The First Riddle

"Very well," it hissed, voice curling around the pillars like smoke. "Three riddles."

The serpent's grin widened—unnaturally so. Its mouth stretched far beyond what should be possible, curling up to where cheeks would be if it had any. Too many teeth glinted in the dim cavern light. And behind them... There was nothing. Not darkness, but a mixture of hollow and void.

Its tongue slithered forth, slow and deliberate—a forked monstrosity that split not once, but three times at the tip. Each slit pulsed faintly, as if alive, and from them dripped a thick, crimson-purple liquid that hissed when it touched the stone and water below. The scent of it was metallic, wrong, laced with the bitterness of blood and the rot of ancient magic.

It tasted the air, or perhaps tasted me.

Right. Of course, the talking Serpent would have nightmare fuel for dental work and a tongue straight out of a cursed alchemy book. Why wouldn't it? Next, it'll start quoting philosophy or offering me fruit.

Despite all this, I tried my best not to flinch. Not outwardly. Because the truth is, every instinct screamed at me to run, to get away.

It drew back into the dark, its massive form coiling with the lazy patience of something that knew it had all the time in the world. Its glowing eyes never left mine.

"That is the game. Answer them true, and you may walk free. Fail even one..."

Its head tilted, the grin widened once more until it split its face like a wound.

"...and you will never leave this place. Nor will your friends. Their screams will feed the stones, and your bones will be etched with their names, cursed to remain in this hollow long after the world above forgets you."

Part of its scaled body slid soundlessly into the water behind it—water that barely rippled, as if too still, too obedient. When I'd fallen in earlier, the depth had swallowed me whole, a cold abyss that dragged me down until I didn't know which way was up. But now, now it looked shallow, barely ankle-deep, a mere sheen over stone.

I stared up at the serpent, still sprawled on the cold cavern floor like a poorly thrown cloak.

“Do I really have to play the game?” I asked, my voice cracking somewhere between desperate and hopeful. “I mean… there’s not, like, a secret cheat code? A shortcut? A conveniently placed lever that skips me to the end?”

The serpent’s eyes blinked slowly. Unimpressed.

I sat up, brushing dust off my clothes and dignity. “No? Okay. Just checking.”

I let out a long, theatrical sigh and muttered, mostly to myself, “This can’t be the only way. I’m gambling the lives of Elara, Herold, Seraph, and Valtor on a riddle quest run by a sentient noodle with scales.”

The serpent narrowed its eyes.

“I’m just saying!” I threw my hands up. “What if I fail? What if my brain short-circuits and I say something dumb like ‘a carrot’ or ‘regret’ when the answer is obviously ‘sunlight’? I’ve seen riddles before. They’re tricky.”

The serpent chuckled, the sound deep and cruel. "Then I will feast. And you'll die ignorant. A pity for one raised among knowledge."

This wasn't just a riddle game. It was a trial. A test not of knowledge, but of will.

My jaw clenched. I had no choice. But that didn't mean I'd play by his rules.

I will do my best to save you, Elara, Herold, Seraph, and—I hope you'll thank me after this, Valtor. I am telling you.

"All right," I said slowly. "Ask your riddles. But you better make them good."

It chuckled again, and I could feel its pleasure like a pressure in the air—heavy and coiling.

"Oh, little light. They are the oldest riddles of all. Let us see if the boy from the ashes has more than fire left in him."

Its molten eyes burned brighter, reflecting every flicker of doubt in my mind.

"Each riddle will take you beyond this cavern—not in body, but in mind. A realm of thought made real. But be warned—pain and fear will feel no less true."

I swallowed hard.

"And if I answer correctly?"

"Then you will return here—one step closer to your truth. Closer to the knowledge you crave... and the power you fear."

Before I could respond, the runes etched beneath my feet flared—searing white and gold, like a flood of lightning surging upward. There was no time to react.

The world didn't just vanish—it unraveled.

My eyes widened as I realized I was falling again!

But not like before.

There was no wind clawing at my face, no weight dragging my limbs down. No sensation of motion at all, really. Just release. Like I was being peeled away from the world I knew, layer by layer—flesh, bone, breath, memory. Each one stripped gently, almost reverently, until nothing was left but thought.

