Imril trembled as he strode down Lord Kunlo’s decaying corridor, his long legs eating up the cold stone floor. He walked away as fast as he could, wanting to put some distance between himself and the female.

The further he walked, the more uneven his movements became, because he no longer needed to mask his pain. The wound in his side still burned something fierce. He’d cut out the dead flesh and packed it with a wad of soft fabric he’d torn from one of Kunlo’s shirts, but it would be a while yet before it was completely healed.

Then there was the matter of the infernal hole in his calf, where the Vradhu spear had stuck him.

He cursed under his breath. It was embarrassing to think that he’d almost been undone by those wild, barbaric fighters.

And it was unbelievable that even now, he couldn’t forget about the female and her magnificent vir.

One more touch. That’s all it would have taken for him to kill her. She was already terribly weakened, yet as he’d set her back down on the bed, he’d strayed too close, and the golden energy surrounding her had come into contact with his vortex.

She radiated life. He absorbed it.

Like some reckless fledgling Drakhin, he’d inhaled her essence, filling his empty soul with her warmth.

It felt so good that he could have kept on doing it for an eternity, but then he’d looked into her green eyes as she’d pleaded with him in her strange melodic language.

Desperation. Anger. Fear.

She was filled with fury, and yet she was terrified of him.

As soon as he’d tasted the fear in her vir, it was like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over him. Her fear reminded him of unspeakable things; shadows of memories that lingered at the edge of his consciousness, too terrible to fully realize.

And yet despite her fear, she’d been defiant, daring to question him, challenge him.

None of his servants had ever been like this. Even the Vradhu females who had attempted to win his favor hadn’t displayed this much resistance… well, except for Akania, the very last Vradhu he’d spurned before the war.

This soft brown-skinned creature didn’t yet understand that she was his, didn’t adopt the customary mannerisms of the servile Naaga—don’t make eye contact unless permitted, don’t speak unless spoken to, and never, ever contradict your Masters.

Of course, Imril was far too old to bother with most of that nonsense. The younglings had liked their pomp and ceremony. He preferred simplicity.

He exited the corridor and passed through a covered walkway, catching sight of the wide, glittering lake. From memory, the Drakhin had given it a name—Sarhil.

Kunlo had been crazy to live all the way out here in this remote, isolated place on the edge of the Ardu-Sai. The lordling was long gone, most likely killed by the Plague, his eyrie abandoned. Nature had taken hold in his absence, lining the walls and floors with swathes of blue and green moss. Twisting vines and roots snaked through broken windows and dislodged doors, curling around intricate statues and carvings that had been created by skilled Naaga craftsmen.

The entire place was in a state of advanced decay, and Imril had imprisoned his creature—his Source—in the only room that retained some semblance of its original grandeur.

Well ventilated and high enough to sit above the encroaching mists of the lake, the spire room was the perfect place to keep her, and thankfully it wasn’t hideously decorated like the rest of Kunlo’s crumbling eyrie.

Now he just needed to find her something to eat. How could he have forgotten that most land-based creatures needed to consume other land-based creatures in order to survive?

Sleeping in Za’s Crater must have made him dull-witted. Even he ate on occasion, although that was more for pleasure rather than any real necessity.

The alien, on the other hand… her lips were cracked and dry, her belly lean, her cheeks a little too gaunt. Hunger had been with her long before he snatched her away from the Vradhu pack.

He would have to go in search of food and water.

Imril rounded a corner and paused mid-stride. A sound caught his attention, and it was so faint he might have been imagining things, but his acute hearing had never fooled him before.

It came from a crumbling doorway that led into to the shadows. Beyond the pale stone archways, he caught a glimpse of a wide, dark room.

Shhkt.

There it was again, that faint shuffling noise. He walked inside the room, his feet stirring up dust on the stone floor. Imril sighed. “If you try and escape now, I’ll hear you, and then there will be consequences. Plus, you are not permitted to escape. I have taken up residence in this eyrie.” He spoke in Naaga, because that was the only language the servants had ever known. They weren’t permitted to speak any other tongue. “Show yourself.” The last part was unmistakably a command. If the creature was what he thought it was, it would have no choice but to come out.

