Fred stared at the drawing again, baffled by the image that had come from his own hand. The creature was unlike anything he had consciously imagined, its mystic form older than time itself, as if it had been waiting inside him for years, not hours.
There was a terrible beauty in the way it curled upon the page, fangs glinting, tongue flicked. His pencil had stopped long ago, yet the weight of the image remained. The sketchbook lay open as though it were something alive, holding its breath.
The moon now hung high above the trees, casting a pale silver gleam across the tops of the branches. Fred moved to the window and looked out. A single bird screeched overhead, its wings slicing the quiet as it vanished beyond the roof. The sound sent a ripple of tension down his spine. The night felt too still for the sound to belong, as though the creature had been fleeing from something unseen. He closed the curtain slowly, almost cautiously, as though trying not to wake something watching.
He picked up his pencil again and hesitated, the point hovering above the page before he dropped it. His hands were restless, but his eyes refused to continue; they ached with a fatigue that felt deeper than exhaustion, a heaviness that pressed behind his skull. He rubbed his eyelids, wondering why the drawing drained him so much.
Wrapping himself in his blanket, Fred lay down on the bed and exhaled, his breath thin and quiet in the room's stillness. For a moment, he listened to the faint creaks of the cabin, the soft moan of the forest wind, and the rhythmic hum of distant vehicles on the main road. Sleep took him quickly, like water pulling down a stone.
In his dream, he found himself back in Worthloth Forest. But it wasn't the same. The silence was unnatural. Not peaceful, but expectant, as though the forest itself had paused, listening for something ancient. The branches didn't sway, not even the leaves rustled. No animals moved. The air was too still, too heavy. Fred felt like an intruder walking through a breath held far too long.
Then it appeared.
The same serpent he had drawn, only now it was alive. Massive. Real. It slithered down from the crown of a towering tree, its scales glimmering green as one will imagine shattered emeralds beneath moonlight. The tongue, long and sharp as fire, flicked the air as venom, maybe not, dripped from its curved fangs. The ground itself seemed to pull away from it, as though the earth recognized something older than roots.
Fred couldn't breathe. The pressure in his chest grew unbearable, as though the creature's presence alone twisted the laws of nature around him. His limbs felt heavy, like they belonged to stone, and he couldn't lift a single finger no matter how hard he tried.
Then the serpent spoke.
"Thou art marked," it hissed in a voice that shimmered with echoes from forgotten tombs. "You pull me from shadow, but I have always been coiled beneath your skin."
Fred tried to speak, but no words came. His throat felt sealed shut.
"You are not the watcher, Fred. You are the door."
The voice was female, yet twisted, beautiful but raw and strange. The serpent's gaze didn't break. It looked at him not as prey, but as something familiar… something inevitable. The air around him thickened as if the forest recognized him too.
Fred awoke with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat, eyes wide in the darkness. He sat up, heart hammering, breath uneven. The lamp beside his bed had gone out, its fuel long spent. His room was cloaked in soft darkness, touched only faintly by the pale starlight slipping between the curtains.
He stepped toward the window, pulling the curtain aside. The night outside was still. No voices; No vehicles. Just the faint hum of distant insects and the rustle of faraway leaves. Only travellers would be out at this hour, moving through the winding road beside the forest. The silence felt heavier than usual, as if it had followed him out of sleep.
Fred glanced at the clock on his phone; it was still deep in the night. He sighed and returned it to the table, only to catch a glimpse of the sketch again.
The serpent's eyes stared back at him.
The words echoed in his mind: "You are the door."
He shook his head and turned away. "Just a dream," he muttered. "Just a damn dream." He convinced himself though thrilled by the dramatic voice and emergence of the serpent. Fred knew what man lay in his heart to sleep may become his imaginations.
****
Far from Worthloth, within the high towers of the Gabriel Williams Estate, a symbol of wealth and untouchable status, piano chords filled the air like whispers. The man himself was away in another country, but his legacy pulsed through the halls. Servants moved quietly in distant corridors, their steps softened by velvet carpets.
In one of the many lavish rooms, Clara sat at the grand piano, her fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys. The melody was haunting, something beautiful and unfamiliar, woven from emotions rather than notes. A song that had no name, no composer. Only her. Her back straightened and curved with the music, the way it always did when she let herself feel too much.
Her final chords fell soft and sorrowful, returning to the tonic like a sigh. Silence followed. Around her, the room glowed in warm lamplight. Fresh flowers perfumed the air. Guitars, violins, brass instruments lined the walls, all immaculate and in place. A book of notations lay open, but it wasn't what she'd been playing. Her fingers rested on the keys, but her mind was far away.
Her thoughts were elsewhere. Somewhere… else.
Fred.
The name crept into her consciousness again, stronger this time. It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was something she couldn't name. Something that tugged at her like a thread she didn't want to pull.
She sighed, pressing a minor chord that filled the space with tension. Her fingers moved instinctively, even as her mind drifted away.
"Fred," she whispered aloud.
A soft laugh came from the shadows.
"So… you're feeling him."
Clara turned, startled.
Ájé stood near the window, arms folded, her silhouette outlined by the city lights. Her presence was always striking, tall and composed, her skin glowing like polished marble, red hair cascading like blood over her shoulders. She carried a quiet intensity that made even large rooms feel small.
"Sister?" Clara raised a brow. "You didn't say you were coming over. It's late."
"I came to talk," Ájé replied without turning from the window. Her voice carried calmness but also a cold edge.
Clara closed the piano softly. "Then speak."
Ájé's gaze lingered on the skyline, then turned back toward her sister. "You didn't answer me. Are you feeling him?"
Clara sighed. "Fred? What if I am? He's gentle… different. He sees through me."
"Even the gentlest beasts may possess something far darker," Ájé said coolly, walking slowly into the room, her presence making the air feel heavier. The boards beneath her feet creaked softly.
Clara looked at her. "What are you trying to say?"
Ájé paused. "Fred is not what he seems. When I shook his hand earlier, I felt something... something ancient blinked at me from within him. He's not just another student, Clara. He's not just a boy."
Clara frowned, a tightness settling around her chest. "You think he's… like us? Another child of the coil?"
Ájé shook her head. "No. Not like us. Not afflicted. Not cursed by chance. He was born with something… a mark. A purpose. Something far beyond the Coil."
The words settled in the room like cold mist.
Clara's hands clenched in her lap. "So what is he, then?"
"I don't know. Yet," Ájé admitted. "But I know this, he's not harmless. Whatever he is… he was chosen for something. Something we may not be ready for."
Clara sat back, her chest rising and falling slowly. She didn't want to believe Fred could be dangerous. But she only felt so attached to him.
The piano keys rested under her hands. Cold and still.
Was Fred like her? Like Ájé?
Or was he something far worse?