The incinerator's glow painted Ethan's face in flickering orange as he stared at the silver pendant clutched in his palm. Its surface was etched with a celtic triskele—three interlocking spirals coiled like a serpent's tail. He'd seen similar symbols in Grampa's forbidden books: omens of ancient pacts, warnings scribbled in margins about "binding curses" and "waters that never forget."
"Ethan!" Grampa's voice shattered the silence. The old man staggered out of the shack, a half-empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a shotgun in the other. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated as if he'd been staring into the abyss. "Get inside. Now."
Ethan obeyed, slipping the pendant into his pocket. Grampa slammed the door behind them, then jammed a rusted iron poker through the handle. "They'll come for it," he muttered, pacing like a caged animal. "The mark on the boy… the pendant… they're linked. To him."
"Who?" Ethan demanded.
Grampa froze, his gaze fixing on a faded photograph nailed to the wall—a younger version of himself standing beside a river, arm slung around a dark-haired woman. "Your grandmother," he said hoarsely. "She drowned here when you were a baby. But before that… she meddled in things best left buried."
Ethan's chest tightened. His mother had never spoken of his grandmother, only said she'd "disappeared under strange circumstances."
"She found a kelpie's bridle," Grampa continued, tapping the triskele pendant. "A relic from the old days, when the Thames still breathed magic. The kelpie's curse killed her. And now it's back—because of you."
Before Ethan could respond, a deafening crash split the air. The shack's windows exploded inward, shards of glass raining down as a freezing wind howled through the room. Grampa raised the shotgun, but Ethan grabbed his arm.
"Look," he whispered.
On the floor, the pendant glowed faintly, its spirals twisting as if alive. Outside, the river roared like a wounded beast. A shadow passed over the door—the silhouette of a horse, impossibly large, with a mane tangled in reeds and algae.
Grampa cursed. "It's here for the bridle. And if it gets it…"
The door splintered under a massive impact. Ethan snatched the pendant and bolted for the back exit, Grampa hot on his heels. They stumbled into the mist-shrouded yard, the kelpie's growls echoing behind them.
"Run!" Grampa shoved Ethan toward the woods. "Head for the old mill! There's a safe place there—"
A wet, guttural scream cut him off. Ethan spun just in time to see the kelpie materialize from the river, its black hide glistening with slime, eyes glowing like embers. It reared onto its hind legs, hooves slashing the air. Grampa fired the shotgun, but the pellets bounced harmlessly off the creature's hide.
"Go!" Grampa roared, tackling the kelpie. They tumbled into the river, the water churning into a vortex.
Ethan didn't wait. He sprinted into the woods, branches clawing at his face. The pendant burned in his pocket, its heat searing his skin. Ahead, the ruins of a stone mill loomed through the fog. He ducked inside, collapsing against a moss-covered wall.
For a moment, silence. Then, a soft chuckle echoed from the shadows.
"Nicely done, Ethan Reed."
A figure stepped into the moonlight—a girl around his age, with silver hair and eyes like ice. She held a dagger etched with the same triskele symbol, its blade humming with dark energy. "I've been waiting for you to find the bridle."
Ethan backed away, heart pounding. "Who are you?"
"Call me Rowan." She twirled the dagger, her smirk razor-sharp. "And you're about to learn why the Thames never forgives trespassers."