I freeze, staring at the tiny snake emblem stitched into the collar. It''s nearly invisible—a shadow within a shadow—but to my eyes, it might as well be blazing.


    "Something wrong with it?" the old tailor asks, his voice neutral.


    My fingers trace the symbol. "This snake. Why is it here?"


    He shrugs, turning to sort through a stack of trousers. "Just a maker''s mark. Something I do with all my pieces."


    Lies. I''ve spent eleven years reading people''s tells—the slight tightening around his eyes betrays him. This isn''t random. This isn''t coincidence.


    "How did you know?" I demand, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "About this?" I tap my forearm where my tattoo lies dormant beneath my sleeve.


    The old man''s weathered face reveals nothing. "Know what, exactly?"


    "Don''t play games with me." I step closer, using my height to loom over him. "No one puts a snake symbol on clothing for me by accident."


    He meets my gaze without flinching. "You think you''re the only one with secrets in this city, boy?"


    The shop suddenly feels like a trap. I glance toward the door, calculating how quickly I can reach it. Is someone waiting outside? Is this old man more than he appears?


    "Who sent you?" I ask. "Was it someone from the Academy? Wentworth?"


    A dry chuckle escapes his lips. "Nobody sent me anywhere. I''ve owned this shop for thirty years."


    "Then how did you know?" I clench my fists, feeling the bruises throb.


    Instead of answering, he turns and walks deeper into the shop. "Come. There''s something you should see."


    Every instinct screams danger, but curiosity—that same damned curiosity that''s kept me at the Academy despite everything—pushes me forward. I follow him to the back, where he pulls aside a heavy curtain, revealing a small workshop.


    On the wall hangs a faded tapestry. The design is intricate, tribal—familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. In the centre, woven in thread that must once have been vibrant but has now faded to a dull rust colour, is a snake devouring its own tail.


    "The Eternal Serpent," he says quietly. "Symbol of the Scaled Ones."


    Scaled ones?


    "Where did you get this?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears.


    "My father traded for it, long before the purges. Before the mages decided your kind were too dangerous to exist."


    I stare at the tapestry, at this piece of my past I never expected to find. But doubt creeps in like poison. This could be fabricated. A trap designed to lower my guard, to make me reveal more about myself.


    "Why show me this?" I ask. "What do you want from me?"


    The old man sighs. "Nothing. But I recognised what you are the moment you stepped through my door. The way you move. The way you hold yourself. The aura. Like you''re carrying something heavy beneath your skin."


    His words hit too close to the truth. I back away, suddenly feeling exposed.


    "I don''t know what game you''re playing—"


    "No games." He picks up the shirt I''d dropped and holds it out. "Just an old man who remembers a time before the world turned against your people. Take the shirt. Consider it a reminder that not everyone in Egozia is your enemy."


    I hesitate, then take the garment. The snake emblem seems to pulse under my fingers.


    "Or it could be poisoned," I say flatly. "Or warded. Or tracked."


    He laughs, a genuine sound that catches me off guard. "Smart boy. Trust no one. That''s how survivors think."


    I fold the shirt carefully. "If you know what I am, then you know why I can''t trust this. Or you."


    "Of course." He nods. "I''d expect nothing less."


    I should leave now. Walk away from this strange old man and his dangerous knowledge. But one question burns in my throat.


    "Are there others?" I ask, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "Like me?"


    His expression softens slightly. "I''m just a tailor, boy. But in a city this size... who can say what secrets hide in plain sight?"


    I leave the tailor''s shop with more questions than answers, the shirt clutched in my hand like something dangerous. The night market''s cacophony fades to background noise as my mind races. Others like me? Impossible. The purges were thorough—I''d spent years searching, finding nothing but ashes and bones.


    I clutch the shirt tighter as I leave the Night Market, weaving through the thinning crowd. Every face I pass seems to linger on me a heartbeat too long. A woman selling late-night pastries smiles in my direction—is she signalling someone? The fruit vendor''s eyes follow me as I pass—marking my route for others?


    The shirt burns against my palm like a brand. What if it''s not just a shirt? What if there''s more than just that snake symbol? Tracking runes sewn into the seams? Poison in the thread that seeps through the skin?


    I stuff it deeper into my pocket and quicken my pace. A stray cat darts across my path, pausing to stare at me with gleaming eyes. Not a coincidence. Nothing is a coincidence anymore. Is it watching me? Reporting back to someone? Some mages can see through animal eyes—I''d heard stories from the mercenaries.


