The wind howled through the jagged peaks surrounding St. Aelric’s Monastery, a mournful sound that rattled the warped shutters and seeped into the stone walls. Elias knelt in the chapel, his knees aching against the cold floor, his breath misting in the dim light of a single candle. He was nineteen, slight of frame, with eyes too large for his face—eyes that saw too much, his brothers often teased. Tonight, though, those eyes stung with fatigue. He’d been praying for hours, seeking clarity amid the restless dreams that plagued him. Dreams of wings clashing, of fire raining from a sky torn open, of voices crying out in a tongue he shouldn’t understand.
“Elias,” a voice rasped from the shadows. Brother Gideon shuffled forward, his robes dragging like a shroud. “You’ll wear yourself to bone. The abbot’s ship has docked—best prepare.”
Elias rose, brushing dust from his novice’s habit. “Already? The storm’s barely lifted.”
Gideon’s weathered face creased into a frown. “Aye, and he’s a strange one. Came through the mist like he summoned it himself. Go on, now.”
The monastery buzzed with quiet anticipation as Elias joined the others in the courtyard. The brothers stood in a ragged line, their lanterns flickering against the drizzle. A figure emerged from the fog—a man tall and lean, his black cloak billowing as if alive. Abbot Malachi. His face was sharp, all angles and hollows, with eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian. When he spoke, his voice was smooth, almost too smooth, sliding over the wind’s howl.
“Peace be with you, brothers,” Malachi said, raising a hand. “I come to guide this house through shadowed times.”
Elias shivered, though the air wasn’t cold. Something coiled around the abbot—a flicker at the edge of his vision, dark and sinuous, like smoke given form. He blinked, and it was gone. A trick of the light, he told himself, but his chest tightened all the same.
That night, the dreams returned fiercer than ever. He stood on a cliff, the sea churning below, as winged figures clashed overhead—some radiant, their blades blazing with light, others shrouded in ash, their claws dripping black ichor. A voice thundered through the tumult, ancient and piercing: Watcher, see. Elias jolted awake, his cot soaked with sweat, the words echoing in his skull.
He stumbled to the scriptorium at dawn, seeking solace in the familiar. The room smelled of ink and parchment, a sanctuary of quiet amid the monastery’s stone heart. He traced the lines of an old manuscript, a history of St. Aelric, when a passage caught his eye: And in the last days, the Seers shall rise, eyes unveiled to the war unseen, bearing the cry of the Watchers against the dark. His fingers trembled. Seers. Watchers. The words felt alive, pressing against his mind.
“Lost in tales again?” Brother Thomas leaned over, his round face creased with a grin. “You’ll dream yourself into heresy one day.”
Elias forced a smile. “Just… curious. Ever hear of the Seers?”
Thomas snorted. “Old legends. Madmen claiming to see angels and demons. Good for a story, not much else.” He clapped Elias on the shoulder and shuffled off.
But Elias couldn’t shake it. The dreams, the abbot’s shadow, the manuscript—they wove a thread he couldn’t ignore. He sought out Brother Anselm, the oldest monk, whose hands shook as he tended the herb garden. Anselm’s eyes, milky with age, fixed on Elias with unnerving clarity.
“Seers, you say?” Anselm’s voice was a dry whisper. “Aye, they were real. My grandfather spoke of one—a monk who saw the hosts of heaven and hell. Said his soul burned for it. Why do you ask, lad?”
Elias hesitated. “I’ve seen things. In dreams. Battles in the sky.”
Anselm’s grip tightened on his spade. “Then pray it’s fancy, boy. The Seers paid a price—every vision took a piece of them. If it’s true, you’re not just seeing. You’re called.”
The words sank into Elias like stones. Called. He wanted to laugh it off, to bury it beneath routine, but the abbot’s presence gnawed at him. Malachi moved through the monastery like a specter, his sermons laced with strange cadence, his gaze lingering too long. The brothers whispered of his intensity, his late-night vigils in the crypt. And always, that flicker of shadow clung to him, unseen by all but Elias.
One evening, as the bell tolled for vespers, Elias lingered in the cloister. The abbot stood alone by the well, staring into its depths. The air thickened, and there it was again—tendrils of darkness curling from Malachi’s shoulders, pulsing like a heartbeat. Elias’s throat closed. This was no trick. This was real.
