The bells of St. Brigid's tolled through the smothering fog, their iron tongues heavy with sorrow. Esther had not set foot in the cathedral for years—not since her youth, when she was forced to kneel beneath its cold arches while priests spat prayers meant to cleanse her soul of witch-blood.
Yet tonight, something drew her there.
She arrived at dusk, Horace at her heels, Morrigan circling the spire with a scream that startled the pigeons into flight. The doors stood open, though no service was called. Inside, incense clung to the air like smoke from a dying fire, and candles guttered low, their flames bent as though by some hidden wind.
Esther's amulet throbbed faintly, tugging her deeper. She moved past rows of pews, her boots whispering against the stone. The stained glass above seemed darker than memory, the saints' faces stern, their eyes like judgment.
At the altar stood a figure in robes. Not priestly, not holy—something else. When he turned, Esther saw the sigil burned into his hand, the open eye gleaming even in shadow.
A Watcher.
"You profane this place," Esther said, her voice steady, though her blood quickened.
The man smiled faintly. "On the contrary. This place was never theirs to keep. It has always been ours." He gestured to the vaulted ceiling, to the crucifix that loomed above. "Every stone laid by Watcher hands. Every prayer heard by Watcher ears."
The realization struck like cold iron. St. Brigid's—built not for God, but for them. A house of power disguised as piety.
Before she could answer, movement stirred at the edges of the nave. Shapes detached from the shadows—men cloaked in black, their faces hidden, each bearing the mark upon their palms. A dozen eyes, and yet countless more, for Esther felt the weight of the unseen pressing in.
The lead Watcher stepped closer, voice soft but heavy as a chain. "We offer you this chance, Esther Harrow. Yield your bloodline. Bind your gift to our cause. Resist, and you will burn as those before you have burned."
Esther's lips curved in a bitter smile. "Then let it be fire."
At once, the candles flared, each wick roaring into sudden life, flames leaping high. The stained glass rattled in its frame, the colors bleeding red. Horace sprang forward with a hiss, his body arched, while Morrigan swooped down from the rafters, her wings stirring a storm of ash and smoke.
The Watchers advanced. Their chants rose, a low droning hum that made the stones themselves tremble.
Esther drew her hands together, the amulet blazing against her skin. The crystals within it pulsed—quartz, obsidian, amethyst, moonstone—each feeding light into her palms until she could scarcely hold it.
She thrust her arms wide, and the cathedral erupted. Fire leapt from candle to curtain, from altar to arch. The saints' faces cracked, shattering into shards of glass that rained down like knives. The chants broke into screams as the Watchers reeled back, their robes catching flame.
Amidst the inferno, Esther stood tall, her silhouette framed by flame. Her voice cut through the chaos, strong as iron:
"I am Harrow. I am not yours to bind."
The cathedral's great spire groaned, split, and fell.
Esther fled into the night, smoke at her back, Horace and Morrigan close. Behind her, St. Brigid's collapsed into a pyre, its bells tolling one last time before tumbling into silence.
The Watchers had marked her. But now she had marked them in return—by fire.