Song vibe: Lie – BTS

  __________

  THE WATCHER

  Inside the walls, Firestone

  The Watcher moved through the overgrown arteries of Firestone—the hidden roots beneath its walls where dust and silence had once gathered. Now, new wards glowed faintly, their pale light threading through cracks like veins of moonstone. Each glow marked a boundary newly closed to them.

  That damned mage and his syndicate—blocking every passage they touch. No matter. The work simply shifts forward. And how happy little Crassus will be with the poison we've spread in our garden…

  The Watcher slid along the warm stones, breath shallow, tucking an empty satchel into their robes. From it, the next seed had been planted: a book from Renatus—rituals of blood sacrifices—slipped into the moulded library. The new hire, Maxine, would soon come to clean the shelves. She would not resist curiosity; no Sunfire girl ever could. The strange glyphs would make her feel unsafe, make her want to show someone. Then, the whispers would spread.

  Patience, a gardener’s first virtue.

  From it, The Watcher had learned to prune impatience into cunning. From the half-breed’s discarded letters, they had studied every curve of ink until they could mimic her hand perfectly. A small, intimate note—its edges torn as if by haste—now bore that stolen script.

  ________

  I remember the taste of your kisses, your steel piercing a sweetness in my mouth, the sweat on your tattooed skin as your body…

  ________

  They pressed the page into the folds of a crumpled pink gown, bound for the washerwomen.

  A slow smile spread. Of all the seeds planted, the one of the half-breed and the tattooed slave had blossomed best. I never thought weakening the seal on her mind would induce such terrible nightmares. I could have possessed that slave boy, made him go into that chamber—and how did he want to—but he saved me the trouble. The Watched paused to catch their breath. And now, our brutish Count will kill the boy and uproot the half-breed the moment he returns.

  The Watcher pressed on, crawling where the stone constricted and ducking beneath the web of old pipes. The air was thick with dust and the faint light of nearby wards—each pulse a reminder that these passages would soon be sealed.

  They paused at a junction where two corridors met, waiting for the next unsuspecting soul to pass on the other side of the wall. When footsteps echoed beyond the plaster, The Watcher let their voice seep through the cracks like smoke. “She lets that creature roam free… I saw the blood it left behind…”

  From the slit in the wall, The Watcher watched Drusilla glance about, searching for the source. A small tug on the threads of magic sent ripples of unease through the room—confusion, mistrust, dread.

  “Another meal for the Lady?” Drusilla gripped her tray. “Or are we servants to that pet of hers, too?”

  “Mind your tongue!” came Orson’s gruff reply, though his voice wavered.

  “Mark me—” Drusilla’s voice shook. “—it’ll kill a human next.”

  The words took root at once, spreading like mould through the servants’ quarters. Good. Even poison flowers need fertile soil.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The Watcher turned away from the voices and continued westward, following the thinning air and the faint draft that marked the hidden postern. The walls grew colder, the stone damp and furred with lichen. This was the castle’s outer shell—forgotten, crumbling, the end of their domain.

  Soon, the syndicate will seal every entrance. I’ll need to leave through the western outlet—my last way out. But the damage already sown… oh, how it thrives.

  Their hand found the rusted latch, half-hidden beneath flaking mortar. Only one entrance left, one that the slave boy and his brutes will never find. Too difficult for me to access, but to be used when the time is right.

  A low growl rang from the shadows. Two eyes, red as coals, fixed on the intruder.

  “Tsek,” the Watcher hissed, reaching for their dagger, the movement hampered by the cramped space.

  The hell leopard lunged. Pain flared; fangs in the calf, claws raking. The passage was too tight to turn a blade. Blood slicked the stones. They kicked, slamming the creature against the wall once, twice, until the grip loosened.

  Above: Dusty defends her territory.

  “Fye,” they gasped, stumbling free, blood trailing behind. “Little pitspawn.”

  The hell leopard leapt again. The Watcher burst from the hidden exit into moonlight, slamming the door on the creature’s snarl. The Watcher limped away, into the safety of the surrounding trees. Breath ragged, they leaned against a trunk at the forest’s edge, drawing on the calm pulse of their binding magic. The pain ebbed—replaced by a simmering fury.

  Then came another presence: the stench of sickness and death, a shape barely human.

  “What are you staring at?!" The Watcher straightened. "Back inside. Clean my blood. Kill her pet—don't eat the flesh—we'll need the corpse."

  The creature tilted its head in eerie silence, then placed a gloved hand on the door.

  Above: The Watcher spots the Silvark.

  Above them, a Silvark shrieked across the night sky, taking off from the rookery.

  “Wait,” the Watcher rasped, full of rage. “Bring it down.”

  The creature reached into its robes, drew a knife, and threw. The blade struck true; the Silvark tumbled from the heavens, wings snapping like broken parchment.

  “Good,” the Watcher breathed, binding a strip of fabric around the bleeding leg. “Now go. Finish your work and meet me here. I'll have meat for you to eat."

  The forest swallowed the creature’s footsteps as it returned to Firestone.

  The Watcher looked up through the thinning canopy, watching the moon sink lower—a sliver now, almost new.

  The Count plans to meet his half-breed soon. They’ve been kept apart for weeks; hunger makes fools of them both. No doubt they’ll both send representatives, full of the information they dare not send via Silvark. I’ll be there—watching whomever shows up.

  The secret door to Firestone opened, and The Watcher felt the fear and mistrust planted in the castle spill outside.

  The Silvark’s dying cries still echoed through the trees. Limping forward, The Watcher followed the trail of broken feathers to where the body had fallen—a dark, twisted shape against the winter frost. They crouched with effort, blood from their leg soaking into the ground, and turned the bird over. Beneath the slick down of its belly, a thin fold of skin bulged slightly—its hidden pocket.

  With a slick slice of their knife, The Watcher opened it, drawing out the small, blood-wet message sealed inside. They set the corpse of the bird aside for the creature to consume. Hands shaking, they opened the message.

  _______________

  I'll be there myself. I wouldn't dream of missing anything you've arranged. I look forward to standing on the top of the continent with you. Yours always, Saphira.

  _______________

  Scrunching up the paper, The Watcher shoved it into their pocket. The top of the continent? So they plan on meeting on the peak of Yule Mountain? That's dryad territory. Of course, the Count is fraternising with those savages.

  The Watcher wiped their hand on the grass, rose unsteadily, and tore another strip from their cloak to bind their wound. A faint smile returned—small, secret, and satisfied.

  That little usurper won’t survive the death of her precious pet. And oh, I’ll make sure it breaks her; she'll be gone by the time the fool of a Count returns.