The Watch

CHAPTER ONE

The trees sway with an odd wind, beckoning the cold as it slithers around the stonework, sweeping beneath my collar and scraping over exposed skin, reminding me of the very reason I hated guard duty.

The northern wall always stings the most, as the wind cuts just right through the valley where the Fortress sits, caught between two shoulders of mountain before funneling inward with enough force to leave me with numbed lips and frigid fingers no matter how deeply I bury them inside my gloves.

The Custodes called the coat winter-rated.

The Custodes lied about many things.

Apparently outerwear was one of them.

I flex my right hand around the railing, forcing feeling back into the tips of my fingers as I watch the eastern road disappear between the mountains.

Nothing moves.

Though that doesn’t mean nothing is there.

Below me, the valley falls away from the northern wall in uneven shelves of stone and forest, the slope steep enough that the highest pines nearly reach the base of the battlements before descending into the deeper woods. Snow remains in the places sunlight has failed to reach, collecting beneath roots and against boulders in long, dirtied ribbons of white, while farther down the mountain the forest has already begun surrendering itself to evening.

The pines are almost black at this hour. Their branches move in waves beneath the wind, bowing and rising against one another until the entire northern slope seems to breathe.

Beyond them, the mountains rise, mighty in their stark relief, Nothing about this place has ever struck me as graceful.

They jut from the earth in broken gray ridges, their lower slopes drowned beneath pine before the elevation strips them bare, leaving stone and old snow exposed beneath clouds gathering heavily along their peaks. The last traces of daylight bleed between them in thin shades of violet and gray, catching occasionally against patches of ice before disappearing altogether.

Behind me, the Fortress rises out of the ridge and far above it, tall and overtaking the valley we are wedged within.

From below, I imagine it must look less built than excavated, as though someone discovered the oldest sections already buried inside the mountain and simply kept adding to them.

The oldest stone is darker than the newer additions, walls thick enough to have survived armies that no longer have countries attached to them. Towers have been shortened, raised, rebuilt, struck by lightning, shelled during wars everyone officially agreed had never involved us, and threaded through with enough modern wiring to make the medieval masons responsible for the place claw their own eyes out.

The Fortress has never cared whether its pieces match, only that they endure.

Cameras are tucked beneath the battlements now, their dark lenses peek out discreetly between stones carved centuries before electricity had a name. Motion sensors nest among the lower woods. Fiber lines run beneath blocks once laid to stop siege ladders. Three overlapping physical perimeter systems surround the valley, with layers of magical wards reinforce them, and more protections exist that I’m sure I am not cleared to know enough about.

Steel walkways bridge old courtyards. Reinforced glass fills archways that once stood open to the weather. Satellite arrays occupy rooftops beside stone gargoyles blackened by decades of rain.

The whole place is an architectural argument between eras, and somehow neither side has won.

Somewhere below me, deep within the oldest portion of the Fortress, an arched corridor leads to a secured chamber currently being prepared for those who have spent centuries finding reasons not to sit amongst one another.

I check the eastern road again. Still nothing.

The wind catches a loose strand of hair and lashes it across my face. I swat it away, tucking it beneath my collar, drawing my scarf higher over my chin as another gust climbs the wall and cuts through my coat anyway.

“Fuck this.”The words disappear into the valley almost as quickly as I say them. My breath follows, curling white before my face.

I glance toward the display clipped near my belt. 18:42.

Eighteen minutes until relief, not that I’m counting.

My left eye begins to ache. A reminder of missing meals I forewent before my watch began.

I blink once, but the ache remains.

Not pain exactly, but a persistent pressure, a tiny insistence behind the socket, as though someone has placed a finger against the inside of my skull and is pressing gently outward.

I close the eye.

Open it.

Still there.

I look west. The old watchtower stands against the darkening sky, its upper windows glowing amber behind reinforced glass.

Nothing.

I look South.

Nothing.

East.

The pressure fades.

Then I turn north again, and it returns once more.

My fingers stop flexing against the railing.

