The apothecary was tucked into a hollow carved from the cavern wall, its entrance curtained by a beaded veil of dried seeds, bones, and teeth that rattled softly as Bell followed Thera inside. The air was heavy with the perfume of herbs—mugwort, myrrh, patchouli, clove—thick enough to taste.
Low shelves lined the walls, brimming with glass bottles, bundles of dried plants, and rows of dark ceramic jars marked with symbols Bell didn’t recognize. A large cauldron bubbled gently in the back corner, releasing curls of pale steam that glittered faintly in the candlelight.
At the center of the room stood a wide stone slab used as a mixing table. Bell spotted mortars and pestles, copper strainers, beeswax blocks, and dozens of clay pots sealed with wax.
Nyla was already waiting for them, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hands stained with something dark and sticky. She glanced up as Bell entered, her black eyes sharp with focus.
“Today,” she said, “you learn how to fly.”
Bell blinked. “Fly?”
Thera grinned behind her. “Not with wings. With vision.”
Nyla gestured to a set of clay pots on the table, their lids already removed. A rich, musky scent rose from within, mingling with the incense already burning in the far corners of the apothecary. Bell caught notes of cinnamon, pine resin, lavender, and the sharp bite of wormwood.
“Flying ointments,” Nyla explained. “Used to cross thresholds. See what’s usually hidden. Speak with what usually keeps quiet.”
Bell stepped closer, breathing it in slowly. “What’s in it?”
“Nightshade,” Thera said softly. “Mugwort. Belladonna. Poppy. Henbane. Damiana. Fat to carry the magic through the skin. It’s not made lightly, and it’s not used carelessly.”
Nyla dipped two fingers into the dark ointment and traced a crescent over her temples. “You don’t need much. Just enough to open the gates.”
Thera handed Bell a small flask of something golden. “Honey wine. Infused with dreamroot and ash bark. Drink slowly. It’ll soften you for what’s coming.”
Bell obeyed. The wine was warm and sweet, but there was an undercurrent of bitterness, like old bark and flame. It spread through her quickly—first as a glow in her chest, then as a fuzziness in her limbs.
Nyla offered her a small clay bowl of smoldering herbs. “Breathe this. Let it pull you down.”
The incense hit Bell’s nose like a veil of smoke and memory—cool, strange, and hauntingly familiar. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her fingers tingled. The apothecary began to blur at the edges, the candlelight smearing into ribbons.
They laid her down on a soft pallet near the fire, and the witches sang low—no words, only harmony. A hum of women who had done this many times before.
Then the room vanished.
Bell drifted through a great void—not dark, but deep, as though floating in thick water that pulsed with distant light. Shapes stirred beneath her—too large to name, too slow to fear.
A forest bloomed around her feet—upside down, growing from the sky, trees of glimmering bone and leaves like liquid copper. She stood barefoot on nothing.
In the distance, a silver river wound through the trees, and seated beside it was a figure cloaked in green reeds and long strands of black waterweed. Its face was a void, and yet it watched her.
“Who are you?” Bell asked.
The figure lifted a hand, and from its palm dropped a single, black scale—gleaming with starlight. As it fell, the river rose to catch it, glowing brighter.
A voice—neither male nor female, neither near nor far—whispered in her mind like a current through stone.
"You have come farther than they know. But I have known you longer than anyone."
She staggered back. “What do you want from me?”
The river rippled, and her reflection changed—her eyes were glowing, her veins laced with light. Her voice came from the reflection’s mouth:
“The deep does not want. It needs.”
The world shook.
The trees wilted. The river drained into darkness.
And the figure rose.
Its body stretched impossibly long, its shape vast and sinuous beneath the water, a tail that coiled through the void like a forgotten current. A fish, massive beyond reason, gliding silently through nothingness.
Bell’s heart raced. Her breath caught. And yet she could not move.
The voice came again.
“When you are ready… come to me.”
She awoke with a sharp gasp, drenched in sweat, her fingers still clutching the edge of the pallet. The apothecary swam back into focus. The incense was nearly gone. Nyla knelt beside her, placing a cool cloth on her brow.
“Well,” she said softly. “You took to it quicker than I expected.”
Bell could still feel the scale in her palm.
But when she looked, her hand was empty.
Only her pulse remained, beating like a drum—slow, deep, and pulled by tides she didn’t yet understand.
Bell sat cross-legged near the low brazier in the apothecary, the heat warming her bare feet as she cradled a mug of lavender tea in her trembling hands. Her body still felt weightless, her skin humming faintly from the ointment and smoke. The world had returned, but not all the way.
Thera knelt beside her, her tone gentle. “You’re back.”
Bell nodded slowly, then swallowed hard. “I… think something spoke to me.”
Nyla raised an eyebrow as she leaned against the stone table, arms folded. “Most people don’t make contact on the first try. What did you see?”
Bell hesitated. “A forest. Upside down. Trees growing from the sky. And then… a river. A figure made of reeds and waterweed. It dropped a black scale into the river. Then it spoke to me.” She blinked. “No mouth. Just… voice in my bones.”
Thera didn’t interrupt. She listened with her full attention, her fingers absently running over the edge of Bell’s Book of Shadows, which she’d placed beside them.
Bell took a deep breath, eyes glassy. “It said it’s known me longer than anyone else. That I came farther than they know. And it said… the deep doesn’t want—it needs.”
The words hung in the air.
For a long time, no one spoke.
Then Thera opened Bell’s book and passed her the charcoal stick. “Write it down. All of it. Everything you remember.”
Bell hesitated. “Even the parts that don’t make sense?”
“Especially those,” Nyla said. “The parts you don’t understand yet are usually the most important.”
Bell bent over the book and began to write. Her handwriting was shaky but determined. She recorded the shapes, the river, the figure, the voice. The black scale. The feeling of being known—deeply, impossibly known.
When she was done, Thera gently turned the book toward herself and scanned the entry. Her brow furrowed as she tapped the word scale.
“Did it say anything else?”
Bell shook her head. “Just… ‘When you are ready, come to me.’ Then everything collapsed. I woke up.”
Nyla walked over and knelt beside them. She tapped the charcoal gently against the book.
“The black scale,” she murmured. “That’s a symbol of deep-water spirits. Old ones. Bound ones. They don’t reveal themselves easily.”
Thera nodded. “And this dream feels summoned, not accidental. The river... the voice... it sounds like you touched something sleeping beneath the lake.”
Bell looked between them. “You think it’s real?”
“I think so,” Thera said softly. “And I think it chose you.”
Nyla added, “Most witches spend years before they hear anything from the lake, if ever. You’ve been here only a couple of days.”
Thera tapped the book again. “What it said—the deep needs—that’s a plea. Or a warning.”
Bell stared at the page. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
Thera rose to her feet. “We’ll talk to the Circle. Quietly. No need to cause a stir unless this becomes urgent.”
“It already feels urgent,” Bell said quietly.
“I know,” Thera murmured. “But let’s not panic the others until we know more. For now, you keep writing. Record every dream. Every whisper. Every flicker of feeling near the lake.”
Bell nodded.
“And Bell,” Nyla added, her tone suddenly softer. “If it starts speaking to you again… don’t answer it too quickly.”
Bell blinked. “Why?”
“Because once you speak back,” Nyla said, “you’re in a conversation that may never end.”