Page 39 of Craving Their Venom
Grol hesitates for a moment, his eyes narrowed, then turns and stalks away. Malakor turns back to me, his face reflecting pure, murderous rage. He is about to teach me the true meaning of pain.
And then, the world explodes.
A sound from above, a deep, guttural roar of fury that is not naga, but something else. The very stone of the cell shudders. It is followed by a sharp, cracking sound, and the screams of naga from the outer chambers.
Malakor freezes, his head snapping toward the door. The sounds of battle are no longer distant. They are here. A brutal, efficient symphony of steel and death.
He forgets me. His own survival is now paramount. He draws his curved blade and turns to the door, his body tense. This is my chance. The fight between him and Grol, the chaos from outside—it is the opening I prayed for.
My eyes dart around the cell. A loose stone in the wall, near the ring where my chains are anchored. I begin to work at it, myfingers raw and bleeding, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
The door to my cell bursts inward, not from the outside, but from the main chamber. Grol stands there, his blade dripping with the blue blood of his own kind. He has made his move.
“The reward is mine, Malakor,” he snarls.
The two of them launch at each other, a whirlwind of mottled green scales and flashing steel. They are no longer my captors. They are just two beasts, tearing at each other’s throats.
In the chaos, I manage to pry the stone loose. It is heavy, jagged. I bring it down, again and again, on the iron link of my chain where it meets the wall ring. The sound is a dull, rhythmic clang, lost in the din of their fight.
The link begins to give.
And then, the main entrance to the chamber is no longer there. It is simply… gone. A wave of pure, concussive force blows it inward, sending a shower of stone and splintered wood across the room.
And they are there.
Varos, Zahir, and Kaelen. They do not enter as a royal party. They enter as an apocalypse.
Varos is a blur of both black and gold, his dagger a flicker of silver light, his movements a cold, precise dance of death. Zahir is a crimson hurricane, his axe a brutal, cleaving arc of pure, untamed fury. And Kaelen… Kaelen is a silent, silver-blue storm, his hands weaving illusions of shadow and fog that turn the chamber into a chaotic, terrifying nightmare for our enemies. They move as one. A single, three-headed serpent of retribution.
The fight is over in heartbeats. Malakor and Grol, already wounded from their own conflict, are no match for the unified wrath of the three most powerful warriors in the kingdom. They are cut down, their lives extinguished in a spray of blue blood and a final, choked gasp.
And then, there is silence. A ringing, profound silence, broken only by the sound of their own ragged, desperate breaths.
They turn to me. Their faces are masks of grim, savage triumph. But as their eyes fall on me, on my chained, bruised form, the triumph evaporates, replaced by something else. A raw, profound, and utterly devastating anguish.
“Amara,” Varos breathes, his voice a broken thing.
They rush toward me, but as they do, I see it. Grol, in his dying moments, his body twitching on the floor, his clawed hand reaching for a tripwire hidden in the mud and slime. A final, spiteful act of a dying naga.
I see the cracks forming in the ceiling above me. I hear the low, groaning sound of stone giving way.
And in that moment, a strange, terrible peace descends upon me. This is it. The end. My death will be a release. It will free me from this impossible love, from this terrible prophecy. It will freethem. They will be unbound from the human heart that has caused them so much pain. It is for the best.
I close my eyes. I do not scream. I do not try to run. I simply… surrender.
The world erupts. A roar of pure, animalistic terror from Zahir. A sharp, desperate cry of my name from Varos. A surge of raw, cosmic power from Kaelen.
I am thrown sideways, a massive, crimson body shielding mine, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. I feel a searing heat as a massive block of stone crashes down where I was a second before, shattering on the floor. A shimmering, silver-blue shield appears above us, deflecting a shower of smaller rocks and dust. And Varos… Varos is there, his hands outstretched, his face a presentation of pure, agonized effort, as he uses his own body to hold back a collapsing section of the wall.
The dust settles. I am alive. I am pinned beneath Zahir, his massive body a heavy, protective weight. His arm is bleedingfreely, a deep, jagged gash where a piece of stone has torn through his scales. Varos is trembling with the strain of holding back the wall, his golden scales slick with sweat. And Kaelen is on his knees, his face pale, the light from his shield flickering and dying.
They saved me. All three of them. At a terrible cost to themselves.
They scramble to me, their movements frantic, desperate. Their hands are on me, checking for wounds, their touches a chaotic symphony of terror and relief.
“Amara,” Zahir chokes out, his voice a raw, ragged thing. He cradles my face in his massive, blood-stained hands. “By the gods, I thought… I thought I had lost you.”
“You are safe,” Varos whispers, his voice shaking with an emotion I have never heard from him before. He sinks to his knees beside me, his cold, controlled mask utterly shattered, his golden eyes filled with a raw, naked terror. “You are safe.”