The cold disappears from my attention as I hone in on the direction of the growing disturbance.

Slowly, I turn until my body aligns with the sensation.

There.

Just below the wall.

The northern ward runs along the drop just beneath the physical perimeter, invisible to ordinary sight and almost invisible to mine.

Almost.

Mortals often liked to ask what magic looked like, though they were usually disappointed by the answer.

Most of the time, it quite literally didn’t look like anything. A ward didn’t glow. The glamour didn’t shine or shimmer. There were no convenient strings of light connecting spells to their makers, no bright little trail showing where magic began and where it ended.

Magic announced itself indirectly. Pressure. Temperature. Taste. The sensation of standing on a stair that wasn’t there. The certainty that a door occupied the wrong part of a wall even when your eyes insisted otherwise.

A metallic taste suddenly bloomed beneath the tongue when a witch drew too deeply from whatever source answered them.

The prickling awareness that something in a room had noticed you before you noticed it.

Sensations felt and experienced, rarely seen outside the powers shaped deliberately by the Covens.

When I was twelve, before anyone had explained what I was sensing, I used to think certain rooms were angry. That they moved when upset.

The Custodes eventually gave me better vocabulary.

I turn my head another degree and the pressure sharpens.

For one instant, the forest below seems to hold itself unnaturally still.

Then—

Nothing.

The pressure vanishes as quickly as I identify it.

I frown just as the wind tears through the branches again.

“North Four,” I say aloud, pressing frigid fingers against my radio.

Static fills my earpiece. Then a familiar female voice.

“Control.” She responds

“Run integrity on perimeter N-four through N-six.”

A pause.

I keep my eyes on the slope.

“Reason?”

“Perceptual variance.”

Another pause. That one is distinctly judgmental.

“Define variance.”

“I felt a displacement.”

“Duration?”

“Less than a second.”

“Visual?” She questions.

“No.”

“Auditory?”

“No.” I state, the word drawn out longer than the previous

“Somatic?”

The annoyance has crept in now.

“Pressure.”

“Intensity?”

“One.”

Silence.

“A one?”

“Maybe two.”

“Very scientific, Kovač.” The words drips from her, bathed in sarcasm.

Lucía.

I hadn’t checked the channel before speaking. That was certainly my mistake.

“Do you want me to lie and say three?” I ask.

She exhales loudly through her nose, making me smile broadly.

“Running it now.”

I step away from the railing and crouch beside the stone lip. The ward should follow the wall directly below me. I know that, I’d walked it twice this morning and once after lunch.

Nothing had changed.

I press two fingers against the stone anyway. Cold. Rough. Damp where frost has begun gathering inside the cracks.

No response.

Below me, the trees shift beneath the wind. Snow shakes loose from one of the nearest pines and tumbles through the branches before disappearing into the darkness beneath them.

“North Four.” the earpiece crackles.

“Copy.” I respond.

“All the wards are green, Mara.”

Interesting.

“Check again.”

“They’re green twice if that helps.”

“Lucía.” I snap.

“Mara.” She drawls, I swear the godsdamned woman is more stubborn than me.

“Run the delay differential, Lucía.”

Silence.

“Are you trying to ruin my night?” She questions, as if that will stop me from doing my job.

“You volunteered for Control.”

“I volunteered because somebody told me there would be coffee.”

“There is coffee.”

“That black industrial solvent is not coffee.” She complains.

“Run it.” I quip. My patience has reached the end of its thread.

I rise and look toward the eastern road again. Still empty.

A flock of birds suddenly breaks from the lower trees, the black swarm scattering across the fading sky. My attention follows automatically. No distortion around them. No irregular movement. Nothing crosses the ward with them.

“Differential clean,” Lucía says. “No interruption. No power fluctuation. No displacement. Happy?”

I should relax, knowing how thorough she is despite the complaining.

“Log my report.”

“Already did.”

“Thank you.” I blow out a breath and return to my post.

“You’re quite welcome.”

The channel remains open half a second longer.

“You’re freezing, aren’t you?” Sh asks

“No.”