No Naaga could resist an order from him. It was just the way they were designed.

It was the way he was designed.

He waited.

Sure enough, after a brief hesitation, a slender blue figure emerged from behind an oversized fallen statue of a Drakhin. Imril’s gaze flicked briefly toward the statue and he made a soft sound of distaste in the back of his throat. Gaudy thing. Why had the younger lords been so obsessed with capturing their likenesses in stone? The face had crumbled off, so it was impossible to see who the statue was supposed to represent.

“M-master?” The Naaga walked forward and prostrated himself at Imril’s feet, not daring to look up.

Imril sighed. “Oh, get up samare. I am too old to bother with useless etiquette.”

The Naaga made a high-pitched sound; an expression of surprise. Slowly, he raised his feathered head. “My Lord. I am at your command.” As the Naaga took him in, his white eyes widened in recognition, but the servant didn’t dare speak what was on his mind.

Of course the Naaga recognized Imril. No other Drakhin possessed his coloring. He was the pale-skinned demon, the light to counter the darkness that was his ill-tempered twin, Mael.

He was the Lightbringer, the Ancestor’s son.

An abomination.

What crap.

Really, all of that was just exaggeration and nonsense.

His unique coloring was the result of a pigment deficiency in his scales, nothing more, nothing less. Imril might be one of the oldest living creatures on Khira, but he wasn’t a god or a demon.

And his empire was in ruins.

The servant rose to his feet, and Imril took note of the number tattooed into the his forehead.

357.

One of the third generation. That explained the faint silver aura of vir that surrounded him. This Naaga would have seen a few things in his lifetime. Normally, Imril wouldn’t have hesitated to feed from him, but now all he could think of was the intoxicating golden vir that had rolled off the female, a hundred times sweeter and more potent than this poor wretch’s energy.

After one taste of that glorious soul-energy, he was ruined. Nothing else would satisfy him now.

This could become a problem, if he let it.

Would the other brown-skinned creatures have the same effect on him, or was it just this particular female? Was her vir different somehow? Perhaps he’d have to capture another one and find out.

“Do you wish to feed, my Lord?” The Naaga bared its neck in the customary pose of submission, averting his eyes.

For some reason, that only irritated Imril, but he couldn’t refuse the offer. Hunger roiled through his chest, down his arms, and right into the tips of his scale-covered fingers. He reached down and curled his fingers around the Naaga’s neck, drawing the servant’s vir into his body. Compared to the female’s brilliant energy, the Naaga’s vir felt cold and dull.

Imril fed without relish, without joy, without emotion, treating it as a simple exchange between Master and servant. The Naaga’s vir wasn’t nearly as plentiful as the female’s, either. It was like a trickle in a dry creek bed compared to her glorious torrent.

This feeding was nothing compared to what he could have with her.

As soon as he finished, he waved 357 away. The servant moved back, keeping a respectful distance.

“What are you called, samare?” Samare. Survivor. Words held meaning; they were a form of power.

“I am referred to by my number, Lord.”

“Was that Kunlo’s preference? Tch.” Crude bastard. Far too often, the younger lords had treated their servants like disposable objects. For every Naaga they’d killed, they thought they could just clone another one. “Think back, samare. You had a name once.”

For a moment, the Naaga closed his eyes, and although his features showed no emotion, Imril got the sense he was feeling wistful.

“Rau,” he said at last, his voice cracking. “My name is Rau.”

“Rau… Ah. Now I remember.” Imril searched the labyrinthine twists and turns of his rusty memory. There was too much clutter in his mind. Sometimes he wished he could just erase it all and start afresh. “You used to belong to Vakry, didn’t you? How did you end up in Kunlo’s possession?”

“First Master lost a wager,” Rau sighed. “Second Master selected me as his prize.”

“For your vir?”

“Kunlo didn’t have a vir-slave of his own until he acquired me.”

“And how often did he feed from you?”

“Daily.” A dark shadow crossed the servant’s face. For a Naaga, he showed a little too much emotion.

“That would have been exhausting.”

