The thunder of hooves split the horizon long before Elena was surrounded. Dust and dry air clung to her cracked skin, sweat mingling with salt and dirt. Her cloak, torn and caked in grimy salt, hung limply as she walked on, head bowed. Not from shame, but from the crushing, unyielding pull of the serpent coiled deep within her.
She did not run.
She did not resist.
The Inquisition Riders circled her like vultures, eyes glinting beneath brimmed helmets, their faces hidden behind grim masks of duty and fanaticism.
They dismounted with practiced cruelty. Rough hands seized her wrists, wrapping cold iron cuffs etched with binding mana around her delicate bones, squeezing until the pulse beneath nearly stopped. A black veil was thrown over her face, smothering her vision but not her presence.
Even blindfolded, they all felt her. The heavy air pressed thick with dread, the serpent's pulse thrumming in their veins like a low, endless thunder.
They led her through the empty streets of Port Clairy as though she were a wild beast brought to slaughter. Yet the city had emptied itself like a dying lung. No voices rose in protest. No stones were thrown. No righteous cries condemned her.
Only silence.
Behind shuttered windows, shadows watched, whispered prayers slipping like smoke through cracked doors. An old woman clutched her rosary so tightly her knuckles blanched; a child pressed against a mother's side, eyes wide and trembling. The silence was alive-
hungry, watching, waiting.
Boots echoed down cold marble halls, the chains around Elena's wrists clinking like mournful bells. The magic seals on her bindings shimmered and sparked, ancient wards flaring against her passing like flame fleeing a sudden gust. The very walls recoiled, steeped in fear and revulsion.
She was brought before the High Seat of Parliament.
Velvet-clad nobles sat rigid, their faces pale and drawn. Inquisition Commanders stood like statues, their eyes glassy and hard, many refusing to meet the fierce gaze hidden beneath Elena's veil.
The veil covering her was suddenly pulled off, she merely blinked to adjust her poor eyesight in the bright light.
Slowly, deliberately, Siobhan descended from the podium. She wore an elaborate gown woven of black silk and crimson velvet, her every movement measured and cold. Her face was hidden behind a porcelain mask, smooth and serene, but the cracks that spiderwebbed its edges betrayed the curse beneath: faint bloodline hexes that twisted her flesh and warped her features so cruelly the mask was the only barrier holding her dignity intact.
Her voice was honey dipped in poison, sweet yet cutting:
"Behold," she purred, turning her gaze to the silent chamber. "The witch whore of storms. The False Saintess. The bringer of plagues, false signs, and death."
No one spoke. No one dared.
Elena stood tall. Shoulder's squared, chin high.
Her belly was prominent beneath the ragged folds of her gown, swollen and aching with impossible life. Scars glowed faintly beneath her bindings, the serpent tattoo flickering like dying coals beneath her pale skin. Her hair was wild, a tangled crown of chaos, and her eyes shone molten garnet, ringed with violet flame.
Even chained, she looked like a myth made flesh.
She said nothing.
The child inside her stirred, a faint but relentless pressure against her ribs.
And still, in the cold silence of the hall, she prayed:
Let this be enough. Let my blood be the price. Let my people live.
Then Siobhan struck her. Hard.
The crack echoed like thunder across the chamber. Blood spilled from Elena's split lips, mixing with the dust and sweat on her face. Her head lolled, but her knees did not bend. Her eyes did not blink. She simply stared forward, utterly still, as though she were carved from stone- she's had too much practice to yield.
"Where is your goddess now, witch?" Siobhan's voice was a purring knife. "Do you plead guilty to your crimes? To treason, heresy, and harboring infernal blood?"
No answer.
Only Elena's silence, and beneath it, a low, curling hiss no one else could hear- the serpent, furious, waiting.
The High Mother turned, voice light and cruel and triumphant:
"Take her to the cells. Let her rot until the demon child is nearly born. And when it is- " She paused, a terrible smile curling beneath the porcelain mask. "They will burn. Both of them. In the city square. Before the holy flame. After I carve the demon out of her. Myself."
The guards moved to seize Elena.
She did not resist.
But the air shifted.
Her eyes glowed for a heartbeat. Violet slits flashing against pale parchment skin. The serpent rumbled low inside her chest, a living storm on the edge of fury.
Siobhan struck her again. Hard enough to drive Elena to her knees.
"See?" she declared, voice rising. "This is no goddess. Just a witch possessed by demons."
The chamber did not cheer. They only watched, frozen in silent dread.
The cell was carved deep beneath the Parliament grounds. Old, ancient, designed to hold gods and monsters.
There, they shackled Elena with steel chains lined with obsidian prayer beads, anchoring her wrists high above her head. She was kept kneeling, knees scraping raw against the cold stone floor. Her mana cuffs shimmered with suppressive power, meant to contain her.
But they did not silence her.
She did not scream.
She did not beg.
She breathed.
And she waited.
In the oppressive darkness of the cell, Elena closed her eyes.
The serpent rose within her mind, coiling tight around her ribcage like iron. Protective. Fierce. Unyielding.
It did not soothe her.
It reminded her:
You are the storm, not the sacrifice.
She saw them.
Niegal- taller than memory, haloed in lightning, the Lion in full command.
Esperanza- soft cheeks and curly hair, arms outstretched.
The child in her womb, hers, twisting gently, kicking up from the inside.
Elena let one tear fall.
Only one.
Then silence again.
No grief.
No fear.
Only the cold kiss of chains and the knowledge that her gods, her people, were coming.
The serpent did not speak.
But she felt it.
Soon, my love. Soon the storm will break, and none shall stand beneath its fury.