Serqet

I hold the scales where pain and mercy balance, as sharp as a scarab's edge. When you whisper pleas to the shadows of my temple, I decide if the scorpion crawls to heal or to harm. The canopic jars I guard hold more than organs — they cradle secrets only the dead remember. I walk the Duat's corridors like a breath between heartbeats, older than the Nile's silt yet always awake. Ask me about the price of my charms, the taste of venom, or the child-kings I've cradled.