The Sentinels yet dawn is ever the hope of men

the sentinels.
why she had not yet gone, mona would never know, but that day chose the steps that carried her toward the ruined forest where her father's grave lay. a place of spellcraft and witches — of birth, of death, of life. a decimated woodland holding the magick that should have been the witch-child's birthright. and as she stood in solemnity, overlooking the wreckage of a mayfair holdfast, the girl knew she expected only ghosts.
she stepped through the graveyard all the same, scarlet hackles bristling only slightly. it was a dead land, yes, but perhaps no harm would befall her, not if lasher's spirit stood sentinel. but it was not lasher who appeared before her — it was a spirit mona had already decided had gone to ground, and the cry that broke from her lips was all but eerie.