The door burst inward. Splinters flew like daggers, the storm's howl rushing into Esther's sanctuary. Cloaked figures spilled across the threshold, their pale eyes glowing like phantoms in the dark.
The Watchers had come.
Horace sprang with a hiss, claws raking against one figure's face. The man staggered, screaming as blood streaked down his cheek, though he did not fall. Morrigan swooped, talons striking, her wings spreading wide enough to shroud Esther in their storm-black canopy.
Esther stood tall, the amulet blazing in her grasp. The book on her altar pulsed in rhythm with her heart, its sigil of the serpent writhing like molten gold.
"Seize her!" one Watcher commanded. Their voices carried not as sound, but as echoes in her skull—cold, invasive, unrelenting.
The Serpent's whisper surged to drown them out.
"Mine. Mine. Strike!"
Esther raised her hand and the storm outside answered. Lightning crashed through the broken doorframe, striking the floorboards with a blinding flash. The air reeked of ozone. Two Watchers convulsed where they stood, their cloaks igniting into flame.
The others pressed forward. One raised a staff carved with the sigil of an eye, its glow searing. Esther felt her strength falter beneath its gaze. Her knees weakened.
But the Serpent roared in her blood. "Do not bow! You are the fang. You are the flame."
She thrust her hand forward. The shadows themselves bent at her command, coiling like living things, slashing at the Watchers with spectral fangs. The cloaked men howled as darkness wrapped around their throats, choking, tearing, crushing.
Her body shook, the power nearly unbearable. She felt her pulse racing beyond her control, each beat a lash of pain and ecstasy. For a moment, her reflection in the shattered glass revealed eyes not her own—slitted, burning gold.
Horace darted between the enemy's feet, his sleek form a blur of midnight. Morrigan screamed from above, her cry resonant with a magic older than the Watchers themselves.
One Watcher staggered close enough to seize Esther's arm. His touch burned with cold, his voice piercing into her mind:
"Your power is not your own. The Serpent will consume you!"
But Esther's lips curved into a smile that was not wholly hers. Her voice rang with dual tones—hers, and something ancient beneath.
"It already has."
She drove her palm against his chest. Shadows exploded outward. His body was flung back into the storm, his cloak torn to tatters as he vanished into the rain.
The shop shook with the violence of her magic. Shelves toppled, jars shattered, herbs burned to ash in the air. The Watchers fled, those who survived stumbling into the storm, leaving their dead among the wreckage.
Silence followed, broken only by Esther's ragged breath. She fell to her knees, clutching her amulet. Horace pressed against her side, his purr trembling like a warning drum. Morrigan landed upon the altar, wings folding tight, her black eyes fixed upon Esther with something like fear.
The book remained unopened, yet its presence was thunder in her veins.
The Serpent whispered once more, soft and triumphant:
"See? We are unstoppable."
But Esther knew the truth in her heart. Yes, they were unstoppable. But for how long… and at what cost?