“Yes, it was.” Rau’s dark expression turned into one of surprise. “I was weak and undernourished. He rarely gave me enough time to replenish myself and food was scarce.”

Imril made a sympathetic noise deep in his throat. “The Power is like a drug to some. They take beyond what is reasonable, especially when they do not understand it. I presume Kunlo is long gone, because you do not look malnourished to me.”

“Kunlo is dead.” The Naaga nodded solemnly.

“And what revolution is this, Rau?”

“We are currently in the middle of the one-thousandth, four-hundredth and thirty-sixth revolution around the sun since you and your brother fell to Khira, my Lord.”

Revolution 1436. So he had been in hibernation for a little under three hundred full revs. It could have been worse.

“And what has happened in that time?”

“I-I am not sure, my Lord. I have not left this place.”

“Three hundred revs, and you have not sought to venture out into the greater world?”

“I have everything I need to survive here. The lake water is clean and the sarukark are plentiful. The dangerous forest beasts are unable to reach the eyrie. This existence… it is better than what I had before.” Rau looked up at him with trusting eyes, simply accepting that Imril was his Master now. Perhaps the thought even gave him some sort of feeling of security.

Imril sighed. “There is a female in the great spire room. Get her clean water for drinking, fresh sarukark meat, and whatever fruits or other things you consume in this place. Do it quickly, because she is weak.” He thought for a moment. “Then you can arrange for her to bathe, but she is not to leave the spire room. Let me make this clear, Rau. She is my prisoner and my property.”

“Yes, Master.”

“She is not to be harmed in any way. She is to be protected at all costs. If anything happens to her, or if there are any problems, you tell me straight away.”

“Yes, Master.”

“And Rau?”

“Yes, Master?”

“Start teaching her how to speak Naaga. The quicker she learns, the easier it will be for all of us. You are not, by any chance, a language implant surgeon, are you?”

“That was not my discipline, Lord.”

Even if Rau was trained in fitting the devices, there was no way a language implant could be done in these dilapidated facilities, so the alien—whatever it was—would just have to learn Naaga the old fashioned way. “What is your discipline, Rau?”

“I am a Housemaster.”

“That is good to know.” Naaga could be trained in any discipline, but experienced Housemasters, who were responsible for the general running and upkeep of an eyrie, were rare. “Then your first task is to tend to the female and replenish her vir as quickly as possible. I expect her to be ready in three darklights. The next time I go in there to feed, I want her to be strong, Rau. Feed her. Let her bathe. Clothe her. Give her everything she needs to feel comfortable. I imagine she will be experiencing some level of distress at her predicament. Try and get her to relax.” With time, the creature would learn that Imril wasn’t a threat to her. He just needed to feed.

“Yes, my Lord.” This time, Imril’s orders were received with almost a certain amount of relish… but no, he was just imagining things. Naaga weren’t supposed to feel any emotions. A good Naaga was like a sponge, ready to absorb whatever emotion the Master was feeling, ready to respond to its Master’s needs without having to ask questions.

A good Naaga was a mirror of its Master’s soul.

“Master, am I permitted to speak a thought?”

“You’re full of surprises, Rau. Next time, don’t ask. Even when I’m in a bad mood, I will not kill you for having a thought.”

“It is good to know that the Lightbringer is finally ready to take a mate.”

Imril’s good mood evaporated then, and it must have shown, because Rau flinched in anticipation, fear crossing his milky white eyes.

No, this Naaga was definitely capable of feeling emotion.

Imril went very still. “You are mistaken, Naaga. She is not Vradhu, and I have not taken her as my mate. Now get out of my sight.”

For some reason, Rau’s words got under his skin.

The servant bowed deeply and scurried out, and Imril knew he would take good care of the female, because no Naaga had ever disobeyed him.

They were biologically programmed to obey his word.

That was simply the way the Ancestor had designed them, and the sound of Imril and Mael’s voices were powerfully imprinted upon their genetic memory.

So Rau would never disobey him, ever.

Words were power.

Imril was going to take back his world, one Naaga servant at a time.

And if he found out that Nykithus was still alive…

The bastard would learn the price of betrayal, in the most painful of ways.