The cave echoed with the final breaths of a legend.
Outside, thunder crawled across the sky like a warning. Inside, among shadows and stone, Medusa lay slumped against the wall, her skin graying at the edges. The snakes atop her head—once fierce and wild—now coiled sluggishly, as if even they felt the weight of the end creeping in.
In her trembling arms, a newborn stirred. His skin shimmered in places like polished onyx; his hair hissed softly with infant serpents. He did not cry. He simply watched the world, wide-eyed and silent, as though he already understood its cruelty.
Medusa pressed her lips to the boy's brow.
"Khiss," she whispered, naming him as if the act itself were protection. "My son. My curse. My only miracle."
The cloaked figure at the mouth of the cave did not move, though the moment begged for reverence. Helper stood like a statue, faceless in the shadows.
"You must take him," Medusa said, voice hoarse. "They'll come for me soon. But not him. He must live… even if I don't."
Helper stepped forward, the cloak brushing against stone like whispered silk. "You have my oath," came the quiet reply. "He will live. And no one will know where."
Medusa's body began to stiffen. It started in her feet, crawling up like frost, calcifying her bones. The snakes hissed in confusion—then silence.
One last glance. One last breath.
Then she was gone.
Helper took the child, wrapping him in the deep folds of the cloak, and vanished into the stormy night.