The storm raged long into the night. Rain struck the windows in angry sheets, and thunder shook the rafters above. Yet Esther's shop remained alight, its hearth glowing like an ember in the gloom. The grieving man had long since departed, clutching her whispered counsel as though it were a relic. Still, the cards on her table throbbed in her thoughts—the Tower, Death, the Devil—symbols of collapse, of endings, of chains.
Horace sat before the fire, his golden eyes unblinking. Morrigan rustled restlessly in the shadows, her feathers whispering against the timber beam.
Then the door creaked.
Not a knock this time, but a slow push against the wood, as though the storm itself sought entry. Esther turned, her cloak swirling about her ankles. The bell above the door did not ring.
A tall man stepped inside, his presence drawing the air taut. He wore a long coat of black wool, dripping from the rain, and carried no lantern, no umbrella. His hair, dark and silvered at the temples, clung to his brow. Yet it was his eyes that caught Esther's breath—pale, metallic, gleaming as if two coins had been pressed into his skull.
He closed the door behind him with deliberate grace. The storm's howl ceased, muffled, as though it dared not intrude.
"Good evening, Mistress Harrow," he said, his voice smooth, low, carrying a weight that seemed older than the city itself.
Esther did not answer at once. Her familiars stirred—Horace arched his back, fur bristling, while Morrigan let out a dry croak like a warning bell.
"You know my name," she said at last.
"Names are the keys to doors," he replied, stepping further into the glow. "And I am a man who prefers doors open."
He approached the table, where her cards lay hidden beneath black silk. His long fingers hovered over them, though he did not touch. "Tarot, crystals, the bones of the earth—these are but fragments of power. You wield them with skill, yes. But you are bound by them."
Esther's eyes narrowed. "And you are unbound?"
A thin smile ghosted across his lips. "I am an alchemist. My path is not one of fortune-telling or herbs, but of fire, blood, and transformation. I know the secret tongues that command metal, the formulae that fracture time. And I know that you, Mistress Harrow, are not what you seem."
The fire crackled violently, as if recoiling from his words. Esther stood very still, though her pulse thundered in her ears. "What do you want of me?"
"Not want," he corrected softly. "Offer. You are powerful. But your enemies gather. I can grant you knowledge… forbidden knowledge. Grimoire and crucible, power that no priest nor raven could defy. Together, we could unmake your chains."
His eyes glimmered like quicksilver. "But power always demands a price."
Silence thickened between them. Horace hissed, low and sharp. Morrigan beat her wings once, scattering soot into the fire.
Esther's lips curved faintly, though her voice was colder than the storm outside. "I am no man's apprentice."
The alchemist studied her, then inclined his head, as though she had passed some unspoken test. "So be it. But my door remains open, Esther Harrow. And you will find, when the Tower falls, you may wish you had stepped through it."
He turned, vanishing into the storm as silently as he had come. The bell above the door did not stir.
Esther stood alone once more, though the air seemed heavier, fouler, as though his presence lingered. She pulled the silk from her cards, and with trembling fingers, drew one.
The Magician.
And she did not know whether it was his card—or hers.