The Serpent

It was already there when the Oak first took root. Coiled in the dark where no

light had ever reached, the Serpent held the Egg in a grip that was not

possessive but absolute. It did not love what it guarded. It did not hate what

it denied.

Every year, they came. Morana with her killing frost, hoping to seal the shell

forever. The Firebird with its searing light, trying to crack it open by force.

Neither succeeded. The Serpent tightened against cold and loosened against heat

— not out of will, but reflex. It was made for this. A mechanism older than

intention.

Some believed it was the last creation of a forgotten god — a lock built before

there was a key. Others said the Serpent was the Egg's own doubt, given scales

and patience.

What was known: nothing unworthy could pass it. Force meant nothing. Cleverness

meant nothing. Only something the Serpent could not measure — something it had

no reflex against — could reach the shell beneath its coils.

When Vesna knelt before it, the Serpent did not strike. It did not yield.

It simply could not find a reason to hold on.