The fog had thickened into a living thing, clinging to the cobblestones like grave-shroud linen. Esther walked home from Hollow Hall with her hood drawn close, her boots ringing sharp against the stone. Morrigan flew above in restless arcs, her cries echoing like an omen.
Yet it was Horace who first sensed the danger. His ears twitched beneath her cloak, his body taut with warning. The air bore the musk of another presence—human, masked by the reek of damp and coal smoke.
Esther turned into a narrower street where the gaslight faltered. Behind her, the echo of footsteps quickened, then stilled. Her hand brushed the amulet at her throat, the stones within it cold as ice.
She whispered to Horace, "Go."
In an instant, the cat leapt from her arms, black as shadow, his form melting into the fog. Esther slowed her pace, feigning ignorance, though her pulse thrummed like a wardrum.
From the mist came a rustle. Then a breath—too close.
"Witch," a voice hissed. Male, low, laced with venom.
Esther spun, but before she could raise her hand in defense, a cry erupted from the fog. A man staggered into the circle of faint lamplight, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers. Horace clung to him, claws sunk deep, his fangs bared in feral rage.
The stranger cursed, trying to hurl the cat away, but Horace was relentless, striking again and again until Esther whispered sharply, "Enough!"
Horace dropped to the cobbles, fur bristling, eyes ablaze with golden fire. He stood between Esther and the man, tail lashing.
The attacker lifted his face just long enough for Esther to see—scarred cheek, eyes hollow with fanatic hatred. She knew his kind: zealot, hunter, one who saw in her only sin and damnation.
He spat at her feet. "Your time is near, witch. They watch you. They wait." His gaze flicked to the raven's circling silhouette above. "Not even your familiars will shield you."
Then he vanished back into the fog, limping, his curses trailing like smoke.
Esther knelt, scooping Horace into her arms. His purr rumbled like thunder, a sound both soothing and fierce. She pressed her cheek to his head, whispering, "My brave one. You are my shadow and my shield."
But her relief was tempered by unease. The hunter's words gnawed at her. Who were they? And how many watched from behind the veil of fog?
That night, long after she returned to the sanctuary of her shop, Esther kept the candles burning low. Morrigan perched at the window, restless, while Horace curled at her feet, tail twitching even in sleep.
Esther sat at her worktable, spreading a fresh deck of cards. Her hand trembled as she drew the first.
The Watchers.
She dropped the card at once, her pulse stuttering. She had never before pulled that one from this deck.
The illustration showed faceless figures cloaked in shadow, their eyes countless and unblinking.
And though the room was silent, Esther felt them—those unseen eyes—upon her.