He fled to the chapel, dropping to his knees before the altar. “God, if this is You, show me,” he whispered. “If it’s not, take it away.”
Silence stretched, heavy and unbroken. Then the candle flared, and the world dissolved.
He stood on a cracked plain, the sky above a maelstrom of light and shadow. Angels soared, their wings humming with power, clashing against twisted forms that screeched in defiance. A figure loomed before him—tall, radiant, its face obscured by blinding light. It held a sword aloft, its voice a roar: Watcher, see the breach. The ancient one stirs.
Elias staggered, his chest burning as if branded. He saw the monastery below, a speck against the chaos, and within it, a shape—a horned silhouette with eyes like furnaces, coiled around the abbot’s form. The vision snapped shut, hurling him back to the chapel floor. He gasped, tasting blood, his hands clawing at the stone.
The ancient one. A demon. Malachi wasn’t just a man—he was a vessel.
Elias’s mind raced. He couldn’t tell the brothers—they’d call him mad, or worse, a heretic. He needed proof, a way to fight. He returned to the scriptorium, poring over texts until his eyes blurred. A fragment in a crumbling tome spoke of the Seers’ gift: To see is to stand in the breach, to wield the cry against the dark, at cost of flesh and spirit. Another passage hinted at a ritual—a binding in the spiritual realm, a battle beyond the veil.
He waited for nightfall, then slipped into the crypt. The air was damp, thick with the scent of earth and decay. He carried a candle and a stolen vial of holy water, his heart hammering. The crypt stretched into shadow, its walls etched with faded runes. At its heart stood a slab, an altar from the monastery’s pagan past, now consecrated—or so they’d thought.
Elias knelt, splashing the water in a circle around him. He whispered a prayer, half-remembered from childhood, and closed his eyes. The world tilted.
He was there again—the cracked plain, the warring hosts. The air vibrated with their cries, a cacophony of fury and grace. He felt small, fragile, but the radiant figure appeared once more. Watcher, it said, name the foe.
“Malachi,” Elias choked out. “The ancient one within him.”
The ground shuddered, and the horned shadow rose, towering over the plain. Its eyes locked on Elias, searing into him. Fool, it hissed, its voice a blade across his soul. You see, but you cannot stand.
Elias’s knees buckled, but he clenched his fists. “I name you,” he shouted, voice cracking. “I see you!”
The demon lunged, claws raking the air. Elias dodged, or thought he did—pain flared in his side, hot and real, though no blood spilled. This was spirit, not flesh, yet every blow carved deeper. He stumbled, gasping, as the radiant figure struck, its sword clashing against the demon’s hide. Light flared, and the demon recoiled, shrieking.
Cry out, the figure urged. Bind it.
Elias’s throat burned, but he screamed—a raw, primal sound, tearing from his core. The air rippled, chains of light snapping around the demon’s limbs. It thrashed, its roar shaking the plain, but the bonds held. The radiant figure drove its sword into the shadow’s chest, and with a final, guttural wail, the demon dissolved into ash.
Elias fell, the world fading. He woke in the crypt, sprawled across the slab, the candle guttering. His side ached, a dull throb, and his hands trembled uncontrollably. He staggered to his feet, the silence deafening.
Above, the monastery stirred. He climbed the stairs, legs leaden, and found the brothers gathered in the refectory. Malachi stood among them, his face pale, his eyes dull. The shadow was gone. He met Elias’s gaze, and for a moment, something flickered—fear, perhaps, or recognition. Then he turned away, silent.
Brother Gideon approached, brow furrowed. “You look half-dead, lad. What’s happened?”
Elias shook his head. “Just… a long night.”
The days that followed were quiet, the abbot subdued, his sermons flat. Elias watched him, waiting for the shadow to return, but it didn’t. The dreams lessened, though the battles lingered at the edges of his sleep. He returned to the scriptorium, tracing the old words: The Seers shall rise. Anselm’s warning echoed—every vision took a piece. He felt it now, a hollowness in his chest, a weight he couldn’t name.
One morning, as he tended the garden, a shadow fell over him—not dark, but warm. He looked up, squinting against the sun, and saw nothing. Yet the air hummed, faint and familiar, like wings brushing the sky. Watcher, a voice whispered, soft as a breeze. See.
