The storm outside had passed, but its violence lingered within Esther's walls. Her shop lay in ruins—shelves splintered, glass shattered, herbs reduced to ash. The air still hummed with power, sharp and metallic like blood on the tongue.
Horace curled at her side, his golden eyes unblinking, watching her as though weighing her very soul. Morrigan perched above, wings tucked tight, her gaze unyielding, sharp as the edge of fate.
Esther herself knelt before the altar, the Serpent's book before her. Its cover pulsed faintly, like flesh. Her amulet throbbed in rhythm with it, the chain burning against her skin.
Her hands trembled. She had wielded power beyond her imagining, struck down the Watchers with shadows and storm. But the memory of her reflection haunted her—eyes not her own, a smile curved with hunger not hers.
The Serpent's whisper slid into the silence.
"They will return. Stronger. And you, as you are, will fall. Bind yourself to me, Esther. Complete the oath. Your blood for my coil. Your soul for my strength. Together, we will break the Watchers forever."
Esther's throat tightened. "And if I refuse?"
A hiss, low and cruel, reverberated through her bones.
"Then you will wither. They will burn your shop. Kill your raven. Skin your cat. And the name of Harrow will die in silence."
Morrigan croaked sharply, as though in defiance of the Serpent's threat. Horace pressed closer to her, his warmth grounding, steady. For a moment, she thought she heard another whisper—not the Serpent, but something softer, older. A memory, perhaps. Her grandmother's voice.
"Child, power is a blade. It cuts the hand that wields it as surely as the enemy it strikes. Choose well."
Esther drew a blade from her altar—slender, silver, consecrated with salt and moonlight. Its edge gleamed in the dim.
The Serpent purred in her veins. "Yes. Blood. Offer it freely, and you will be mine. Offer it, and nothing shall stand against you."
Her hand hovered over the book. One drop of blood, and the oath would be sealed.
But her eyes flicked to Horace, to Morrigan. Her familiars—her tether to the world of flesh and breath, not just shadow. Would binding herself fully sever that bond? Would she become more monster than witch?
Her chest ached with the weight of choice.
Esther whispered aloud, her voice breaking:
"Is survival worth the cost of myself?"
The Serpent hissed in laughter. "Yourself? You are nothing without me. Choose."
The blade pressed to her palm. A single bead of blood welled red. It trembled, ready to fall upon the book's waiting leather.
The shop seemed to hold its breath.