Rigel woke with the pale light brushing his face, deducing it must be dawn. He felt the familiar weight of Mrs. Hiss coiled gently across his chest.
Mrs. Hiss shifted slightly, her scales brushing reassuringly against him.
Rigel nodded faintly, letting the comfort of her presence anchor him, even as the weight of being the last Serpico pressed in around him.
Once he felt a little more composed, Rigel spoke, his voice low and cautious.
The snake lifted her head, eyes glinting with sharp intelligence.
Rigel's small fingers traced the edge of the blanket, frowning slightly.
He let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh, feeling the tiniest weight lift from his chest. Even with the storm of his past lingering, the certainty of her presence was a small, steady light.
Once showered and his hair neatly fixed, Rigel walked back to the desk. Resting there were the Trash wand and the silver locket. He picked up the locket first, fingers lingering over its cool surface. For a moment he hesitated before snapping it open.
Inside, one side showed a photograph of him and his mother, her golden hair soft around her face, her smile so achingly gentle it hurt to look at. On the other side was a man with raven-black hair and piercing steel-gray eyes the eyes that marked his bloodline unmistakably.
Rigel fastened the locket around his neck, letting its familiar weight settle on his chest and gave Mrs. Hiss a faint nod.
He opened the door. The corridor was empty. No sign of George. Together they padded down the stairs, the snake close to his ankles, silent as a shadow.
The air shifted as they entered the lower floor. Peeling posters of old fight nights clung stubbornly to the damp walls, their colors faded. The wooden floorboards groaned beneath each step. Ropes sagged around the ring at the center, worn but still proud, the smell of sweat, dust, and time hanging thick in the space.
It was broken, aged yet alive. The place had soul.
In the far corner, George sat slouched on a stool, pipe smoke curling lazily above his head as he watched a man moving inside the ring, fists snapping against the heavy bag with the rhythm of a drumbeat.
Rigel padded across the creaking floorboards, Mrs. Hiss gliding close at his feet. His eyes darted around, taking in the faded posters, the sagging ring ropes, the rows of old gloves and bags.
A sound broke through the haze leather snapping against canvas, sharp and steady. A boy maybe fifteen, wiry but strong, was hammering away at the heavy bag, sweat flying with each punch. He turned at the sound of footsteps.
"Oi," the lad called, brow furrowing as he noticed Rigel. "Georgie! You've got a visitor!"
George stirred from his corner, pulling the pipe from his lips. He blinked, then straightened as his eyes landed on Rigel. The boy wasn't just cleaned up there was something in the way he carried himself now. Chin a little higher, movements precise, even the way he stood barefoot on the boards gave off a strange, quiet dignity. Not the clothes, but the bearing.
George felt his brows lift. "Well now" he said slowly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "You've put yourself together proper, boy like you wouldn't look out of place in a manor, the way you hold yourself."
George straightened, eyes still on Rigel for a moment before turning to Frank, a seasoned man in his forties, moving with the ease of someone who had trained for decades, shadowboxing near the ring.
Frank didn't break his rhythm, fists cutting through the air. "No problem, Georgiei I'll keep an eye on the beginners while you're busy."
The old man walked over to Rigel and led him upstairs to the kitchen, guiding him to a chair across from his own.
"So, kid," George began, settling in, "I was thinking… if you don't have anywhere to go, you could stay with me. At least, if that's okay with you."
Rigel stared straight into his eyes, unsure how to respond. He was about to refuse when Mrs. Hiss hissed softly, her voice gentle but insistent.
Rigel gave her a small nod, then turned back to George. "Alright… maybe I can stay. But not for free and on one condition you teach me how to throw a punch."
George chuckled softly, a warm, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Don't resent me when you're sore at night, kid."
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Three years later…
A lot had happened. Rigel had started kindergarten and moved on to primary school. Lucky for him, he had his only human friend a girl with bushy hair, who loved books more than anything and always knew better.
Then there were the guys at the gym. Now, he was something of a mascot but at first, they had been terrified when they first heard his eerie, unsettling laugh no one would admit it, of course, but over time, they got used to it. They even joked about it, though carefully. The lad could win a match just by laughing, scaring his opponents even before a punch was thrown.
But most important, after Ethelin and Tenebris his familiars, who were born in these three years, and the little snicklet of Mrs. Hiss, coiled protectively around him, was the book in front of him: a massive tome, eight thousand pages, titled
But it was time to train. Rigel pushed himself off the chair and went downstairs. The gym was closed to the public today, giving him the place all to himself. He started warming up with Georgei, stretching and shadowboxing, muscles already waking from the calm of the morning.
Just as he was getting into rhythm, the bell above the door jingled sharply.
The door swung open. Two polished shoes stepped inside.
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