Elias straightened, his breath catching. He wasn’t done. The war unseen raged on, and he was its eyes—its cry. The cost would come, piece by piece, but for now, he stood in the breach, alone yet not alone, gazing into a realm no one else could fathom.
The wind picked up again that evening, rattling the shutters as Elias sat in the chapel. He didn’t kneel this time—just sat, staring at the candle’s flame. It danced, unsteady, much like him. Brother Thomas had grumbled earlier about the abbot’s sudden meekness, joking that Elias’s prayers must’ve scared the fire out of him. Elias hadn’t laughed. He couldn’t. The truth sat heavy, a secret he’d carry alone.
Malachi avoided him now, his once-piercing gaze dulled to a flicker. The brothers noticed the change—some whispered of illness, others of divine chastening. Elias kept silent, his mind replaying the crypt, the plain, the demon’s searing eyes. He’d bound it, yes, but at what price? His side still ached, a phantom wound that flared when he moved too fast. And the hollowness—it grew, a quiet gnawing he couldn’t shake.
He found Anselm in the herb garden the next day, the old monk hunched over a patch of thyme. “You’re different, lad,” Anselm said without looking up. “Pale. Like something’s leeched out of you.”
Elias knelt beside him, tugging at a weed. “I faced it. The abbot—he wasn’t himself.”
Anselm’s hands stilled. “A demon?”
“Aye. I saw it. Fought it, in a way.”
The old man exhaled, a long, rattling breath. “Then you’re a Seer true. My grandfather said they never lasted long—burned too bright, too fast. Be careful, Elias. It’ll ask more of you yet.”
Elias nodded, though the words chilled him. He didn’t want to burn out, didn’t want to lose himself to the unseen. But the call had come, and he’d answered. There was no turning back.
That night, he dreamed again—not of battle, but of a figure standing on the cliff, its light softer now, almost sorrowful. Watcher, it said, the breach widens. He woke with a start, the words lingering like a bell’s toll. Widens. More demons? More battles? His hands shook as he lit a candle, the flame trembling with him.
He sought the crypt again, driven by a restless need. The air felt heavier now, the runes on the walls sharper, as if awakened. He traced one with a finger—a coiled line, like the shadow he’d seen. The stone pulsed, warm, and he yanked his hand back. The slab gleamed in the candlelight, its edges worn but unyielding. He didn’t kneel this time—just stood, staring, waiting.
The shift came sudden and sharp. The crypt vanished, and he was back on the plain. The sky churned, darker now, the angelic host thinner. A new shadow crept at the horizon—not one, but many, their eyes glinting like embers. The radiant figure appeared, its sword lowered. The ancient ones stir, it said. You bound one, but the rift grows. Stand, Watcher, or fall.
Elias’s heart thudded. “I’m not ready,” he whispered. “I’m just… me.”
You are enough, the figure replied, its voice firm. Cry out.
The shadows surged, a tide of claws and teeth. Elias opened his mouth, and the scream tore free—louder, fiercer, a sound that shook the plain. Light flared around him, not chains this time, but a wall, pushing the shadows back. They hissed, retreating, but their eyes promised return.
He woke gasping, the crypt’s chill seeping into his bones. The candle had guttered out, wax pooling on the slab. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and the ache in his side had spread, a dull fire in his ribs. He climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, and emerged into dawn’s gray light.
The monastery stood quiet, the brothers at morning prayer. Elias lingered in the cloister, watching the sun breach the peaks. Malachi passed by, head bowed, a shadowless shell. Elias pitied him, in a way—whatever the demon had taken, it had left little behind.
Brother Gideon found him there, squinting at him with concern. “You’re fading, lad. What’s eating you?”
Elias forced a smile. “Just tired. Too many late nights.”
Gideon grunted, unconvinced, but let it drop. Elias watched him go, then turned his gaze skyward. The air hummed again, faint but persistent. He closed his eyes, letting it fill him. The war wasn’t over. The Seers’ line ended with him, and the cost would mount—piece by piece, vision by vision. But he’d stand. He’d cry out.
The wind carried a sound then, distant and mournful—a watcher’s cry, echoing through the peaks. Elias listened, and for the first time, he didn’t flinch.
