The Serpent Within Her

In the shadow of the Ashkar hills, where winds spoke in forgotten tongues and trees whispered ancient truths, there lived a woman named Shaiba. She did not belong to any tribe nor carried a surname. People said she came from the wind—silent, strange, and scarred.

But the truth was darker.

Shaiba carried a serpent inside her.

Not in her dreams. Not in her mind. But in her flesh and blood. It slithered beneath her ribs, coiled behind her heart, and curled in her womb. She could feel its cold scales pressing against her insides. At night, it moved. At dawn, it slept.

No one believed her, not at first.


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The Arrival

Shaiba arrived at the village of Madur barefoot and alone. Her eyes were rimmed with soot, her voice no louder than breath. She wore a black veil and spoke in a dialect none understood—Humaiz, the lost language of her ancestors. It was a tongue that had died in the mouths of the hills but lived on in her lips.

Children mocked her:
"Zairh ki jibh bolti hai yeh."
(She speaks the tongue of poison.)

But the elders watched in silence. They had heard of the snake-women. Legends that were told only in hushed tones by dying firelight. A woman who once defied a mountain god and was cursed to carry his breath—his serpent-son—forever inside her.

Shaiba never denied it.

One night, she whispered to herself in Humaiz:
"Dahran, shabta tuni. Naa'rah sha li-hashim."
(Dahran, be silent. This body is not your home.)

But the serpent only stirred louder.


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Signs of the Curse

Strange things began to happen. Milk turned sour in her presence. Wells dried where she walked. Birds fell from the sky when she screamed in her sleep. And once, a dog barked at her shadow and dropped dead.

The villagers grew restless.

They blamed her for the sudden fever that spread. For the child born with a forked tongue. For the cracks that appeared in the temple floor.

They came to her hut with torches and spit curses at her door.

But she stood at the threshold, pale and calm, eyes glowing gold in the torchlight. She said only one thing, in Humaiz:

"Hadarni si-Dahran. Ash'ta li'ma."
(Hurt me, and he shall awaken.)

The flames dimmed. The air thickened. And the men dropped their torches and ran.


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The Scholar

A traveler named Ehan, a folklore scholar, came to the village seeking the truth. He had studied ancient dialects and heard rumors of the woman with the living curse. When he met Shaiba, she looked through him as if she already knew.

He stayed in the village for weeks, documenting her chants, translating her words, watching the subtle movements beneath her skin—like the ripple of a snake just beneath silk.

One night, he heard her cry out, and ran to her hut.

She was lying on the floor, her back arched, her mouth open in a scream. From her throat came not words, but hisses. Her stomach bulged unnaturally, writhing as if something inside was trying to escape.

Ehan backed away, whispering:
"What are you…?"

Through clenched teeth, Shaiba spoke in Humaiz:

"Ishnah. Zairh si-dak. Ha’reem si'lan."
(I am the temple. The poison is not mine. He is my prisoner.)

Then she passed out.


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The Awakening

The final night came with a blood moon.

The sky bled red. The air stank of burnt flowers. The serpent had grown restless. Shaiba’s body could no longer contain it.

She walked to the sacred lake of Larak, where the mountain's reflection shimmered in the crimson water. The villagers followed her from afar, afraid yet unable to look away.

She stood at the edge, arms outstretched, and spoke in full Humaiz:

"Dahran... lash'kin tu sha'ra. Lah'ra min jism. Na'sha lin."
(Dahran... release thy grip. Depart from this flesh. Let me sleep.)

Her body convulsed. Her mouth opened wider than humanly possible.

And from within her, a massive black serpent, thick as a tree trunk, poured out like ink. It glowed gold at the eyes and hissed like the wind itself. It slithered into the lake without harming anyone, disappearing beneath the red reflection.

Shaiba collapsed, breathless but alive.


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The Legend Lives

Shaiba survived. For the first time, her body was hers. She spoke less, but her voice was steady. Her eyes no longer glowed. And the whispers stopped.

Ehan left behind a scroll—an account of the events, written in both Humaiz and the modern tongue. He called it “The Vessel and the Curse.” It is now kept in a locked chamber at the Institute of Arcane Folklore.

Some say the serpent still sleeps in the lake. Others believe it returned to the mountains, waiting for another vessel.

As for Shaiba, she vanished one night under a sky full of stars.

But if you walk through Madur and listen closely to the wind, you might still hear:

"Naa’rah sha li-hashim."
(This body is not your home.)