The night fell damp and heavy, the fog creeping low like a beast upon its belly. Lanterns flickered in the lanes, their halos swallowed almost at once by the mist. But within Esther Harrow's shop, the air shimmered with a different kind of light.
Upon the table lay a spread of crystals—clear quartz, smoky obsidian, amethyst deep as twilight, and a shard of moonstone that glowed with its own quiet fire. Esther's hands moved carefully, reverently, as though she were laying bones for a divination.
Horace sat nearby, tail wrapped around his paws, his gaze following every motion. Morrigan, returned from her flight, perched upon the mantel, her feathers puffed as though the very air carried charge.
The Betrayer card had not left her thoughts. Its dagger gleamed in her dreams, and when she closed her eyes, she felt its point pressing at her back. Protection was needed—not against illness, not against grief, but against treachery.
She lit three candles, each of different hue: black for banishment, white for purity, and red for life's blood. Their flames danced uneasily, as though stirred by an unseen breath.
Taking the quartz in hand, she whispered:
> "For clarity, to see the truth."
The amethyst:
> "For spirit, to ward away deceit."
The obsidian:
> "For shield, to turn back the knife."
And last, the moonstone, which she pressed to her breast until its pale glow seemed to seep into her own skin:
> "For fate, that I may endure."
She bound them together with silver wire, her hands steady though her pulse raced. When at last the amulet lay complete before her, it gleamed with an otherworldly shimmer, as though it drew breath of its own.
Esther lifted it by its chain and looped it around her neck. The moment it touched her skin, a tremor coursed through her body—cold, then heat, then a stillness so profound it silenced even her thoughts.
Horace hissed softly, ears flat. Morrigan croaked once, sharp and low.
Esther's breath steadied. She knew what it meant. The amulet was strong, but such strength was never free. To wear it was to tie herself further into the web of her bloodline, to awaken echoes of power buried long beneath the soil of time.
She closed her eyes and listened. The city's noise fell away. Beneath it, she heard whispers—faint, but near. A chorus of voices, old and aching, rising from beyond the veil. Her ancestors.
One voice, clearer than the rest, spoke in her mind: "The crossroads are before you. Choose wisely, Esther Harrow. The path of shadow… or the path of flame."
Her eyes snapped open. The candles had guttered, their smoke curling into shapes that twisted like figures at a gallows. The crystals on her table quivered as though struck by unseen hands.
At once, the bell above her door rang—though no one had entered.
Horace leapt down, fur bristling. Morrigan let out a scream that rattled the glass in its panes.
Esther turned, her amulet heavy at her throat. The shop was empty.
But she knew the crossroads had already begun to open before her.