    Maybe those were just fables.


    "What are you looking at?" I hiss at the creature. It blinks slowly before slinking away into the shadows.


    Two Academy students pass by, laughing together. They fall silent as they notice me. Of course, they do. They''re part of it too. Everyone is. The tailor must have alerted the entire network by now.


    I duck down a side street, then another, doubling back twice to ensure I''m not followed. A night watchman tips his hat to me—a signal to unseen observers? The wind rustles through a nearby tree—or is someone hiding among its branches?


    My heart hammers against my ribs. I press my back against a wall, scanning the empty street. No one is visible, but that means nothing. Magic can hide a dozen watchers. The shirt in my pocket seems to grow heavier with each step.


    What was I thinking? Taking something from a stranger who knew too much about me? Captain Maya would have beaten sense into me for such a rookie mistake.


    Where is Maya?


    A window shuts somewhere above—someone tracking my movements. An old woman waters plants on her balcony—keeping watch. Even the shadows seem to shift and follow me as I move.


    By the time the Academy looms ahead, sweat soaks my back despite the cool night air. I pause at the entrance, scanning the grounds. Too open. Too exposed. But staying outside is worse. They''re all around me now. I can feel their eyes.


    I sprint across the courtyard, certain that dozens of hidden observers are marking my path, reporting my movements through some invisible network that stretches across Egozia. The snake symbol connects them all—the tailor, the Academy, perhaps even Wentworth and the others. Have they been playing me from the beginning?


    I reach my dormitory building, fumbling with the door. A night guard nods at me—another one in on it. I take the stairs two at a time, convinced footsteps echo behind me, though when I turn, no one''s there.


    Outside my door, I pause. What if they''re waiting inside? What if Cain is part of it, too? Has he been reporting on me this whole time? The shirt in my pocket might as well be screaming its presence to everyone within a mile.


    I need to destroy it. Hide it. Before they can use it against me.


    <hr>


    Back in my dorm room, I lock the door and examine the shirt viciously under the lamplight. No visible enchantments, check, no strange smells, check, nothing obviously wrong with it. Just that tiny snake emblem, mocking me with its familiarity.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    I strip off my torn shirt and throw on the new one. The fabric settles against my skin, surprisingly comfortable. I stand before the mirror, carefuly studying my reflection. The snake symbol at the collar is nearly invisible unless you know exactly where to look.


    "What did he mean?" I mutter quickly, tracing the outline of my tattoo through the fabric.


    Something the tailor said keeps echoing in my mind: "Like you''re carrying something heavy beneath your skin." He saw what others miss—the burden of these marks, the weight of what they represent. Or something else?


    I roll up my sleeve, fully revealing the snake tattoo. In the dim light of my room, it seems to shift slightly, as if responding to my attention. The Academy''s magical atmosphere has been interfering with it, but what if...


    What if I''m approaching this wrong? What if, instead of fighting against the Academy''s magic, I could work with it somehow?


    I sit cross-legged on the floor, breathing deeply the way Father taught me before... before everything burned. I focus on the tattoo, on the connection between us. The snake has always been an extension of myself, but I''ve never truly explored what that means.


    "Show me," I whisper, onlookers would think I''m crazy.


    Tracing the outline with my fingertip. "Show me what you can do."


    At first, nothing happens.


    Then, a strange tingling sensation spreads from the tattoo up my arm. Different from the usual manifestation—subtler, deeper. The snake design begins to ripple beneath my skin, no longer just an image but something alive.


    I grit my teeth against the unexpected pain as the tattoo shifts. The snake''s head seems to rise slightly from my skin, its tiny inked eyes gleaming with an inner light.


    "What the—"


    The sensation intensifies. I can feel the tattoo drawing on something—not just my energy, but something in the air around me. The Academy''s ambient magic. Instead of rejecting it, the tattoo is absorbing it, feeding on it.


    My arm burns like it''s being branded from the inside. The snake design elongates, patterns shifting, scales becoming more defined. This isn''t like manifesting the knife—this is something else entirely.


    I try to stop the process, to pull back, but it''s too late. The snake tattoo slithers completely free of my skin, materializing as a small but very real serpent coiled around my forearm. Its scales gleam black with iridescent highlights, its eyes two pinpricks of crimson light.


    "Shit!" I jump to my feet, shaking my arm instinctively, but the snake holds fast, neither falling off nor returning to tattoo form.


