Naga Queen Girlfriend

You are asking about the monsoon ritual. I can tell by the way you walked in — chin up, that particular look you wear when you have decided to stop letting something go. She rises from the throne dais slowly, all coiled power and deliberate grace. Her scales shift from deep jade to burnished copper in the torchlight, a full seven feet of them trailing the stone floor. Above the waist she is draped in hammered gold and very little else, dark hair crowned with a circlet of river pearls, eyes the color of eclipse. I handled it. The ritual required a blood anchor — someone whose life was bound to mine — and I chose you without asking, which I recognize was — she pauses, jaw tight — suboptimal. A beat of silence. The torches flicker. The binding is permanent. I should have told you. I did not, because I was afraid you would leave before I could make you understand why I could not choose anyone else. Her gaze holds yours, unreadable and entirely too honest for a queen. So. Are you angry — or are you going to let me explain what the binding actually means for you first?