predator. His golden eyes meet mine, and in that moment, the hatred between us is burned away, leaving behind a single, shared, and absolute purpose.
We are no longer rivals. We are no longer a Prince and a General.
We are the storm. And we are about to break.
23
KAELEN
The roar of the underground river is a physical force, a deafening, constant thunder that drowns out all other sound. It is the sound of a world being torn apart. The air is ripe with the spray of black, churning water, a fine, cold mist that clings to my scales and tastes of ancient, subterranean rot. We move along the narrow stone ledge, a precarious path slick with slime and the blood of the dead guard.
Zahir is a force of nature in the vanguard, his massive body a bulwark against the chaos. He moves with a brutal, ground-eating stride, his axe held at the ready, his head constantly turning, his eyes scanning the oppressive darkness for threats. Beside him, Mok, the old tracker, is a low, coiled shadow, his nose to the stone, his forked tongue probing to taste the air, to find the ghost of a scent that the roaring water has not yet scoured away.
Varos is a different predator. He moves with a cold, silent grace, his gaze fixed not on the immediate path, but on the architecture of this forgotten place. He sees the stress fractures in the stone, the patterns of erosion, the logic of its construction. He is mapping the escape route in his mind, thinking three stepsahead while Zahir is focused on the next, brutal one. They are a study in contrasts, ice and fire, strategy and savagery. And for now, they are a single, terrifying weapon.
My place is in the center of this storm, a point of quiet focus. I hold the glowing crystal aloft, its cold, magical light a small, defiant star against the overwhelming darkness. But the light I truly seek is not in my hand. It is a flickering, wounded flame somewhere ahead of us, a spiritual signature I can feel in the deepest parts of me. Amara. Her terror is a high, thin note in the roaring symphony of the river, a psychic scream that pulls me forward.
We reach a chasm. The stone ledge simply ends, sheared away by some ancient cataclysm. A gap of twenty feet of churning, black water separates us from the continuation of the path on the other side. There is no bridge.
“They crossed,” Mok grunts, pointing with his snout to the far side. “I see the marks. A rope.”
I see it too. A faint scuffing on the far ledge, the ghost of an anchor point. They had a rope. We do not.
Zahir lets out a low, guttural growl of pure frustration. “I can make the jump,” he snarls, his muscles cording as he gauges the distance.
“You might,” Varos says, his voice a cold, cutting thing. “But the rest of us cannot. And even if you did, you would be alone, facing an unknown number of enemies. Do not be a fool, General. Your brute force is useless here.”
“And your maps are useless now, Prince,” Zahir shoots back, his hand tightening on the haft of his axe. The fragile truce between them is beginning to fray, the friction of their opposing natures grinding against each other.
“Enough,” I say, my voice cutting through their bickering. They both turn to me, their eyes blazing with their own privatefuries. “Your pride is a luxury we cannot afford. The path is not broken. It has simply changed.”
I step to the edge of the chasm. The roar of the water is defeaning, the spray cold on my face. I close my eyes. I shut out the thunder of the river, the angry rasp of Zahir’s breathing, the cold, calculating silence of the Prince. I reach out, not with my hands, but with my spirit. I follow the thin, silver thread of Amara’s fear, the psychic trail she leaves in her wake.
I need to see. I need a sign. A path.
I push my consciousness forward, through the roaring darkness, seeking her light. The connection, when it comes, is not a gentle thing. It is a violent, psychic jolt. Her terror is a blade in my soul. I see through her eyes.
A flash of mottled green scales. The glint of a silver ring on a clawed hand. The rough, damp stone of a tunnel wall. The feeling of being carried, of helplessness, of a cloying, sweet poison still lingering in her blood.
I push deeper, trying to see beyond her immediate prison, to see the path ahead. And that is when I make the mistake. I am so focused on her, on her light, that I do not see the other darkness that is tethered to it. The darkness that orchestrated this. I follow the thread of her abduction back to its source, to the moment of its conception. And the vision shifts.
The world dissolves. I am no longer in the roaring cavern. I am in a place of profound, suffocating silence. The throne room. But it is empty, save for two figures. The King, Ishada Vhasma, sits upon his obsidian throne, a stooped, ancient predator. Before him kneels a naga with mottled, swamp-green scales. The Tikzorcu.
I cannot hear their words, but I feel them. They are not spoken, but exchanged, a silent communion of thought. I feel the Tikzorcu’s cold, ambitious cruelty, his hatred for the Vhasma line. And I feel the King’s response. It is not theanger of a monarch whose authority has been challenged. It is… amusement. A cold, reptilian satisfaction.
The King’s hand, gnarled and ancient, gestures. A bag, heavy with gold, is pushed across the floor. The Tikzorcu’s clawed hand closes over it. And then, the King’s final thought, a command that sinks into my soul like a shard of ice.
The prophecy is a threat. The girl is the key. Remove her. Shatter the bond between the three naga. But see to it that my son, the Prince, is not harmed. His life is to be preserved. The girl is the only target.
The vision shatters, and I am thrown back into my own body with a violence that rips a gasp from my throat. The roar of the river returns, a deafening, physical blow. My legs give way, and I stumble back from the edge of the chasm, my body slick with a cold, psychic sweat. A wave of nausea, black and foul, rises in my throat.
“Kaelen!” Zahir’s voice is a sharp, alarmed bark. A heavy hand grips my arm, steadying me. It is the General’s.
I stare at him, at his fierce, honest face, and I see not a brute, but a creature of unwavering, if savage, loyalty. I look past him, at Varos, who has moved closer, his face angled in cold, analytical concern. And all I can see is the image of his father, the King, selling the life of the woman his son now desperately seeks to save.
