NOVPUBBeautiful curtains adorned the vast chamber, their silk threads woven with glimmering silver that shimmered like starlight. The walls were lined with living stone—veined with glowing emerald—and the floor beneath them pulsed faintly, enchanted to resonate with the breath of the room. Suspended in the center, a floating chandelier spun slowly, its crystalline limbs emitting a soft, ambient glow. Each light pulsed in rhythm, like a heartbeat, casting ethereal shadows on the assembly gathered below.
Beneath the chandelier hovered a levitating board, sleek and seamless, forged from obsidian and starmetal—a table for nine. Around it sat eight women, regal and radiant, each adorned in robes woven from the skins of lesser serpents and crowned with the marks of eldritch serpentine power. They all shared one trait: serpentine eyes, iridescent and hypnotic, reflecting the cold wisdom of ageless queens.
And at the head of the table sat her.
The first.
The Empress.
Gorgoneia.
Long white hair, streaked with blood-red threads, cascaded down her back like a living banner. Her beauty was timeless, but dangerous—seductive in a way that drew you in just as it warned you to stay away. The charm she exuded wasn't merely enchanting; it was venomous. A presence honed not by vanity, but by ages of survival and dominion. Her golden serpentine eyes glowed faintly with layered power and ancient authority, illuminating the sharp angles of her face.
Gone was the gentle Harley—the nurturing mother figure, the serene hearth at the heart of the family. What sat here now was Gorgoneia, the First Empress of Anbord, the Ancestor of Life, and the most cunning of all the wives.
As one, the others bowed their heads and spoke in perfect unison:
"We greet the First Empress, our Lady Gorgoneia."
A soft smile curved her lips, but it held no warmth. Only the precision of a predator.
"I greet you too, my sisters," she replied, her voice a velvet blade—soft, smooth, and hiding steel.
Her aura coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Gone was the maternal softness she wore at home like a beloved mask. Here, in this sacred chamber of serpents, she was what she had always been beneath that mask: cold, calculating, and impossibly dangerous.
She didn't need to raise her voice. Her presence filled the room. It slipped through the air, wound itself around the hearts of her kin, and reminded each of them that she was the first. The original. The one they all descended from in blood or title.
And tonight, she had not come for pleasantries.
In the days that followed Ethan's awakening, the world began to reshape itself in quiet, permanent ways. Kingdoms that had once clawed at one another now hesitated before making their next move. Old powers stirred, while others were born anew in the shadow of something larger than politics—legacy. Among the many forces that rose in that shifting age, few were spoken of with such caution and reverence as the Gorgon Clan, more formally known as the Serpent Court.
It was not a kingdom in the traditional sense, nor an empire carved from conquest. Rather, it was a council of power—sharp, poised, and patient. They made no declarations, built no armies, and yet, their influence reached quietly into courts, temples, and family lines. Some said the Court was formed at the behest of Gorgoneia, consort to the sovereign and first among the nine. Others believed it was older, waiting patiently in silence for the right age to return.
They ruled from Venomspire, a high and winding seat hidden in veils of mist and silence, where every hall echoed with soft whispers and promises wrapped in courtesy. The Court consisted of nine matriarchs, each bearing a name that was more symbol than identity—a mask to represent the force they commanded, or perhaps the role they played.
Gorgoneia presided at the center, not simply as their leader, but as the thread that bound them. She did not raise her voice, nor need to. Her presence alone held the weight of centuries, and in her quiet rulings, the world shifted.
Among the eight who stood with her, each brought a different strength:
Vasukira, called the Oathcoil, was the speaker of vows and keeper of truths. When she marked an agreement, it held. No one could say whether it was magic or fear that enforced it, but none had dared to test it twice.
Echidriana, the Mother of Monsters, oversaw those cast out or forgotten. She understood the broken, the misused, and the terrifying. Where others saw chaos, she saw potential.
Nahilith, the Whispering Coil, kept the Court informed—not with spies, but with listening. She heard what others did not mean to say and understood what they would never admit. Her silence was the most unnerving of all.
Zahareel, known as the Scarlet Veil, dealt in diplomacy and desire. She navigated noble courts, religious sects, and criminal rings alike, her words always tailored and never wasted.
