The storm had passed, but the city did not breathe easier. Smoke curled from chimneys like funeral pyres. Streets lay sodden, slick with rain that smelled faintly of iron. In alleyways, whispers traveled faster than fire: The Watchers had been struck. The witch of Blackthorn Street had stood against them—and lived.
Esther knew such whispers were as dangerous as any spell.
In her ruined shop, she swept shattered glass into piles, her movements weary but deliberate. Horace prowled the corners, sniffing at places where shadows had clung too long. Morrigan circled above the rafters, her croak sharp whenever Esther's hand faltered.
The book still rested on her altar. Silent. Waiting. Its presence was a weight on her lungs, a shadow against her heart. Though she had refused the full oath, the Serpent coiled restlessly within, whispering still from the dark recesses of her blood.
"They come again. They burn with vengeance. You cannot resist them alone. Call me."
Esther clenched her fist until the wound in her palm ached. "You will not have me," she muttered.
Yet she could not deny the Serpent's warning. Even now, the Watchers gathered. She felt it in the air—a ripple of intent, a coldness that spread across the city.
That night, she lit the black candles of warding, dusted salt across the threshold, and scattered bone fragments at her door. She anointed her amulet with oil, each drop a prayer.
But as the hour neared midnight, Morrigan's cry split the air. Horace arched and hissed, his gaze fixed on the window.
Figures moved in the street. Not one. Not three. A dozen.
The Watchers.
Their hoods glistened with rain, their pale eyes burning like lanterns in the dark. Some bore staffs etched with the eye. Others carried chains that writhed faintly, alive with unnatural motion. Behind them, a tall figure loomed—robed in crimson, the mark of a high Watcher.
Esther's blood ran cold. She had slain some of their order, and for that, no mercy would be offered.
The Serpent's hiss slid into her ear, almost sweet:
"Now. Bleed for me. Let me loose, and none will survive their folly."
Esther drew herself tall, her hand on the amulet, her other on the ritual blade. Her voice did not shake as she whispered into the night:
"Let them come."
The Watchers advanced, their steps steady, unhurried, certain of their triumph.
The storm that had passed began to stir again above, thunder rolling low as if the heavens themselves prepared to witness what was to come