The droplet of blood clung to Esther's skin, crimson and trembling, heavy with promise. One breath, one tremor, and it would fall—binding her forever to the ancient coil waiting in the book.
The Serpent's voice curled around her mind, velvet and venom.
"Do it. Give me your life, and I will give you eternity."
Horace hissed, his fur bristling, tail lashing like a whip. He leapt onto the altar, pressing his warm body against her arm, as if to push the blade away. Morrigan spread her wings, croaking so loud it rattled the ruined shelves, her cry a protest, a warning.
Esther's hand wavered.
The Serpent pressed harder.
"They will abandon you. They will die. Only I will remain. Without me, you are prey."
Lightning cracked faintly beyond the storm's retreat, as if the heavens themselves waited on her decision.
Esther drew a deep, ragged breath. Her eyes burned with tears she had not expected. Her grandmother's voice still lingered, faint as memory: "Choose well."
Her hand closed tighter on the blade. And then—
She turned the edge.
Instead of letting the blood fall upon the book, she carved the mark into the floorboards before the altar, weaving the shape of the serpent in her own hand, but broken. Not complete. Not binding.
The Serpent shrieked inside her skull, the sound like a thousand knives scraping bone.
"Fool! You defy me? You think you can wield me without yielding?!"
Esther pressed her bleeding palm flat against her broken serpent sigil, her voice rising strong, steady, resolute.
"I will wield you, but I will not belong to you. I am Esther Harrow—witch, blood of flame, master of my will. You are not my chain. You are my weapon."
The book shuddered violently. Its cover writhed, the sigil glowing so bright it nearly seared her vision. For one terrible moment, she thought the Serpent would break free, coil around her throat, and crush her into silence.
But then—the glow dimmed. The shrieking subsided. The whispers dulled to a hiss.
The Serpent spoke once more, but not in triumph. In rage.
"Then you will never rest. I will whisper until your last breath. You will need me. And when you do… you will kneel."
The book fell silent.
Esther collapsed to her knees, chest heaving, palm throbbing with pain. Horace licked at her wound with a gentleness that belied his golden eyes of fire. Morrigan landed upon her shoulder, talons digging into her gown, as if to anchor her to flesh, to reality.
The oath was not sealed. But neither was it broken.
She had not surrendered—yet she had not escaped. She had forged a new path, one uncharted, perilous.
The Serpent remained within her blood, restless, waiting.
And the Watchers… would return.