Long ago, when gods still bled and promises held weight,
There lived a healer who spoke only in truths.
They wandered from war to war,
Stitching shut what the world tore open.
Never asking for coin.
Never staying long.
But one day, they found a dying serpent—
A beast of old, once worshiped, now hunted.
Its fangs had shattered empires.
Its breath had wilted forests.
And still, the healer knelt.
They touched the creature's wound and whispered,
"Even you deserve mercy."
For seven days and nights, the healer worked.
And the serpent, in return, wrapped around them—
Not in hunger,
But in gratitude.
And in fear.
For what is more terrifying to a god-eater—
Than kindness?
But the world would not allow peace.
When mortals saw what had been spared,
They screamed of treason. They lit fires. Sharpened blades. And when the mob came,
the serpent shielded the healer.
Its coils held them close—
Not as a prison—
But as a final prayer.
They burned together.
Now, on the clearest nights, you can see them:
A healer cradled in scales of starlight, forever entwined in the embrace of what they chose to save.