#masterofthewatchhounds

A solemn boy of ten stood quietly by the Watchlady, unsure of what to do he simply stared ahead. He watched the uniforms walk past, first looking at their feet and then how they were around other people.

It’s dark, but Olivia doesn’t need light to see. She knows that there is mass on that side of her, and a wall to her back, and that thing right there is sharp and metallic, don’t touch it.

It’s not her hand that turns the doorknob. It’s a separate hand, formed of six tiny tendrils that seep from her flesh and turn the knob, sliding the door open. It creaks, and she winches at the sound. But it doesn’t matter, because the next moment she’s across the room and perched in the open window.

Her landing is wrong. She knows it as soon as her feet meet new ground. She wobbles, throwing out her arms to steady herself. It doesn’t work. Panicking, she clenches a fist, and a moment later lands with an awkward thump on unfamiliar ground.

She doesn’t need light to see, but neither do they.

Olivia’s never liked dogs. As a child, they were the vicious mongrels who either tore each other to bits in the pit fights, or the Abbey’s beasts on the hunt for magic, and they didn’t care if what got in their way was a heretic or a small street rat. And now, she’s pretty sure they can smell the Void on her. A chorus of barks and whines rises from somewhere nearby, crying the presence of an intruder.