The Serpent kiss
674 Words
The night air still clung to Seraphina’s skin, though Lucien had long disappeared into the darkness. Sleep evaded her, and the whispers inside her skull only grew louder. They did not speak in human words but in sensations—burning, unraveling, reshaping.
She did not pray that night.
For the first time since she could remember, Seraphina did not kneel before the wooden crucifix in her chamber, did not murmur her nightly pleas for salvation. Instead, she stood at the mirror, fingers tracing the delicate line of her throat where the broken halo pendant rested.
Lucien had called it a key.
A key to what?
A sudden knock at the door made her jump. Before she could speak, the heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a figure wrapped in thick robes.
Mother Eleanor.
The head of Saint Agatha’s, the woman who had raised Seraphina within these sacred walls, who had taught her to fear the temptations of the world.
And yet, in the flickering candlelight, Seraphina saw something in the old woman’s eyes that made her breath catch. Not just concern.
Fear.
“Come with me, child.” Mother Eleanor’s voice was steady, but her hands trembled beneath the folds of her sleeves.
Seraphina hesitated. “Is something wrong?”
A pause. Then, quietly—“Yes.”
—
The halls of Saint Agatha’s were silent as they walked, but the deeper they went, the heavier the air became. Seraphina’s pulse quickened. They weren’t heading toward the chapel. Not toward prayer.
They were going underground.
The catacombs.
A place only the clergy were allowed to enter.
A place for the dead.
Her footsteps faltered at the top of the spiral staircase that led downward into the earth. “Mother Eleanor…”
The older woman turned to face her. The candlelight cast deep shadows across her face. “Do you trust me, child?”
Seraphina’s mouth went dry. The words of course lingered on her tongue, but they did not come.
Mother Eleanor sighed. “Then at least trust that you need to see this.”
Seraphina swallowed and followed her down.
The air grew damp as they descended, the scent of old stone and forgotten prayers filling her lungs. The passageways were lined with ancient carvings, faded depictions of saints and martyrs. But the deeper they went, the more the images changed.
The saints became angels.
The angels became something else.
Not demons, not exactly—but not holy, either.
Seraphina’s fingers brushed against the cold stone as unease curled in her gut.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered.
“No, child.” Mother Eleanor’s voice was quiet but firm. “The mistake was keeping the truth from you for so long.”
They reached a large iron door at the end of the corridor. Mother Eleanor produced a key from her robes, its edges worn with age. The lock groaned in protest as she turned it.
Beyond the door, the room was vast, lined with bookshelves and candlelit alcoves. But Seraphina barely noticed any of it.
Her eyes were locked onto the center of the room—where a massive stone slab stood upright, covered in unfamiliar symbols. At its heart, a single carving stood out among the rest.
A woman with wings of fire.
And beneath it, written in a language Seraphina did not recognize but somehow understood—
"She will fall, and the world will burn."
A cold shiver ran down her spine. “What… is this?”
Mother Eleanor stepped beside her. “This,” she murmured, “is your past.”
Seraphina’s breath caught. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.” The older woman turned to face her. “You were never meant for this place, Seraphina. You were never meant to stay locked away behind these walls. The whispers you hear… the fire inside you…” She exhaled shakily. “They are not of God.”
Seraphina took a step back. “No. That’s not—”
Mother Eleanor’s voice softened. “Tell me,
- Writer
