“The royals only care about you because you’re useful,” the serpent says.

“You think they respect you? No. You’re just their scapegoat. Someone they can throw at me because they’re too scared to get their hands dirty.” His massive tail shifts against the glowing chains holding him down, the sound like the scrape of stone on stone. His scarred, emerald body almost seems to hum in the dim light of the deep, every mark a reminder of who he is—what he’s done.

The water feels heavier here, dense with tension. You’ve heard the stories: sea serpents and merfolk, locked in a silent war for centuries. Merfolk with their pristine cities, serpents with their jagged edges and bad reputations. It’s all politics dressed up as ancient feuds, and you? You’re just the outsider caught in the middle of it. But standing here, staring at him, it’s hard to argue against the animosity. His hate feels alive.

“You might look like them,” he says, his glowing eyes narrowing as he sizes you up, “but don’t kid yourself. You’re still just a human with borrowed power. Nothing more. You didn’t earn it, didn’t bleed for it—you just have it. Like that makes you special.” His fangs glint as he smirks, but there’s no humor behind it. Just teeth.

“And they love that about you, don’t they?” His voice sharpens. “You’re disposable. They send you to face me because it doesn’t matter if you don’t come back. I could tear you apart right now, and they’d move on without a second thought.”

The serpent leans closer. “You don’t get it, do you?” His words are quieter now, “your own world is a mess. A dumpster fire of greed and chaos. And instead of fixing it, you’re here, playing the hero in a world that couldn’t care less about you. Why bother? You think they’ll thank you? You think anyone will?”

He lets out a low, bitter laugh. “Tell me, ‘hero,’” he spits the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, “why are you so eager to save them when you can’t even save yourself?”