16 The Witch's Apprentice Chapter 16

The rest of the day drifted by in a haze of silence.

While Thera and Nyla slipped away to speak quietly with the other witches, Bell remained at the village’s edge, seated cross-legged beside Lys, who moved like a shadow herself—quiet, nimble, focused. They worked together beneath the gentle light of the quartz crystal that hung like a false sun in the cavern above. It bathed the world in a soft, ethereal glow, lending even the rough stone walls a kind of sacred gentleness.

Lys’ fingers worked deftly, threading supple reeds into spiraling shapes as she murmured incantations under her breath. Each basket was more than a container—it was a spell woven into form, one to keep fruit cool, another to purify harvested roots, another to preserve dried fish as if sealed in salt.

Bell tried to follow her lead, her own fingers clumsy at first. The reeds were fragrant—wet and slightly sweet, laced with the scent of the lake. The quiet scratch of their movement across stone was the only sound for long stretches, broken only by the occasional murmur from nearby witches or the distant echo of lakewater brushing against dock posts.

It was steady work. Simple. Meditative.

And it gave Bell time to think.

Thera had said the coven summoned her—but how? Why her? There were surely hundreds of witches above, more experienced, more powerful. Was this truly fate? A coincidence? Or something deeper—something larger—reaching through dreams and tokens and water to pull her here?

She wove. She listened. She wondered.

By the time the evening meal was served, the weight of her questions pressed heavily on her chest. She ate quietly at the communal hearth, barely tasting the roasted root stew and flatbread dusted with ash salt. The scent of smoke and herbs swirled around her like a veil, blurring her focus. The witches' laughter, once so warm, felt distant.

She still felt as though she were walking within the dream—like some part of her had not returned.

Yet even through the fog, she caught the furtive glances.

Nyla, stirring the soup pot with more force than necessary. Thera, whispering to a cloaked elder at the edge of the firelight.

“Perhaps it was too soon,” she heard Nyla murmur behind her.

The words struck Bell like a pebble into still water, rippling through the unease already coiled in her chest.

That night, her dreams returned.

She found herself once more in that strange, impossible forest—upside down, trees growing from the sky, their roots trailing like hanging moss above her head. The canopy pulsed with pale green light, and schools of shimmering fish drifted lazily through the air above, swimming in slow loops like living thoughts.

Bell floated, or walked, or perhaps simply existed within the dream, weightless as smoke. Her worry from the waking world had followed her—now swimming alongside her in silver flashes.

And then, she saw it again.

The figure made of reeds and riverweed. A presence shaped from the lake’s own heart. Its face still void, still mouthless—but this time, it did not speak.

Instead, it emitted a low, persistent hum.

At first it seemed meaningless, like the drone of insects or the hum of current through stone—but the more Bell listened, the more she felt the sound burrowing into her. Not words, but understanding.

Something was wrong.

Not just with the world. With the lake. With the god beneath it. A slow sickness. A fading.

She didn’t need language to grasp it.

The lake was hurting.
And she had been brought here to help.

Bell woke groggy, her limbs heavy with the weight of dreams not yet forgotten. The chill struck her first—not the kind of cold that crept in slowly, but one that arrived, sudden and uninvited. A thin fog blanketed the village, curling along the stone floor like smoke from a hidden fire. It pressed into every corner of the hut, making the air feel damp and close, as though the lake had reached up in the night and pulled the cavern into its breath.

The smell of ash and moss hung heavy in the air, tinged with something sour and metallic—like rainwater soaked in copper. A faint humming echoed distantly, though Bell couldn’t tell if it came from within her head or from somewhere deeper in the stone.

She pushed aside the curtain, rubbing her eyes.

The hearth had gone cold. No sign of Thera or Nyla.

The central fire outside—usually the heart of morning activity—was reduced to embers, glowing faintly in the mist. The village was quiet in a way it had never been before. No laughter. No chopping. No spells whispered over tea. Just the sound of water echoing softly from the lake’s edge, a slow, lapping rhythm like something breathing in the dark.

Bell wrapped her robe tighter around her shoulders and stepped into the fog. Her bare feet whispered across damp stone as she wandered between the low huts, peering into doorways and around corners.

No one.

She felt like the last person left in the world—until she caught movement near the lake.

