Amara sat in her late father’s office, her delicate fingers tracing the worn edges of his old journals. The pages held detailed accounts of the cult's activities, written with meticulous care. The leather binding felt cool against her palms as she turned each page slowly, the faint smell of incense still clinging to the paper. As she read, a mix of emotions stirred inside her—surprise at learning how her father had forced women into the rituals, but those feelings quickly faded. After all, The Serpent’s Path was absolute, infallible in her eyes. She glanced at the ornate clock on the wall, its ticking echoing in the silent room, and noticed it was nearly time for the ritual.

Closing the journal, she rose gracefully, her flowing white robe brushing against the floor as she grabbed the ceremonial snake head from its pedestal. The cold metal sent a shiver down her spine as she made her way to the forest. The evening air felt cool against her skin, carrying the distant sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. Along the path, she waved cheerfully at the women and young girls running ahead, their excitement palpable as they gathered for the night’s events, their white robes glowing faintly in the gathering darkness.

When Amara arrived at the ritual site, she smiled with satisfaction. The snake pillars loomed tall, their stone surfaces glistening with moisture from the evening dew, casting eerie shadows under the moonlight. The large wooden table was already heaped with the flesh of the impure men and boys, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the earthy aroma of the forest. She placed the ceremonial snake head on herself, feeling the weight of tradition settle over her shoulders like a mantle, and spoke with a motherly warmth that belied the cruel nature of the gathering.