The book lay heavy in Esther's hands as she climbed from the catacombs, its weight greater than leather and parchment alone. It pulsed faintly, as though it contained a heartbeat of its own, echoing her own pulse in eerie rhythm.
By the time she reached her shop, dawn was breaking pale against the soot-stained glass. She barred the doors, drew the curtains tight, and lit no lamps. Instead, she placed the book upon her altar, its cracked binding gleaming in the half-light.
Horace leapt onto the table, tail flicking with unease. Morrigan perched above, feathers ruffled, her head cocked as if listening to something Esther could not hear.
Esther opened the book. The words shimmered faintly, some fading as though they belonged only to the dead, others flaring bright as if written in flame. She traced the serpent sigil inked across one page, its coils endless, its eye burning red.
And then—she heard it.
A whisper, so faint it could have been mistaken for her own thought. But it was not hers. It slithered along the edges of her mind, smooth, steady, patient.
"Daughter of Harrow… You opened the door. You bled the blood. You have called me."
Her breath caught. "The Serpent…"
The whisper thickened, warm as breath against her ear.
"The Watchers seek dominion. They would bind the world in chains of sight and silence. But I am older than eyes. Older than chains. Call me forth, and I will break them."
Esther's hand trembled over the page. "And if I do… what will you take in return?"
The answer came with a hiss, both tender and cruel:
"Everything."
The candle flames guttered low though she had not lit them. The glass panes rattled in their frames. Horace arched and hissed, his fur bristling like fire. Morrigan shrieked once, a sound so piercing it seemed to split the air.
Esther tore her hand from the book, slamming it shut. The whispers ceased at once, though silence pressed heavy in their wake. She clutched her amulet, its stones cold against her burning skin.
Her bloodline's truth was clear now. The Harrows had bound themselves to the Serpent—an ancient force neither holy nor damned, but eternal, waiting, hungering.
And she, Esther Harrow, was the next vessel.
As the silence deepened, she looked to her familiars. Horace's eyes gleamed like molten gold, steady, protective. Morrigan's wings spread wide, shadow and storm incarnate.
Esther whispered, more to herself than to them: "If I awaken it, will I save this city… or destroy it?"
From somewhere far beyond, faint but unmistakable, the Serpent's whisper returned:
"Both."