“Your voice goes flatter when you’re cold.”

I roll my eyes.

“My voice is always flat.”

“Not when you’re warm.”

“Goodbye, Reyes,” I singsong.

Her laugh crackles through the earpiece just before I cut the connection.

I look back toward the northern perimeter.

Nothing. Though nothing usually follows after something feels wrong.

That’s the problem.

Danger rarely has the decency to arrive carrying a sign declaring itself as such. Sometimes all you receive is the vague certainty that something has shifted and the responsibility of deciding whether instinct is warning you or merely embarrassing you.

That was one of the first lessons Elias taught me.

The second was that not everything that felt wrong was dangerous.

A much harder lesson to digest in this line of business. The difficult part was knowing which lesson applied.

“You’ll wear a groove in the stone if you stare any harder.”

His voice reaches me just after I hear him shuffling closer.

I don’t turn. I hadn’t when I first felt him come through the northern tower either, though the edge of my mouth tilts upward at his presence.

“Your left boot drags slightly when you’re tired.”

The footsteps behind me stop.

“Does it?”

“Three millimeters lower, in fact.”

“Just three? I would think four, approximately. I’ve always been a bit of a gimp.”

“That’s very scientific, Kovač.”

This time I smile before I can stop myself.

I turn. Elias Okafor stands beneath the archway leading from the northern tower, hands tucked into the pockets of a coat considerably heavier than mine.

Of course his is warmer. He’s a Senior, which apparently entitles him to competent tailoring.

He is also one of the few people in the Rank capable of making standing still look like an accusation.

Broad shoulders fill most of the arch behind him. Gray has begun working its way through the close-cut hair at his temples, and the cold has cast a faint blue undertone across his dark skin. A scar intersects the outside of his left eyebrow before disappearing into his hairline, old enough that I have never known him without it.

He looks at me. Then the road. Then my coat.

“You’re freezing.”

“Lucía said the same thing.”

“Lucía is occasionally right.”

“Don’t tell her that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t survive the consequences.” He quips.

He walks toward the railing at my right.

I shift aside without thinking.

Elias notices, just as he notices everything.

He trained me long enough that I stopped resenting it years ago.

“ Anything to report?”

“Nothing has crossed the wards.”

“That’s not a report.” His eyes move toward me.

“Nothing visible crossed. No physical sensor triggers. No motion alerts. No communications interruption. The perimeter is holding just fine.”

He waits. One slow blink.

He knows me too well to know theres more.

I sigh before continuing on. “Perceptual anomaly in N-four through N-six. Pressure behind my left eye. Less than a second. Control ran integrity and delay differential. Both were clean.”

“What did it feel like?”

“Wrong.”

One scarred brow rises.

His eyes travel toward the northern edge.

“Technical description, Stráž.” The formal title doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You asked what it felt like.”

“Need I ask again?” his eyes drag over the landscape, searching for whatever I’m warning of.

I look back toward the forest. The sensation hadn’t returned.

“It felt like the ward was late.”

That changes him, though not by much. Most people wouldn’t notice anything at all. But I’ve known him too long not to see the slight shift of weight from one leg to the other, the minute tightening around his mouth.

“Late how?” He questions.

“I don’t know how to describe it. Like it was delayed, I think.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t guess.”

“Everyone guesses. Professionals just acknowledge when they’re doing it.”

I stare down at the tree line. “The ward wasn’t where it should’ve been. Then, for a second, it felt like I noticed it after I should have.”

“A delay?” He question flat, eyes still wandering the valley.

“Maybe.”

“Or?” Much like Reyes, the man never skips an opportunity to question me.

“Interference.”

“Or?” He draws the word out, the corner of his mouth beginning to lift.

“Or...” I grit my teeth. “My perception misfired.”

“Better answer.”

I glare at him.

“You wanted that answer.”

“I want all the answers.”

“You don’t think it’s anything.”

The wind rises again, carrying the smell of pine and distant snow across the wall. The cold works beneath my coat, gooseflesh skating down my spine.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Elias watches the northern slope, seeing the flurries of snow swirl violently. Seems a storm is simmering.