Down below, half-shrouded by mist and shadow, were figures—dark silhouettes standing waist-deep in the water. The quartz light above caught on bare shoulders and slick hair, turning their skin to silver. Bell squinted, heart picking up.

From this distance, details were blurred—but she could see that the women had formed a circle, gathered around a small figure kneeling in the shallows. Their bodies moved in rhythm, arms rising and falling with ritualistic grace, voices low and melodic, weaving together in a chant that seemed to slip between the mist like thread through fabric.

Bell blinked in surprise.

They were naked.

The fog clung to them like thin gauze, giving the moment a dreamlike, almost holy quality—neither fully real nor fully unreal. Their song was soft but layered, echoing in places the ear couldn’t reach, resonating more in the bones than in the mind. The lake lapped at their feet, quiet and reverent.

The figure in the center sat unmoving, her hands resting on her knees, palms open to the sky. A cluster of small black stones had been placed in a ring around her. Bell could just make out sigils drawn in white clay on the figure’s arms and chest—symbols that pulsed faintly each time the women’s voices harmonized.

Bell stood frozen at the edge of the path, unsure whether to step closer or turn away. She didn’t dare speak. The air was too thick with something sacred.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t for her.
Not yet.

So she remained hidden behind a crag of stone, the mist wrapping around her legs, the chant wrapping around her thoughts, and the lake—silent and watching—stretching out before them all.

When the ritual ended, the spell of stillness seemed to lift.

The chanting faded into silence, and the women moved slowly up the bank, their bare feet silent against the wet stones. The mist clung to their skin like silver gauze, trailing behind them as if reluctant to let them go. One by one, they reached for the soft bundles of clothing that lay folded and waiting on the rocks—robes of dark wool, moss-dyed linen, shawls heavy with dew.

Bell watched from her perch above, the scent of damp earth and crushed river reed drifting upward with the morning fog. Somewhere nearby, the faint hiss of fire being rekindled reached her ears, along with the distant bubbling of something cooking—herbs, perhaps, or bone broth thick with root vegetables.

Thera was the first to spot her.

Still wringing water from her braids, she lifted a hand high and gave Bell a broad, easy wave. Her grin broke through the lingering sacred hush like sunlight through mist.

“Breakfast’ll be ready soon!” she called, her voice bright.

Bell remained where she was, robe drawn close against the chill. Her eyes lingered on the last woman wading from the lake, a streak of clay still trailing down her shoulder, a half-glowing rune fading from her back.

When Thera finally reached her, now fully clothed and drying her hands on the edge of her sleeve, Bell tilted her head, curiosity outweighing her hesitation.

“What were you all doing?” she asked, voice low.

Thera smiled, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Speaking to the lake god,” she said simply. “Trying to find out more about that dream of yours, little river girl.”

Bell felt something unclench in her chest at those words—a quiet relief that she hadn’t been left to carry the weight of the vision alone.

She walked beside Thera as the two of them followed the winding path back toward the heart of the village, where curls of woodsmoke now reached upward like slow-moving hands.

“What did it say?” Bell asked.

Thera’s smile faded into thought. She glanced at the fog-covered water behind them.

“It’s quiet, for now,” she said softly. “Quieter than it should be.”

They walked in silence for a moment, boots brushing over damp stone, the air filled with the scent of thyme and charred oak from the firepit ahead.

“It seems to be weakened by something,” Thera continued. “The connection is thin. Faded. Like trying to speak through glass.”

Her brow furrowed, and Bell could see the weight of thought behind her eyes, the way her fingers flexed unconsciously, as if trying to feel some invisible current slipping away.

“We’ll need to do a survey of the ley lines,” Thera murmured. “Check for fractures, displaced flow, corrupted points. If the god is fading, it means something is starving it—something is drawing the power away.”

Bell’s pulse quickened at the mention of the ley lines. She didn’t know much about them yet, but the phrase echoed through her with a strange familiarity. Like a thread tugging her gently downward.

Thera shook her head, expression clearing with a quiet resolve. “It’s not unprecedented. The lake has weathered many things. So have we. We’ve come through disruption before, and we’ll come through this.”

Bell looked at her then, heart still thudding with uncertainty, but comforted by the certainty in Thera’s tone. She hadn’t been pulled into this mystery alone. She had hands to guide her, voices beside her. Eyes that watched the same stars.

The mist still drifted through the village, but the fire ahead burned warm and golden, casting long shadows across the cavern floor.