Blood streams from my hand, pattering onto the soil. It spreads, merging with the blood of my mother. Of Sorren. Until the entire floor is slick with it.
“Maybe you’re the one who’s alone here.”
The sword pulses to my words, a heartbeat held in my hands.
“I am loved,” I shout now, the words tearing free of me. “Even if I am not useful. Even if I fail. Even if I’m alone. My mother loves me. Sorren loves me.”
My vision blurs, but I don’t look away.
“Tell me,” I demand. “Who lovesyou?”
The soil beneath my feet begins to tremble. Then the walls shake. Dirt and pebbles break free. They cascade down in a soft, tinkling patter that sounds like rain.
I glance down as tiny green shoots push up between my boots. They rise fast, twisting, unfurling, vivid and lush. Alive.
More vines burst from the walls, splitting stone and soil alike. Branches stretch outward, bowing under the weight of glossy leaves.
That same sweet perfume from earlier floods the air. Suddenly, there are flowers everywhere. Petals open in a riot of color—ruby, gold, violet, and blue—until every surface is covered with living green.
Within minutes, the entire chamber is transformed.
A carpet of leaves creeps across the floor, flowing over my mother’s body. Over Sorren’s. It rises higher and thicker. Until they vanish beneath it.
The outline of their forms softens. Flattens. Disappears.
As if they were never there.
My mouth falls open.
A butterfly drifts toward me, small and blue. The one from the night before. Or one just like it. It hovers inches from my face, its wings beating slow and deliberate. I lift my hand toward it and, for a moment, it lands on me. Lingers. Then it flutters away to join dozens more that spiral through the flowering vines.
Birdsong spills into the air. Followed by the croak of frogs. The buzz of bees.
Life hums everywhere.
The grass along the floor has grown as tall as my ankles. It ripples as a disturbance moves through it. A slow, deliberate wave traveling straight toward me.
The blades part, and a snake rises.
Higher.
Higher.
Until it stands nearly eye level with me, its body lifting from the grass in a smooth, controlled column.
I instinctively step back when I see the distinctive triangular hood flare wide around its head. Gold eyes, bright with intelligence, lock onto mine.
A king cobra.
“I guess that makes sense,” I say.
The snake sways before me, its black forked tongue flicking in and out, tasting the air.
“What makes sense?” it asks, the words slipping out on a soft, serpentine hiss.
“The egg,” I answer. “Snakes come from eggs.”
The cobra’s hood relaxes slightly. It hums at that.
