Far beneath the roots of the Dark Forest, where sunlight had never touched, stretched a kingdom carved from stone and lit by glowing veins of crystal. Its halls coiled endlessly, winding like the bodies of the people who dwelled there—the Naga, half-serpent, half-human.
And at the heart of this glittering underground empire sat Queen Sylvara, crowned not with gold but with scales of sapphire that shimmered as she moved. Her throne was carved from obsidian, and around her writhed attendants and guards, their scales glistening under torchlight.
Sylvara was beautiful and terrible, her fangs flashing when she spoke, her red eyes sharp as a predator's. To her people, she was protector and mother. To outsiders, she was whispered of as the Serpent Queen of the East.
But even the strongest kingdoms were not safe from the world above.
---
The warning came with a crash of stone.
A young naga warrior burst into the throne hall, his tail shredded and bleeding. He collapsed before Sylvara, gasping.
"My Queen—the surface men… they've come. The King's army… torches, steel… they burn the outer tunnels!"
The hall erupted into hisses and shouts. Guards coiled into battle stance, priests muttered prayers to the Old Scales.
Sylvara's voice cut through the chaos, smooth but cold. "How many?"
The warrior's eyes widened with terror. "Hundreds, my Queen. Armored in black. They bear the crest of the Iron Crown."
Her fingers tightened on the obsidian armrest. The Iron Crown—the ruthless king whose reach had already devoured half the eastern realms. If his army had descended into her kingdom, it was not by chance.
"They mean to finish us," she hissed.
---
Minutes later, the tunnels shook with the clash of war. Sylvara slithered at the front, clad in silvered armor that glimmered against her scales. Her guards flanked her, their spears tipped with venom.
The enemy poured into the cavern—men in dark steel, shields raised, torches blazing.
"For the King!" they roared.
Sylvara's lips curled into a sharp smile. "Then let the King's dogs choke on poison."
She struck first, fangs sinking into a soldier's throat, venom coursing as he collapsed in spasms. Her tail swept another from his feet, crushing bone with a crack. Around her, naga warriors fought with savage grace, spears darting faster than human eyes could follow.
But the invaders were relentless. For every soldier that fell, two more surged forward. The cavern rang with steel against scale, screams echoing into the depths.
---
At the height of the battle, a great horn bellowed, shaking the crystal-lit walls. Through the smoke and blood strode a giant in black armor, a crimson plume rising from his helm. He wielded a massive glaive, its blade dripping with oil and flame.
The human soldiers cheered. "The Warlord! The Warlord of the Crown!"
Sylvara's eyes narrowed. This was no mere commander. This was the King's warlord himself—sent to break her.
He pointed the glaive at her. "Kneel, serpent, and perhaps your kind will be spared as slaves."
The hall fell into silence.
Sylvara's tongue flicked, tasting the air. Then she laughed—a low, sibilant sound that curled like smoke. "You think to chain my people? Fool. The only chains here will be the coils that crush your bones."
With a hiss, she lunged.
---
The clash was titanic. His glaive roared with fire, cleaving stone pillars, while her coils darted and struck, scales deflecting his blows. Sparks flew as her claws scraped his armor. Her venom hissed as it splattered against the burning blade.
They circled, predator and predator.
"You fight well, serpent," the warlord growled. "But you'll bleed like the rest."
"Try me," Sylvara spat, her tail whipping around to slam him into a wall.
The cavern quaked. Soldiers on both sides halted to watch their leaders' duel, the outcome of the war balanced on the edge of a fang and blade.
---
But even Sylvara could feel it—the weight of numbers. Her warriors were being pushed back, her tunnels filling with fire and corpses.
A priestess rushed to her side, eyes wild. "My Queen! We cannot hold them! We must retreat deeper into the Hollow Caves!"
Sylvara's jaw clenched. To retreat meant abandoning centuries of home, shrines, and crystal-lit halls. But to stay meant extinction.
Her red eyes locked on the warlord's, hatred burning. "This is not over," she hissed.
With a final strike, she coiled and whipped her tail, collapsing a section of the cavern ceiling between them. Dust and stone rained down, separating her from the warlord.
"Fall back!" she commanded, her voice echoing through the tunnels. "To the Hollow Caves! Live now, strike later!"
---
Hours later, in the deepest chambers of the kingdom, the naga huddled—wounded, weary, but alive. Fires burned far above where their home once thrived.
Sylvara stood tall before them, her scales still smeared with blood but her eyes unbroken.
"My children," she said, her voice carrying through the chamber, "the humans believe they have won. They believe us scattered, broken. But hear me now—so long as I draw breath, so long as venom runs in our veins, we will endure. We will strike back. The Serpent Kingdom will rise again."
Her people hissed in unison, a sound like a thousand blades being drawn.
Sylvara closed her eyes briefly, tasting the air of the Hollow Caves. Dark, bitter, but alive.
She swore then, silently, to the Old Scales and to herself:
The Iron Crown would regret ever setting foot in her realm.