Story 1019: Serpent King’s Gift

The swamp whispered like a dying breath, thick with fog and rot. Beneath the surface, something ancient stirred—its coils brushing against the reeds like a prayer in reverse.

They said the Serpent King was a myth.

A god made of scales and sorrow, sleeping beneath the mud where forgotten rituals soaked into bone.

But when Mara stepped into the mire, lured by a dream she did not own, she found him waiting.

Towering. Coiled around a throne of drowned skeletons. Eyes gleaming emerald with hunger and promise.

“You seek power,” the Serpent King hissed, his voice slithering into her mind. “I offer remembrance.”

Mara was dying.

Bitten by a corpse-walker. Veins blackening. Skin paling. Her breaths had become shallow hymns.

She knelt before the Serpent King.

“Then make me something more.”

He flicked his tongue. The swamp boiled.

He did not grant life. He gifted transformation.