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The wind howled across the mountain range like the final breath of something ancient.
Deep within the stone veins of Mount Serakar, the Sanctum of Coiled Night stood silent, untouched by sunlight. Shadows pooled in corners like living things. The air was thick with incense and whispers, both clinging to the bones of the temple.
A scream tore through the sanctum.
Then another.
Then silence.
Blood spread across the obsidian birthing slab, dark and steaming. The woman's body lay still, her chest unmoving, her eyes open but empty. Her death brought no mourning. Within the clan, there was no room for grief—only purpose.
"She's gone," one of the midwives whispered.
The High Serpent Priest stepped forward, robed in black silk, ash-painted across his brow. He examined the corpse with the detachment of a butcher, then turned to the twins lying in the blood-soaked linen.
Two boys.
They did not cry.
The first stared up at the flames, eyes dark and unblinking, as if already studying the world with suspicion. The second clenched his fists and kicked, face twisted with a scowl, not from pain—but fury.
The priest's lips curled into a rare smile.
"No tears. As it should be."
From the tunnel behind him came a low hiss.
Two snakes were brought forth in obsidian cages. One was a Black Adder, its scales gleaming like oiled leather. The other, a coiled Green Viper with eyes like split emeralds. These were not ordinary serpents—these were familiars of Izzaruun, soulbound predators raised in the dark.
The midwives bowed as the cages were opened.
The Black Adder slithered straight to the quiet twin and coiled around his legs. It did not bite. It did not test him. It simply claimed him.
The Green Viper circled the other child once, then flicked its tongue against his cheek before wrapping around his small torso, pulsing with faint, dark light.
"They have accepted the bond," the priest intoned. "The Path of Coiling begins."
He took a ritual blade—black iron etched with the sigil of the god—and made a thin cut across each boy's forearm. Blood welled up. The snakes tasted it. In return, they opened their fangs and dripped a single drop of Umbravore venom into the wounds.
The boys convulsed.
The pain should have made them scream—but they did not. Their veins turned black for a breath, then faded to normal.
"They'll live," said the priest. "For now."
The doors opened.
A man entered in silent steps, his face hidden behind a bone-white mask shaped like a serpent skull. He stood before the twins, saying nothing. Then, in a low, hollow voice:
"Raelith."
"Kaelen."
The names were not given with affection. They were declarations. Assignments. Designations for tools yet to be sharpened.
He bowed once to the High Priest and left, the scent of dried blood trailing behind him like a shadow.
Above, hidden behind carved slats in the stone ceiling, members of the main family watched. Robed figures, masked and silent, whispered among themselves.
"Twins," one muttered. "We've not seen their kind in decades."
"Born in blood," said another. "They'll either rise above all or be consumed."
From the highest perch, the Clan Head stared through a silver mask shaped like a fang. He said nothing. His silence was the loudest voice in the room.
The priest turned back to the midwives. "No cradles. Lay them on stone. Let them feel what warmth will never offer."
The wind outside screamed through the mountain peaks again, colder this time.
The moon hung overhead, thin and red, like a blade halfway drawn from its scabbard.
Beneath it, the twins lay together in silence.
No crying.
No breath wasted.
Only eyes, watching.
And somewhere, deep beneath the temple—in tunnels older than the clan itself—the ancient god stirred.
It did not wake.
It did not sleep.
It simply watched.
And hungered.