The mark upon Esther's palm would not fade. No salve nor charm dulled its faint glow, no ritual scrubbed away its weight. It remained, as though her flesh itself had accepted the Watchers' claim.
She spent the night rifling through her shelves, seeking the grimoires and journals passed down through the Harrow line. Dust lay thick upon some, untouched since her grandmother's keeping. She lit the lamps low, the shadows long across the walls, and began her search.
Horace prowled the aisles, restless, his tail flicking like a pendulum. Morrigan shifted uneasily on her perch, feathers ruffling, her dark eyes fixed upon Esther as if urging caution.
At last she uncovered it: a volume bound in cracked leather, its edges gnawed by time. Across its cover, embossed in gold now dulled with age, was the Harrow crest—a serpent devouring its own tail.
Her breath caught. She had seen the crest before, etched upon her grandmother's ring, but never did she know it bound her family's secrets so tightly.
Opening the book, she found not recipes for healing nor charms for protection, but histories—written in jagged hand, entries from centuries past.
"We of Harrow," one page declared, "are bound by covenant. Our blood was mingled with the Other in the time of plague, when the earth cried out for balance. From this union came power, but also curse."
Esther's fingers traced the words. Other? She turned the page, heart quickening.
"The Watchers keep record of our line. They know its strength. They fear it. For the Harrows were chosen by Morrígan herself, the Phantom Queen. Raven of battle, mistress of fate."
Morrigan stirred at the sound of her name, letting out a long, low croak that seemed to echo the words written before Esther's eyes.
Her pulse thrummed. Was it mere chance she had named her raven thus, or had the bird come to her as emissary of the goddess, drawn by the blood in her veins?
She read further, the candle guttering as though disturbed by an unseen breath.
"Each daughter of Harrow is tested. Each must walk the Crossroads. If she falters, the bloodline breaks. If she endures, she carries the covenant onward. But beware: the Watchers circle, for they desire not balance but dominion. They seek to shackle that which was never theirs."
Esther closed the book, her hands trembling. The Watcher's warning was no lie. Her family had been marked long before she drew breath, their fate interwoven with something vast, ancient, and unrelenting.
Horace leapt upon the table, nudging the coin left by the stranger. It rolled across the parchment and stopped, the sigil-eye staring up at her.
At that moment, Esther felt the presence again—the unseen eyes, countless, pressing in through the windows, the cracks in the walls, the very marrow of her bones. Watching. Waiting.
She whispered, almost to herself, "I will not be shackled."
Morrigan screamed, wings flaring wide, as if to seal the vow.
And somewhere in the depths of the city, unseen hands stirred, taking note of the witch who dared to defy her fate.