by pakpakkkawat
The moon hung low over the Mekong, its light fractured by black water. Khun In stood at the prow of the warship, his hand gripping the hilt of his ritual knife. The air was thick with the smell of damp wood and fear. A cry split the night. Not human. From the river, it rose — a Naga, scales black as night, eyes burning like coals. Water cascaded from its coils as it towered over the ship, mouth open in a silent scream that made the soldiers' blood run cold...