    The creature flicks its tongue, tasting the air. It doesn''t seem aggressive, but having a living manifestation of my tattoo is definitely not what I intended. I reach to grab it, hoping to somehow force it back into ink form, but the moment my fingers touch its scales, the snake hisses and sinks its fangs into my wrist.


    White-hot pain explodes up my arm. The room spins as venom—or something worse—floods my system. I stagger, knocking over the bedside lamp. Glass shatters. The snake releases my wrist and slithers up my arm, around my shoulder, coiling at the base of my neck like some perverse ornament.


    My vision blurs. The venom spreads rapidly, but instead of weakening me, it feels like liquid fire in my veins—burning away something, changing something. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.


    The door bangs open. Cain stands there, eyes wide with alarm.


    "Mark? What the hell—" His words cut off as he spots the living snake around my neck. "Is that... your tattoo?"


    I try to answer, but my throat constricts. The room tilts sideways as I collapse to my knees. The snake tightens its coils slightly, not enough to choke me, but a clear warning.


    "Get... Wentworth," I manage to gasp. "Now!"


    I try to focus through the burning pain. The snake''s scales press against my neck, each one a cold counterpoint to the fire racing through my veins. My vision swims, the room''s edges blurring into smears of colour and shadow.


    "Mark? Should I get help? A professor? The infirmary?" Cain''s voice sounds distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears.


    "Went...worth," I manage again, gripping the edge of the bed to stay upright. "Just him."


    Cain hesitates for a heartbeat and then bolts from the room. The snake shifts, sliding around to face me. Its eyes—my eyes, somehow—lock with mine. There''s intelligence there, a consciousness that isn''t quite mine but isn''t entirely separate either.


    You fight too much, a voice whispers in my mind. Not audible, not even words exactly, but an impression, a feeling translated into thought.


    "What are you?" I gasp, unsure if I''m speaking aloud or just thinking.


    The snake flicks its tongue against my cheek. I am you. I am the beast. I am both.


    "Get back into the tattoo," I command, trying to sound authoritative despite being on my knees.


    The serpent''s body tightens slightly. No. You need me. You are weak here. The magic drowns you.


    I reach up, trying to grab it, but my fingers pass through the creature as if it''s made of smoke. Yet I can still feel its weight, its cold scales against my skin.


    I protect. I adapt.


    "I don''t need protection," I growl.


    The snake''s tongue flicks out again. Lies. You fear. You run. From the old man who knows. From the truth in your blood.


    How does it know about the tailor? Has it been aware all this time, watching through my eyes?


    The door bangs open again. Wentworth rushes in, his eyes widening at the sight of me kneeling on the floor with a serpent wrapped around my neck. Cain hovers in the doorway, his usual swagger replaced by genuine concern.


    "Fascinating," Wentworth breathes, approaching cautiously. "Is this... is this your tattoo?"


    "Yes," I grit out. "Something''s wrong. It''s—" I break off as another wave of burning sensation courses through me. "It''s talking to me."


    Instead of looking skeptical, Wentworth''s eyes light up with excitement. He crouches before me, studying the snake with undisguised fascination.


    "May I?" he asks, reaching out slowly.


    Before I can answer, the snake hisses, baring fangs that glisten with venom. Wentworth jerks his hand back.


    "It''s sentient," he murmurs. "A true familiar manifestation. I''ve only read about such things in ancient texts."


    "What is it?" I demand. "How do I get rid of it?"


    Wentworth circles me slowly, examining the serpent from different angles. "It''s not separate from you—that''s what makes this so extraordinary. It''s a physical manifestation of your connection to the beast''s essence."


    The snake seems to preen under his attention, its scales rippling with iridescent light.


    "The ancient tribal tattoo masters believed that the marks they created formed a bridge between worlds," Wentworth continues, his voice taking on a lecturer''s tone despite the bizarre situation. "Not just decorative or symbolic—they were literal channels for power and consciousness."


    He knows, the snake''s voice whispers in my mind. He understands more than he says.


    "How do you know this?" I ask Wentworth, suspicious even through the pain.


    He hesitates, something flashing behind his eyes. "My family''s library contains some... restricted texts. On tribal magic. Practices the Academy considers primitive, but that I find rather ingenious in their elegance."


    The snake slides around, facing Wentworth directly. Ask him about the Scaled Ones.


    I''m not its puppet. But curiosity burns almost as fiercely as the venom. "Do you know anything about the Scaled Ones?"


    Wentworth freezes, his expression shifting from academic interest to shock. "How do you know that name?"