“Log it.” He demands, making me prickle

“Lucía already logged it.”

“You log it yourself.”

My annoyance sharpens and I turn to him, ready to start some shit.

“If you think something’s wrong—”

“If I thought the north perimeter was compromised, Kovač, you would currently be hearing alarms instead of complaining about your coat.”

“I haven’t complained once about my coat.”

“You’ve looked at mine seven times.”

“Yours is warmer.” I acclaim

“It is.” He says it in an imitation of my own flat tone.

I stare at him.

He smirks, barely. Then his face settles again.

“Log it twice, Straža.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And stop calling every unpleasant sensation an anomaly.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did yesterday.”

“Yesterday the stairwell changed depth.”

“The stairwell did not change dep-”

“It felt like it did.”

“You were dehydrated.”

“The building should not be allowed to exploit dehydration.”

That earns an actual snort from him. Short, and gone quickly. But for exactly two seconds, it makes the Fortress feel less severe.

Then Elias looks east.

“The first convoy is twenty-two minutes out.”

My stomach tightens. I hate that it does.

I’d spent most of the day pretending tonight was another assignment. That lie has become harder to tell myself as sunset approaches. The Fortress itself has been announcing it since dawn. Different security measures. Different curfew restrictions.

Not inherently bad. But telling of what is coming.

“The Order?”

“The Order.” He confirms.

“Two Ambassadors?”

“Two, yes.”

“And the Master?”

“Yes.”

“You know which one?”

“I do.”

“And?” I search his face for the usual tells.

The pursed lips of annoyance are all I find.

“And you don’t need to know.”

I turn fully toward him.

“Elias.”

“Kovač.”

“If I’m responsible for screening them—”

“You’re responsible for verifying that what arrives matches what we’re expecting. You do not need their historical accounts.”

“I wasn’t asking for historical—”

“Then what were you asking for?” t

I open my mouth.

Close it.

He waits.

“Fine. A name.”

“You’ll receive one when they arrive.”

“Why are you being irritating?” I exclaim, rather childishly.

I look towards the inner Fortress, but not before seeing His mouth twitch upward.

A secondary wall rises beyond the courtyards, guarding the keep with stone even older than what stands beneath my boots. Armed Guardians occupy the ramparts in pairs, dark figures silhouetted against the lamps, their attention fixed upon the same road I’ve been watching for the better part of four hours.

Only the upper reaches of the central keep are visible from here.

Its spires rise above the surrounding structures, narrow and severe, disappearing occasionally behind the mist gathering off the mountain. Nearly every window glows now, warm squares of gold cut into black stone.

The Fortress is awake.

Security teams have been moving through those corridors since before dawn. More command staff moving between sectors than usual. Medical stations restocked. Guest wings reopened after years of disuse. Archivists disappearing into restricted corridors carrying sealed cases. Ward weavers moving through the grounds in pairs, testing protections that have existed longer than most nations.

Diplomatic envoys.

Medical personnel.

Archivists.

Ward weavers.

Kitchen staff.

Translators.

Mortals who will never be named in any official record if everything goes well. Especially if everything goes well.

“What exactly are they negotiating this time?” I question, all the while knowing I’m not approved for such intel.

Elias doesn’t answer immediately.

Over the years I’ve learned that Elias has different forms of silence. The first means he is considering the best answer. The second means he thinks the question is stupid. The third means he knows something he is not going to tell me.

This feels like the third.

“The Conclave agenda is above your clearance.”

“I’ve seen the agenda.”

“You’ve seen the security brief.”

“It has agenda headings.” I singsong

“And you’ve mistaken headings for content you have privilege to know.”

“I know they’re revising the inter-faction Accords.”

“Among other things.” He admits

My attention snaps back to him at that.

“What other things?”

“Mara.” He warns. Rarely does he use my first name while we’re working. That ends the question more effectively than rank ever could have.

