That evening, they crept toward the palace gates. Two Basilisk guards waited, their upper bodies humanoid but scaled, tails coiled around gilded spears. Their eyes were molten coins; a concentric rims of living gold and smoldering ink.
“State your purpose,” one hissed.
Tilly trembled. “W-we’re deliverin’ the items for the high chamber.”
Glacy elbowed her. “Keep your snout shut,” she muttered, stepping forward. “It’s for Commander Ul’ren. You know me. I don’t mess up.”
The guard’s forked tongue flicked. “You’d best not, little wolf. The last fool who flubbed the orders, wound up redecorating the gate with his entrails,” the guard rasped with a twitch of amusement.
They were led through the great hall, where silk curtains rippled with the faint hiss of unseen scales. Basilisks lounged o
