The Serpent’s Wrath
The air in her cage was thick with the scent of sweat, rust, and old straw. The walls, lined with deep scratches and dried blood, bore witness to her silent suffering and relentless endurance. Cecile stood before them, running a calloused finger over the tallies carved into the wood.
One, two, three…
Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted each etched line. The final number settled heavily in her mind: 3,650. Ten years.
She was seventeen now, no longer the frail, frightened child who had once cowered at the sound of approaching footsteps. The punishments had broken her bones, but not her will. The jeers of the crowd had bruised her skin, but not her spirit. The cage had contained her, but it had never tamed her.
She rolled her stiff shoulders, feeling the dull ache of old wounds beneath her thin shirt. Outside the bars, the cacophony of the circus filled the air—laughter, screams, music all blending into an oppressive symphony. It was an anniversary of sorts, though no one else knew it. A decade of torment, of pain, of transformation.
And tonight, it would end.
The Final Performance
The drums rumbled like distant thunder as the lights dimmed, casting the center ring in eerie shadows. Cecile stood in the darkness of the backstage area, her breath steady, her mind clear. She had performed countless times before, shifting into the form they had forced upon her, baring her fangs for their amusement. But tonight was different. Tonight, she was not a victim. She was the executioner.
The Ringmaster stepped forward, his crimson tailcoat catching the flickering torchlight. His voice, deep and commanding, rang through the tent.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Gather close and bear witness to a sight beyond your wildest imaginations! The terror of the ages! The cursed marvel! The Serpent Woman!”
A deafening roar of applause followed his words, but Cecile heard nothing beyond the drumming of her own heart. The chains binding her wrists were removed, the iron collar around her neck unlocked. A false freedom. A freedom granted only within the confines of the performance.
But tonight, she would not return to her cage.
She stepped forward, the dirt cold beneath her bare feet as she entered the ring. The audience leaned forward in anticipation, eyes gleaming with twisted delight. They expected her to shift, to twist and contort into the beast they adored.
And she would.
Cecile took a slow breath, feeling the familiar fire creep through her veins. The curse had consumed her long ago, wrapping itself around her like a second skin. She embraced it now, letting the black veins surge and pulse as her body twisted, reshaped, reformed. Bones snapped, muscles coiled, skin hardened into iridescent scales. Her limbs elongated, her fingers curling into talons.
Gasps filled the tent as the transformation completed. The monster they had always called her had finally taken form.
The Ringmaster grinned, raising his hands to the crowd. “Behold! The—”
His words were cut short as Cecile lunged.
Her fangs sank into his throat, his flesh parting like wet parchment. Blood sprayed across the dirt floor, warm and metallic on her tongue. The Ringmaster’s eyes bulged in shock, his hands clawing at her scaled arms, but she held firm, savoring the raw, visceral moment.
Then, with a violent twist, she tore his throat out.
Silence fell.
For the first time in a decade, there was no applause. No cheers. Only stunned, horrified disbelief.
Then the screaming began.
The Massacre
Chaos erupted as Cecile turned on the nearest performer, a woman adorned in silks and sequins, frozen in place with wide, disbelieving eyes. A flick of Cecile’s tail sent her crashing into the iron bars of a nearby cage, bones shattering on impact. Another handler reached for a whip, but Cecile moved faster, striking with the precision of a predator. Clawed fingers tore through his chest, ripping out sinew and bone in a spray of crimson.
Blood coated the ring, turning the sawdust beneath her into a swamp of gore. The scent filled her nostrils, fueling the hunger, the rage, the long-suppressed fury that now surged unchecked.
She slithered through the panicked crowd, her serpentine form gliding effortlessly between the fleeing bodies. No woman, no child, no man was spared. The same audience that had laughed, that had clapped as she suffered, now screamed for mercy.
She granted none.
A mother clutched her child, shielding the boy with trembling arms. Cecile hesitated only for a moment before striking. Fangs sank deep, venom seeping into fragile veins. The child’s cry was brief. The mother’s wail was not.
The performers and handlers who had tormented her for years fell one by one. Bram, the man who had beaten her as a child, tried to run, but she caught him by the ankle, dragging him back into the blood-soaked ring. His pleas fell on deaf ears as she crushed his windpipe with a single, merciless squeeze.
The tent was painted in red.
The Aftermath
As the last screams faded, Cecile coiled in the center of the carnage, her elongated body slick with blood. The fire from overturned torches licked at the fabric of the tent, sending embers floating like dying stars.
Her breath came in slow, controlled intervals. She surveyed the massacre with a calm, calculating gaze. There was no regret. No sorrow. Only the quiet hum of long-awaited satisfaction.
Then, she raised her head and looked beyond the torn entrance of the tent. The world stretched before her—vast, free, untouched by the chains of the circus.
Her heart thundered.
Freedom.
For the first time, it was truly within her grasp.
But as she slithered toward the exit, her mind echoed with the words that had defined her existence. The words that clung to her like a shadow, a whisper of betrayal that cut deeper than any whip.
The first to betray me was a god, my creator, my mother.
Nagini had left her. The circus had caged her. The world had forsaken her.
Now, it would fear her.