But the real miracle was the swan. Not him—the actual swan that had haunted the lake for centuries, unable to fly. It lifted its wings. And inside its feathers, a small serpent slithered free, uncoiling into the shape of a woman with monsoon eyes.

She did not kill him. She cursed him.

She saw Naina’s true memory: Devraj had not just lied about love. He had mocked her in a court song, calling her “serpent without a soul.” When she came for the gem, it was not for greed—it was to buy freedom for her snake clan, whom the king had trapped in iron cages beneath the palace.

His eyes widened. He pointed to her locket—a family heirloom she always wore. Inside was a miniature painting of… Naina. The serpent queen. Her own great-great-grandmother.

The cover opened with a sigh, like wind through reeds. The pages were not paper but thin, translucent vellum that felt suspiciously like dried lotus petals. The ink was silver, and it moved.

She did not stay. She walked into the forest, free at last.