The hexe sloughed off the day, wriggling away the harsh light like a discarded skin. She cracked her stiff joints and paced her assigned route along the cemetery’s perimeter, noting any changes in the spiritual fields. The ley lines shimmered in the moonlight, fissuring like lightning from one grave to another.
Odd, the hexe thought, noticing a dull zone in a usually ripe field.
Fresh flowers and the residual outline of a kneeling figure hung like dew on a withered headstone, the name barely discernible. The spiritual burden, cloying and heavy, clogged the ley lines, preventing them from surging to their next landmark.
Without hexen on patrol, magic will desiccate, shriveling into the earth.
Biting the heads from the mums, she let their bitter petals steep in her mouth, congealing along her tongue. The petals tasted of regret, of selfish worry, human arrogance.
She thought about the mortal who had brought the bouquet; they’d assume a deer had eaten the offering, or that the flowers had wilted prematurely.
Let them have their rationalizations, she remembered the head mistress’s instructions in their final lessons. They do not understand the ground they walk upon.
With her last swallow, she could feel the ley lines sputter to life beneath her, sparking weakly at her feet.
As the sky reddened, she hurried back to her post, her body petrifying into its familiar pose once more. She heard the hollow thunk of iron as the groundskeeper unlocked the gates, and eyed the gargoyle warily.