The Serpent's Warning

The Serpent's Warning

From the journals of Opalina Jalcon 2001

There are some people who command a room by speaking.

Others never utter a word.

Lady Xeldria belonged to the latter.

My eyes found her before my thoughts did, drawn not to the woman herself but to the impossible thing resting so naturally in her hand. The staff seemed less carved than imprisoned—two great serpents of polished obsidian forever wrapped around one another, their bodies twisted into an endless spiral. Their heads crowned the weapon, facing opposite directions, each poised as though waiting for an enemy only they could see.

It was beautiful.

It was terrible.

The kind of beauty that warns you to admire from a respectful distance.

The black stone swallowed the light around it, refusing to sparkle or shine. Instead it drank in every flicker until the serpents looked almost alive, their scales shifting whenever I dared look too long. I caught myself wondering whether they had once been real. Whether some ancient enchanter had frozen them forever into stone before they could strike.

Perhaps that was merely my imagination.

Or perhaps magic has a habit of encouraging such thoughts.

There, tucked almost modestly upon its surface, was an enchanter's mark—a signature no larger than a whisper. I smiled despite myself. Wizards always seem compelled to leave fingerprints on eternity.

Then I looked beyond the staff.

Xeldria herself stood with the quiet confidence of someone who had long since stopped needing to prove her strength. Her black hair had been woven into intricate braids threaded with tiny crystals that caught the light like winter frost. Symbols of faith marked her skin—Phoen upon one arm, Voln upon her ankle—faith carried openly, neither boastful nor hidden.

Cream and gold softened the sternness of polished battle armor. A winter mantle rested upon her shoulders despite the season, while charms, lockets, and curious trinkets hinted at a life collected one memory at a time. She looked every bit the seasoned cleric, yet there remained something almost scholarly about her, as though she'd rather preserve history than become part of it.

Almost.

The shield in one hand reminded me otherwise.

So did the serpents.

It struck me then that the staff wasn't meant to intimidate.

It was a promise.

A healer's promise, perhaps, that mercy had limits.

A guardian's promise that those under her protection would never stand alone.

Or maybe a reminder that wisdom and danger often share the same face.

I never asked.

Some truths are diminished when spoken aloud.

Instead, I tucked the image away with the others I collect—the little treasures that have nothing to do with gemstones or coin. A woman. An obsidian staff. Two silent serpents watching opposite horizons.

One looking toward the past.

One waiting patiently for whatever comes next.

And somewhere between them stood Lady Xeldria, utterly unshaken.