Ophirael, the Divine Coil, served as priestess and interpreter of signs. She offered visions when asked and guidance when not, though the meaning of her words often only became clear with time.
Typhessara, the Stormcoil, was the loudest, the boldest, and often the most unpredictable. She didn't speak often, but when she did, arguments ended. Her presence alone could shift a room's balance.
Nagarieth, called the Wraithscale, was the historian. But she remembered more than records. She remembered people—especially the ones who tried to vanish. She spoke rarely, and when she did, it was often about things others would rather forget.
Melanthera, the Black Fang, handled the necessary but unspeakable tasks. She moved in silence, but she was not hidden. People simply preferred not to notice her until she spoke their names.
These were the voices of the Serpent Court. Not gods, not monsters—but women with power, history, and patience. They did not seek to rule openly. They shaped outcomes. When kings hesitated or oracles dreamed of shifting winds, the Serpent Court was never far behind.
What held them together was not affection, but function. They were not sisters by blood, but by purpose. Each one served a role, each knew her place, and each knew the cost of stepping beyond it.
They were called many things: manipulators, monsters, prophets. But in the quiet, where the real decisions were made, they were simply what the world had always needed—watchers, waiting for the right time to strike.
"I've called this meeting to decide our next steps," Gorgoneia said, her voice calm but edged with quiet authority. "The Emperor has given his blessing. The Serpent Court is no longer a secret—it is recognized, and it is ours."
She stood at the head of the coiled obsidian table, her gaze steady as it passed over the others.
"As of now, there are only nine of us in all of Anbord. Nine Gorgons. No more. No less."
There was a pause—measured, deliberate—before she continued.
"The question is, where do we go from here? Do we proceed with the plan—to become the Emperor's hidden edge, his venom beneath the crown? Or do we expand? Seek others like us? Turn more, if they are worthy?"
Her eyes sharpened.
"I ask not out of uncertainty, but to hear your counsel. This court will not move forward without agreement."
A hush settled over the chamber, the kind of silence that carried weight. Then, slowly, Vasukira leaned forward, fingers laced atop the table.
"We were forged with purpose," she said. "A blade hidden in silk. If we expand too quickly, we dull that edge. Trust takes time. Loyalty even more." Her eyes flicked to Gorgoneia. "I vote we move forward as we are."
Echidriana gave a low hum of thought, coiling a strand of silver hair around her clawed finger. "There are others," she murmured. "Wounded, exiled, broken things hiding in the dark corners of the world. Some carry the seed. If we do not offer them a place, someone else will. We should find them—raise them. They will owe us everything."
Across the table, Nahilith did not move, but her voice slipped in like mist. "Even secrets need time to breathe. We expand too far, we lose control. But... a few more, perhaps. Quietly. Carefully. Not all serpents should be seen. Some are best left coiled in the minds of our enemies."
Zahareel smirked, resting her chin on the back of her hand. "Power attracts power. We show our worth, they will come. Curious, ambitious, dangerous women. Not all will be fit to join us, but I'd rather they knock at our door than become problems elsewhere. We remain nine, for now—but we watch."
Ophirael sat still, gaze distant. "I have seen echoes in the threads. New voices, unfamiliar faces. One will come soon, drawn by blood and fate. Another walks the edge of ruin. Whether we claim them or leave them to the winds is a choice we must make—but they are coming, whether we want them or not."
Typhessara stretched back in her seat, lightning dancing faintly in her fingertips. "I say we act. Let the world know we're real. Let them fear us. If others like us exist, they'll reveal themselves. And if they don't..." She grinned. "We make them."
Nagarieth barely moved, her voice dry and cold. "Expansion means risk. I remember the last time a house grew too fast. It crumbled from within. Loyalty is a rare thing. Trust, rarer still. If we turn more, it must not be for numbers—it must be for necessity."
Lastly, Melanthera spoke, quiet but certain. "I will follow your will, Empress. But should we seek others, I'll find them. And if any prove false... I'll see to it that they vanish."
The chamber was still again. All eyes turned back to Gorgoneia, waiting.
