LIROIDS: SNAKE

The Shadows Deepen

The plain of Meris was still smoking when Snake and Dragon finally abandoned it. The black earth clung to their boots, the stink of ash clung to their cloaks. The field was quiet now, but it was not victory that filled the silence. It was something heavier, something that made even serpents hiss uneasily in the shadows.

Snake walked ahead, his movements slow and deliberate, each step weighed with thought. His cloak dragged across the ruin, dark against darker ground. The venom of his serpents lingered in the corpses, but the taste of triumph had long since faded from his mouth.

Behind him came Dragon, broad shoulders hunched, a half-healed burn slicing across his neck. His fiery hair, usually untamed and wild, was streaked with soot. Yet even broken, his stride carried power, and his grin, though weak, refused to die.

“Not dead yet,” Dragon rasped, the sound rough with smoke. “That is more than most can say.”

Snake did not turn. His voice was flat. “Not dead. Not victorious.”

Dragon laughed, though the sound was bitter. “You always wanted perfection. The king breathes, and so you call it failure. But look around you, brother. His fields burn, his priests are corpses, his men broken. That is no failure.”

Snake stopped, turning at last. His eyes were black pools, unreadable. “And yet he still stands. Fire still burns in his hands. Faith still clings to his people. Until it dies, all this ash is nothing.”

Dragon spat into the soil, his teeth flashing. “Then we strike again.”

Snake said nothing. His serpents slithered ahead, leading him into shadow.

In Tan’s capital, the crusader king stood before his altar of Ciria. The white flame flickered, uncertain, and his reflection in the polished bronze walls looked older than he remembered. His golden armor lay on a rack beside him, cracked at the edges, scarred by shadow’s touch.

His generals had told him to rest. His priests had begged him to pray. He did both, and neither brought peace.

“Ciria,” he whispered, bowing his head. “If you live, speak. If you are gone, let Tan of Tan hear me. For I cannot lead alone.”

The flame flared faintly, as though stirred by wind, though the chamber was sealed. The king took it for an answer, though his heart quivered with doubt.

He pressed his hands to the altar. “Snake and Dragon walk the land. They kill in shadow and flame, and still men whisper their names in fear. If faith falters, all falls. You must not fail me. You cannot.”

His voice cracked. For the first time, the crusader king prayed not as a ruler, but as a man desperate for light in darkness.

In Doomsany, Queen Dark sat upon her jagged throne. Shadows coiled at her feet, and her iron crown hissed with a dozen voices, whispers that fed her pride, her cruelty, her certainty.

“The plain of Meris burns,” a messenger reported, kneeling low. “Both armies bleed, yet the crusader king lives.”

Dark’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Then the game is not yet won. Good. The goddess demands more than ashes. She demands despair.”

Beside her, Scream tilted her veiled head. Her voice was muffled, dreadful, as though spoken through cloth and stone alike. “Faith still stands. Faith must be poisoned. A king alive is not as dangerous as a god believed. Break their god, and the king will fall with him.”

Dark’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you poison faith, Scream?”

Scream’s veiled hands lifted, trembling with strange power. “Send your brothers to the temples. Let them unmake the prayers of Tan. Let priests watch their torches die mid-chant. Let the people see that even Tan of Tan cannot answer.”

Dark leaned forward, delight flickering in her gaze. “Yes. Let their faith choke on silence.”

Glass, far away in her chamber of crystal, trembled as visions split her eyes. Shards of light floated around her, each one a fragment of fate.

She saw Snake standing before his son, the boy’s arm blazing with the Tar mark. She saw Dragon laughing as Flame burned a stable and Fury whispered into a soldier’s ear, turning him to murder his own brother. She saw Passion kneeling in Tan’s temple, her lips whispering prayers not to Evilside, but to Tan himself.

Her voice trembled as she whispered into the dark. “Shadows deepen. Blood sharpens. And yet…”

The shards cut her palms as she clutched them, desperate to hold the vision together. “Every shadow carries its end.”

Kindraloy slept under quiet skies. Magic could not reach it, but the curse of blood still lingered.

Trina woke to find Shiver awake, sitting on the floor beside his bed. The boy’s eyes glowed faintly in the dark, the Tar mark burning across his arm like roots beneath the skin.

“Mother,” he whispered. His small voice trembled. “I dreamed again. The fire came. And the shadows followed. They were inside me.”

Trina gathered him close, tears biting her eyes. “No, my love. It is only a dream. The shadows cannot touch you here.”

But her voice faltered, because she knew it was a lie. Kindraloy's barrier slowed the curse, but it did not stop it. Evilside’s reach grew longer every day.

Shiver pressed his face into her shoulder. “Father will come.”

“Yes,” Trina whispered, though her heart doubted. “Father will come.”

Snake and Dragon made camp in the ruins of an abandoned monastery. Its stone walls were cracked, its altar shattered, its torches long dead. The two assassins sat in silence, the air thick with the stench of old prayers.

Dragon finally broke it. “Do you ever tire of this?”

Snake sharpened his dagger slowly. “Of killing?”

“No. Of pretending.”

Snake glanced at him. Dragon’s grin was faint, but his eyes were serious.

“You serve the goddess because you must. I serve because I cannot do otherwise. But sometimes, I wonder…” His voice trailed. He stared at the broken altar. “What if Ciria had lived? What if Tan of Tan had never risen? Would we still kneel to a tree of shadows?”

Snake’s eyes darkened. “We are cursed. It matters not who we kneel to. We will always kneel.”

Dragon laughed, bitter and sharp. “Then let us kneel in blood.”

In Doomsany, Flame crept through the barracks, a torch clutched in his small hand. He was no older than ten, but fire bent to him eagerly. He whispered to it, fed it with laughter, until the barracks roared with flame. Soldiers shouted, buckets spilled, panic spread. Flame watched from the shadows, his eyes glowing, his lips curved in delight.

In the court, Fury sat with courtiers twice her age, whispering into their ears. Her words were soft, sweet, impossible to resist. One by one, the men and women of the court leaned closer, nodding, obeying, their smiles fixed and glassy. Fury smiled too, her small hands folded like a child at prayer.

And in a temple far away, Passion knelt before the altar of Tan. Her lips whispered prayers the priests believed true. They welcomed her, trusted her, loved her. She smiled, but her heart was steel. For every word she spoke was a lie meant to bring her closer to the god her father swore to kill.

The crusader king rose from his prayers. His soldiers rallied once more, their torches burning. He lifted his blade, fire dancing along its edge, and his voice carried across the camp.

“We are not broken. We are not lost. Shadows fall, but fire rises. Tan of Tan is with us. Ciria’s light may be gone, but Tan’s fire burns eternal.”

His men cheered. Their voices filled the night.

But above their chants, Snake and Dragon moved in silence, watching from the hills.

Dragon’s eyes gleamed. “One more strike, and faith will crack.”

Snake’s voice was cold. “Or it will burn brighter.”

Dragon grinned, fire flashing in his teeth. “Then let it burn. For every flame, there is ash. And shadow waits.”

Snake looked east, toward Kindraloy, where Shiver’s mark grew brighter. His chest tightened, but he turned away.

The war deepened. The shadows lengthened.

And in the roots of Cellok, Evilside whispered, her voice crawling into every corner of the night:

“Strike deeper, my sons. Strike until gods bleed.”