Adaora knelt on the floor, trembling. Her hands clawed at her own arms as green light pulsed beneath her skin. Her eyes glowed faintly yellow. Snakes—small, spectral ones made of mist—slid across the floor around her, their tongues flicking the air.
Emeka gasped. “Adaora!”
She looked up, terrified. “Go away! Please!”
“What’s happening to you?”
“I can’t stop it,” she cried. “It’s waking up!”
Her voice broke into a guttural hiss. Her body convulsed; scales rippled briefly along her neck. Her pupils narrowed to slits.
Emeka’s instinct screamed to run. But he didn’t. Instead, he stepped closer.
“Adaora, listen to me. Breathe.”
“Don’t touch me!” she sobbed. “I’ll hurt you!”
He reached out anyway and grabbed her hand.
The moment their skin touched, a shock of energy surged through the room. The candle flames bent inward, the snakes hissed louder—and then, slowly, the light dimmed.
Adaora’s breathing steadied. The glow faded from her eyes. She collapsed into his arms, weak but alive.
For a long time, neither spoke. Rain beat against the windows like drums of fate.
When she finally whispered, her voice trembled. “Now you know.”
Emeka held her gently. “I don’t care what you are. You’re still Adaora.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I’m cursed.”
“Then let me share it,” he said simply.
Her tears soaked his shirt. For the first time in years, Adaora let herself be held.
VI. The Legend Revealed
When the storm cleared, Mama Ngozi returned. She found them sitting quietly by the hearth.
The old woman’s gaze swept over them—Adaora pale but calm, Emeka still holding her hand. She sighed deeply.
“So it begins.”
Emeka stood awkwardly. “Ma… I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Mama Ngozi waved her hand. “No need for apologies. If the serpent allowed you to touch her and live, then perhaps the prophecy was true.”
“Prophecy?” he echoed.
The old woman sank into a chair. “Our bloodline traces back to Eke Nneka, the Serpent Goddess who guarded the sacred springs. Long ago, she fell in love with a mortal man—a hunter who saved her life. But their union was forbidden. When the gods found out, they cursed her: every daughter born of her line would carry the serpent’s spirit within, forever torn between woman and snake. Only when she found a man pure of heart could the spirit be tamed.”
Emeka’s heart pounded. “And you think… I’m that man?”
“I don’t think,” Mama Ngozi said quietly. “The serpent chose you.”
Adaora’s eyes widened. “No! I won’t drag him into this!”
“You already have,” her grandmother said gently. “Fate doesn’t ask permission.”
VII. The Test
Over the next days, Adaora and Emeka grew closer. She taught him the ancient chants her grandmother used to calm the serpent; he taught her laughter, reminding her what being human felt like.
But danger stirred. In the neighboring village, word spread of strange lights seen near Adaora’s house. Old superstitions awoke. They whispered her name with fear—the snake girl, the cursed one.
One evening, a group of men gathered outside the compound with torches.
“She’s not human,” one said. “We must cleanse the town.”
Emeka heard them first. He rushed inside. “Adaora, we have to go. Now.”
Before they could move, a stone shattered the window. Someone shouted, “Witch!”
Adaora’s grandmother stepped forward, holding her cane. “You will not harm my child.”
A man raised his torch. “We saw her eyes glow! She’s a demon!”
Emeka stood beside the old woman. “She’s not! She’s just different!”
“Move aside, boy!”
Then a torch flew—and landed near the doorway. Fire caught the curtains instantly.
Smoke filled the room.
Adaora clutched her head, gasping. The serpent inside her roared.
“Emeka—get out!” she cried.
“I’m not leaving you!”
Her body trembled; scales flashed across her arms. Her voice dropped to a hiss. “If I lose control, I’ll kill them all!”
He held her face between his palms. “Then focus on me.”
For a heartbeat, everything stilled—the fire, the shouts, the chaos.
Her eyes met his. The serpent’s power surged, but his presence anchored her.
Then she did something she’d never done before—she let the serpent rise without fear.
A burst of green light swept through the house. The fire died instantly, sucked into the glow. Outside, the villagers fell to their knees, torches extinguished.
When the light faded, Adaora stood unharmed, her eyes shining gold, the aura of a queen surrounding her.
She stepped outside. The villagers trembled.
“I am not your enemy,” she said. Her voice was calm, resonant, ancient. “This curse is my burden, not yours. But if you harm my family again, the serpent will remember.”
The men dropped their torches and fled into the night.
VIII. The Choice
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