Below us, the trees have become shadows beneath the deepening sky, individual trunks swallowed by darkness until the forest resembles a single black mass gathered against the Fortress walls.

“Everyone’s acting like this is more than the usual Conclave. They review the Accords every time they meet.”

“Because it is more than that.”

I look back sharply. He has turned toward me. Something tired sits in his expression. Not fear though, Elias doesn’t perform fear in ways most people recognize.

I’ve since learned his version. He becomes slower, more precise, as though every word must be weighed before release.

“Then what is it?”

“A chance.”

“For what?”

“To avoid needing another.”

I frown.

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It means precisely what it means.”

“That’s an infuriating explanation.”

“I’m comfortable with that.” He mumbles back.

I fold my arms, against the cold of course.

“Why here?” Never had we hosted a Conclave, always had they been hosted by the larger Strongholds, closer to the city, never out here.

“Neutral ground.” He says.

“We’re not neutral.” I glance toward the inner wall. “We’re Guardians.”

“Exactly right.” Something changes behind his eyes.

Approval, perhaps. Or concern. I can’t tell which.

“Good,” he says after studying me for a moment.

“What?”

“You noticed.”

“I’m not twelve anymore Elias.”

“No. At twelve you assumed everything I told you was true.”

“I absolutely did not.” I defend.

“You absolutely did.”

“You told me the west archive was haunted.”

“It improved your footwork.”

“You locked me in there, I ran through the corridors avoiding any shadow I could.” This conversation has been in its entirety, exasperating.

“Which also improved your footwork.”

I stare at him.

“It wasn’t haunted?”

“I never said it was.”

“You strongly implied—”

A click of static interrupts us.

My hand goes automatically to the small display clipped at my belt.

OUTER DETECTION — EASTERN APPROACH.

I turn. Scanning just as I see light move between the trees along the eastern road.

The convoy arrived early.

Elias changes instantly. The man who had been teasing me about haunted archives disappears in a instant.

In his place stands the Senior Guardian who survived enough years in the Rank to have gray at his temples.

“Position.” I move without thought, responding to his command just as I had as a child. There was no need to tell me where.

Twenty seconds later I’m at the eastern line of sight, handheld optics raised.

Headlights emerge between the pines.

One SUV, Black, Unmarked.

It moves slowly along the mountain road, tires whispering over frosted asphalt, respectful of the terrain or cautious of what waits at the top.

“Visual clear.” I states

Elias raises his own radio,.

“North confirms first delegation approach.” His response parrots though my own

“Copy. Outer gate will hold until verification.” The Male voice responds. Flat. A far less pleasant companion than Lucía.

Anton Veselý. Fortress Security Commander.

I’ve interacted with him little during the three years he’s been stationed here and enjoyed none of it.

Elias looks toward me. “Relay what you see.”

I adjust the focus.

“One vehicle. Three occupants visible. Driver and passenger plus rear.”

“As expected?” he asks

“Driver, passenger, one rear. Manifest expects three delegates plus driver.”

Dr. Ishani Rao, accompanied by Nadir El Mansouri and Hana Mori.

Rao’s name had enough redaction around it to be irritating. El Mansouri and Mori were easier. Order diplomatic personnel, both carrying Ambassador credentials for the Conclave. Their dossiers contained the usual abbreviated histories, approved photographs and almost nothing I would call useful.

“Which gives you four.”

“I said three occupants visible.” I shift the binoculars. “The third rear position is obscured.”

“Why?”

“The Angle.”

“Fix it then.” He snaps.

I lower the optics and move six paces south.

The vehicle rounds the final turn.

I raise them again.

“Confirmed four occupants.” The passenger turns slightly as they take the bend—a man with close-cut dark hair and the narrow profile I recognize as El Mansouri. Beside him, Mori is little more than a pale oval and a line of black hair through the tinted glass.

Rao remains the only one I cannot see clearly.

“Escort? Following vehicles?”

“None visible.” I say scanning the surrounding valley around the convoy

“And wards with them?” Elias inquires.

I close my eyes in response.

