The Serpent’s Mercy
The soldier’s name was Kael. He was young, barely twenty summers, but the war had aged him far beyond his years. He had the eyes of someone who had seen too much, a restless gaze that darted from shadow to shadow, always wary, always calculating. That evening, as the sun bled red across the horizon, he wandered through the dense undergrowth of a forgotten forest. His unit had gone ahead to secure the village, leaving him behind to scout the perimeter. His stomach growled in protest; the rations were scarce, and his lips were chapped from thirst.
That’s when he saw them. Tiny, writhing, almost imperceptible against the cracked soil and fallen leaves—a clutch of newborn snakes, no longer than his finger. Their eyes were closed, their bodies delicate, and instinctively, they twined over each other, quivering with life. Something about the sight stopped him. Most soldiers would have crushed them without thought, considering them pests or omens of misfortune. Kael, however, felt a strange tug of compassion. He had lost his younger sister to a fever years ago, and the memory of her fragile cries lingered in the corners of his mind.
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