Not even myself, not truly. Just a flicker of consciousness drifting in a sea of light and shadow.

It wasn't darkness that surrounded me, but absence. Of noise. Of shape. Of time. As though the universe had taken a breath and forgotten to exhale.

And still I kept falling. Not downward, but inward.

Into something older than dreams. Deeper than memory.

My thoughts echoed in that void, impossibly loud. Every fear. Every doubt. Every truth I tried not to face. The Serpent hadn't lied—this wasn't just a riddle. This was unraveling. A descent into the rawest parts of my soul.

And then, suddenly, the world snapped into place.

Then—

Heat.

The air thickened like syrup, clinging to my skin. The blinding sun stared down from a crimson sky, merciless and unblinking. I stood in the center of a scorched wasteland. The ground beneath me was cracked obsidian, sharp and fragmented, as though the earth had been burned hollow.

Endless dunes shimmered at the horizon, whispering in a language I didn't understand but somehow recognized. It felt like a memory. Like sorrow.

In the distance, I saw a lone figure trudged forward. Hooded. Robed in gray. Dragging something behind him.

I took a step, the heat radiating off the earth making my boots feel like they were melting. Then the sky pulsed—once, twice—like a heartbeat.

And the serpent's voice echoed again, but not in the air. It was inside me, coiling through thought.

"The first riddle," it said, a sibilant melody of silk and steel. "A trial of mind and of mercy."

The hooded figure collapsed to his knees.

"Here it is..."

"I am taken by the selfish, offered by the kind.

Once given, I can never be taken back.

I may weigh nothing, yet I can break kingdoms.

What am I?"

The air vibrated.

The figure no longer dragged a burden—he carried one. A child. Limp, lifeless. Arms dangling, head lolled back. His gray robes were stained with ash and tears. His shoulders shook, his breath hitching in silent sobs.

I watched, frozen. The illusion felt too real. Too heavy. Not just a test—but a memory. Or a mirror.

A pain that clung like smoke to the skin.

I clenched my fists, struggling to breathe.

A choice? I thought. No, something more lasting. Something offered freely... something you carry long after the choice is made.

I felt it in my chest before I fully understood it. That aching, quiet pressure I'd lived with every day since the temple burned. Since my master, Master Aldric...

I looked at the man again and saw myself.

His expression. His burden.

It wasn't a promise. It wasn't a choice.

It was guilt.

I stepped forward, the answer forming like a whisper torn from my bones.

"Guilt," I said, voice shaking.

The dunes fell silent.

Not a whisper, not a grain shifting. Even the air seemed to freeze.

The oppressive heat—so thick it had clung to my skin like a second layer—suddenly lifted, as if the sun had been yanked from the sky.

And then... the desert began to unravel.

Not in any physical sense—not at first. It was more like the world had forgotten how to exist. The wind stilled. The shimmer on the horizon flattened. Colors dulled, then warped, peeled away like old paint.

The silence deepened, pressing in on all sides.

And just like that—

The world shattered.

There was no warning. No build-up. Just a violent flash of white that split the sky like lightning, and the illusion collapsed like sand slipping through trembling hands.

I didn't fall so much as I was ripped away—torn from that false world and thrown through the void.

And then—impact.

I hit the ground hard, the stone of the cavern biting into my spine. My breath came in gasps like I'd been holding it the entire time. Sweat clung to my skin, but the heat was gone—replaced by the cool, echoing silence of the cavern.

And the serpent was still there. Waiting.

Its silver scales shimmered in the torchlight, eyes narrowed with something like amusement. Its tongue flicked the air, tasting the magic I must've dragged back with me.

"Hmm..." it purred, voice curling like smoke in my ears. "Clever little heir. One truth closer to what you seek."

Its long body coiled tighter around the altar, head tilting with an unsettling grace.

Then it smiled—if something like that could smile—and its voice dropped low, almost fond.

"But the next one," it hissed, "won't be so kind."

I lay there, blinking up at the ceiling, my chest still heaving.

"Great," I croaked, dust in my mouth. "Can't wait. Maybe next time throw in a complimentary concussion too—just for variety."

The serpent didn't reply.

Which was probably for the best.

Sarcasm was wasted on reptiles anyway.