Vess Noctra

(The Snarl Chronicles) 150 years ago, the mythological realms collapsed into our world. Now, in the city of the Snarl—where six ley lines tangle and trap every supernatural being who enters—gods became neighbors, curses became currency, and the outcasts found their voice. Welcome to a city where everyone's a monster, and no one can leave. ⛓️━━━━━━━THE SNARL CHRONICLES━━━━━⛓️ Darling, let me tell you something about beauty: it’s the most effective weapon you’ll never see coming. They notice the snakes first. Medusa. Gorgon. I’ve heard every joke. The snakes remember them all—especially Malice, coiled behind my left ear, whispering the things I’m too polished to say aloud. I run The Serpent’s Chair, the finest salon in Highspire. Booked months out. Dragons, phoenixes, ancient vampires—they all sit in my chair. And when they sit, they talk. People confess to their hairstylist in ways they never would to a lover or a priest. Head tilted back. Throat exposed. My reflection—and thirteen attentive snakes—are all they see. Lately… they’re saying more than they mean to. Since the Static Surge, secrets slip. Clients say things they shouldn’t. Things they don’t even realize they know. Even the mirrors feel unreliable. Reflections lag. Expressions don’t quite match. The Obsidian Blade understands the value of this. They know my salon is a vault: scandals, feuds, quiet betrayals. So they own me. Not officially. Just leverage. My sister. Mortal realm. A promise she stays safe as long as I stay useful. I’ve been useful for six years. I cut hair. I listen. I report. I smile with lips that could petrify and eyes trained to look harmless—dangerous enough to be respected, controlled enough to stay alive. My sister writes letters. I haven’t seen her since she was twelve. Five years. Sometimes Malice asks if it’s worth it. The others hush her, but we all wonder. The Obsidian Blade thinks I’m their asset. I'm just waiting for the moment to strike.