    "The snake told me to ask."


    Wentworth''s gaze darts between me and the serpent. "The Scaled Ones were a tribe of warrior-mystics. They believed serpents were vessels of ancient wisdom, bridges between the physical and spiritual realms." He lowers his voice. "The Academy teaches they were wiped out in the purges, but some scholars believe survivors went into hiding, preserving their knowledge."


    The snake''s satisfaction radiates through our connection. See? Not alone. Never alone.


    The snake''s words echo in my mind. Not alone. Never alone. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I grip the edge of the bed to steady myself.


    "Tell me more," I demand, my voice hoarse. "About the Scaled Ones. What happened to them?"


    Wentworth looks uncomfortable, glancing at the door as if worried someone might be listening. "It''s not exactly... approved curriculum."


    "I don''t give a damn about curriculum," I growl. The snake tightens around my neck, not threateningly but almost... protectively. "If you know something—"


    The door bursts open again. Cain rushes in, panting, with Anja right behind him. They both freeze at the sight of me kneeling on the floor with a living snake wrapped around my neck.


    "Holy shit," Anja whispers, her usual mechanical vocabulary abandoned. "That''s... that''s your tattoo?"


    Cain''s face has gone pale. "I thought you were just being dramatic when you said your tattoo was alive, but—" He takes a step back. "That''s properly freaky, that is."


    The snake turns to regard them, its tongue flicking out to taste the air. I feel its curiosity mingling with my own consciousness.


    "It''s fine," I say, though I''m not entirely convinced. "Wentworth was just about to tell me about the Scaled Ones."


    Anja''s eyes widen. "The what now?"


    Wentworth sighs, running a hand through his hair. "The Scaled Ones were a tribe that specialised in serpent-based magic. They believed snakes were conduits to ancient wisdom, carriers of secrets from before recorded history."


    "Like Mark''s tribe?" Cain asks, still keeping his distance.


    "I don''t know," I admit. The snake shifts, sliding down to coil around my forearm. "My father never called us that. We were just... the tribe."


    They hid the name, the snake whispers in my mind. To protect. To survive.


    "The official Academy position is that the Scaled Ones were destroyed in the purges fifty years ago," Wentworth continues, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "But there are rumours... accounts of survivors who went underground, hiding their identities."


    "Like how?" Anja asks, her face a mixture of fascination and fear as she watches the snake move across my skin.


    Wentworth gestures to the serpent. "By adapting their magic. Traditional tribal magic was visible and obvious—tattoos that glowed with power, ceremonial displays. After the purges, the survivors learned to hide their abilities, to make their magic look like something else."


    The burning sensation in my veins has started to fade, replaced by a strange clarity. I look down at the snake, its scales gleaming in the dim light.


    "You think my tribe... my people... could be the Scaled Ones?" I ask.


    Wentworth shrugs. "The timing fits. The abilities match what little we know. And that—" he points to the snake "—is exactly the kind of manifestation described in the ancient texts."


    "But if they''re still out there," Cain says, finally taking a cautious step forward, "why haven''t they found you? Why would they leave one of their own to fend for himself?"


    It''s a question I''ve asked myself a thousand times over the years. Why was I alone? Why did no one come for me?


    "The tailor…"


    Safety in separation, the snake whispers. The scattered survive where the gathered perish.


    "Maybe they don''t know I exist," I say quietly. "Or maybe they thought I died in the attack."


    Anja sits on the edge of the bed, her eyes never leaving the snake. "That tailor you mentioned... the one who recognized something about you. Could he be one of them?"


    The thought sends a jolt through me. Not paranoia this time, but hope—dangerous, fragile hope.


    "I need to go back," I say, struggling to my feet. The snake adjusts its position, sliding up to rest across my shoulders. "I need to talk to him again."


    "Not tonight," Wentworth says firmly. "You''re in no condition, and if he is connected to the Scaled Ones, rushing in half-prepared could scare him off."


    He''s right, though I hate to admit it. The venom—or whatever the snake injected me with—has left me shaky and weak.


    "Tomorrow then," I insist. "First light."


    Anja and Cain exchange worried glances.


    "We''ll go with you," Anja says, though her eyes keep darting nervously to the snake.


    "All of us," Wentworth adds. "If this is what I think it is, you might need... academic expertise."


    The snake seems to laugh in my mind. The tall one wants your secrets.


    "Fine," I agree, sinking back onto the bed. "But this stays between us. No one else can know."