The Watchers

You crouch low in the loose scree, knees scraping stone, the borrowed lantern shuttered against your chest. The mist holds its breath with you. For a long while there is only the wind and the distant complaint of a crow.

Then — movement. A figure steps out from a seam in the rock you would have sworn wasn't there a moment ago. A fourth mouth, narrow as a wound, half-curtained by ivy. The woman is hooded, her stride too certain for someone who has merely been walking. At her hip swings a satchel, and with every step it gives a small, secret music: the unmistakable chime of coins.

She pauses. Tilts her head, as if listening. You press flatter against the stone, hardly breathing. She does not look toward you — but she does not need to. She knows the mountain. She moves on, down the switchback path toward the village.

Behind her, the fourth tunnel waits, exhaling its strange, sweet air.