Instructors always hated watching me do this. Closing your eyes during an active security check is generally discouraged. Unfortunately, visual information can overwhelm subtler perception if I allow it.

I breathe once.

Slowly.

And reach out.

Through the Stone, Metal and Cold. The lingering moisture of snow beneath my boots.

Beneath that, the steady low pressure of the defensive wards surrounding the eastern approach.

Familiar. Constant.

Then, just as the convoy passes the wards, something touches the boundary.

My mouth fills instantly with the taste of pennies. My eyes snap open, a chill breaking across my skin has nothing to do with winter.

“Elias.”

“What?”

He hears it in my voice.

The vehicle is still seventy meters from the gate. The metallic taste intensifies. Not hostile.Not an attack.

Just—

Vast.

The sensation settles against the back of my throat, heavy enough that swallowing doesn’t clear it. Every hair along my arms rises beneath my uniform.

I’ve stood near powerful witches before.

This is different. Not because it is uncontrolled.

But because it isn’t.

Whatever occupies that vehicle feels like power embodied, compressed inward until not a single thread of it escapes where its owner does not intend.

Elias is watching me instead of the vehicle now.

“Intensity?”

“Eight.”

His brows lift response, sparing me a glance.

“Eight?” he confirms

I nod.

The SUV reaches the outer checkpoint.

The taste of metal strengthens.

“Maybe nine.”

“That would be a Master.”

“Helpful.” I quip.

“You wanted the name.” he responds in kind

“I still don’t have it.” I parry.

His radio clicks, just as he speaks into it.

“Okafor.” He demands, static follows

“Copy.” The Commander responds

“Proceed to Gate One. Kovač remains elevated.”

I stiffen.

Elias doesn’t.

“Copy.”

The channel closes.

“You heard him.”

“I did.”

“Stay.”

“I wasn’t planning to leap off the wall.” I drawl.

“Good. Paperwork.”

“Elias.”

He pauses.

I nod toward the vehicle.

“Who?”

Something in his expression eases.

Perhaps he’s decided there is no longer any point withholding it.

“Dr. Ishani Rao.”

The name catches somewhere in memory.

Order dossiers. Training briefs. Political summaries I technically wasn’t supposed to have read but absolutely had.

“Master of—”

“No.”

I stare at him.

“You cannot possibly think I don’t know how to use an archive.”

“I know exactly how you use archives. That’s why I’m stopping you.”

“Which Master?”

“Stay on the wall.” He demands, irrefusible in its command.

“Elias-.” I start,

“Your assignment is security, Kovač.” He calls back, starting toward the tower entrance.

“Security works better when I know what I’m securing.” I yell out at his back.

He stops with one hand against the stone arch, exhaling a heavy breath. For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Below, the gate mechanism begins to move. Old iron and modern hydraulics work together, a deep grinding sound passing through the Fortress and vibrating faintly beneath my boots.

Beyond it, the black SUV waits, the ignition humming as it waits. Snow begins to fall once more. The flakes caught in the floodlights above the eastern gate, drifting in a frizzy downward before disappearing against the road.

Elias looks back at me.

“The future,” he says.

I frown.

“You’re securing our future.”

Then he disappears inside, leaving me to stand alone on the wall.

The gate opens fully below and The SUV rolls forward.

As it passes beneath the first arch, the pressure behind my left eye returns and I go completely still.

Not the metallic taste.

Not Rao.

Something else.

North.

My head turns instinctively toward the opposite end of the Fortress. For less than a second, the world seems strangely quiet. Then the feeling disappears once more.

I stare into the darkness beyond the northern wall, though from here the forest is mostly hidden behind stone.

The eastern ward hums steadily around Rao’s approaching vehicle and the northern ward gives me nothing.

Two disturbances in less than an hour. Both too brief for the system to acknowledge. Both real enough for me to feel.

Below, Dr. Ishani Rao arrives for a Conclave that apparently isn’t about what the security brief says it is.

Behind me, something touches a ward that insists nothing touched it at all.

The cold works its way beneath my collar again, and this time, I barely notice it at all.