23 The Witch's Apprentice Chapter 23

Bell was swimming in a skyless void, her body weightless, her hair drifting around her like seaweed. She opened her eyes underwater, but it didn’t feel like drowning.

Silence. Pressure. Darkness.

Before her stood a woman—tall, ethereal, with long pink hair flowing like ink, and skin pale as moonmilk. She reached for Bell, and Bell reached back.

But just before their fingertips met—

A scream tore through the water.

Bell turned, eyes wide.

The lake god rose behind her like a mountain of grief. Cloaked in green reeds, its face obscured by slithering strands of black waterweed, it opened its mouth—

Wide.
Wider.
Wider still.

Inside: nothing but blackness and a rasping howl, like wind through broken bone. The sound was a curse and a lament, filled with mourning, filled with rage. The lake god’s mouth unhinged, an endless scream.

Bell felt herself being pulled in.

The water surged toward its mouth. Her breath caught.

Her own memories frayed at the edges. Her name flickered. Her form blurred.
She was going to be devoured by it.
Erased.

Bell awoke to the crackling warmth of a fire, its amber light dancing across the wooden walls of Nyla’s cabin. The scent of cedar smoke curled lazily through the air, laced with dried lavender and the faintest trace of lakewater.

Heavy woolen blankets were piled around her. She blinked slowly, disoriented—until she caught the familiar outlines of Thera and Nyla, seated nearby.

Thera leaned forward the moment she saw Bell stir.

“Good heavens, girl,” she said, voice rough with relief. “You must have the favor of the gods. That was some boost you gave our spell.”

Bell tried to sit up, but the world spun and Nyla was instantly at her side, a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Easy now,” Nyla said. “You’re safe. You’re still here.”

“What... what happened?” Bell asked, her voice brittle as dry leaves.

“The circle held,” Nyla replied, sinking back onto her stool. Her eyes were sharp, watchful. “The cavern is protected.”

Bell let out a shaky breath and fell back against the cushions. Her skin was still damp, and the fire’s warmth hadn’t chased away the cold in her bones.

Tea was poured—dark and earthy, steeped with bergamot and yarrow. The three women sat close to the hearth, its glow painting them in shades of rust and gold. Outside the cabin, the lake lapped quietly against the distant shore, a strange calm in the aftermath of chaos.

Bell cupped the steaming mug in her hands, staring into the swirling leaves. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“It’s not over.” Thera and Nyla looked up sharply. “The god... it’s still lost,” Bell murmured. “We have to help it.”

Nyla’s eyes narrowed, not with doubt, but with the shrewdness of someone piecing together a larger puzzle.

“What did you two find?” she asked, her tone careful.

“A journal,” Bell said, looking to Thera for support.

“The journal of Isilwen, one of the first witches to ever live down here,” Thera added. “She was banished to the caverns with her coven. They carried something sacred with them. The Totem of Memories”

Nyla’s breath caught, just slightly.

“That name hasn’t been spoken in an age,” she said, voice low. “But yes… there are records, stories passed down. The Totem was once a revered relic. It produced water rich with memory—blessings of remembrance and wisdom. People would travel miles to drink from its basin. The totem would take their joy, their sorrow, and store it. What it shared was peace. Serenity. A softened truth.”

“It was worshipped,” Thera said quietly.

“And in return,” Nyla nodded, “it let those who sought it forget what wounded them. But I had no idea it was ever brought down here. Let alone… banished.”

The fire popped, and a thin wisp of smoke curled toward the ceiling.

Bell’s voice was solemn now. “I saw it—in Isilwen’s memories. Something terrible happened. Something twisted it. The memories turned poisonous. The god that guards it is not whole anymore.”

A silence fell between them.

“What could have caused the totem to be cast away like this?” Nyla asked aloud, her voice little more than a breath.

The fire gave no answer. Only the sound of the lake outside remained—endlessly lapping, endlessly remembering.

The fire had burned low, its golden light bleeding over the wood walls of the cabin in drowsy waves. The warmth of tea lingered in Bell’s hands, but her mind was far from calm. Nyla sat across from her, elbows on her knees, watching the flames as though waiting for them to reveal a secret.

Bell gripped her mug tighter. “She turned herself into a fish. Searching for it. But she never came back.”

Nyla nodded. “That’s the spell. Skin to scales. You can trade your body for that of a fish, but it only goes one way. As a fish, you’re incapable of performing magic—so you need someone on the other end ready to turn you back. And if they’re too slow… well…”

Bell looked into her tea, as if she might see Isilwen’s face floating there.

“Then we have to finish what she started.”

Nyla turned to her. “And you’re willing to become like her?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Thera cleared her throat, uneasy. “We’d never let you do this alone, girl. Not without protections. The spell Isilwen used was too raw, too old. But we can guide you through the rite properly.”

“There’s a way to do that?” Bell asked.

“There is,” said Nyla. She stood and crossed to a shelf on the far wall, pulling down a small lacquered box. “But first, you must understand the nature of the power you’re invoking.”

She opened the box slowly and unrolled a length of velvet, revealing a strange collection of objects—an old clay bowl, a shard of clear quartz, and a silver thread curled into the shape of a spiral.

“The spell of skin to scales is a form of ritual magic,” she said. “Spells cast with stones and salt, herbs and ink, oils and incantations. It draws energy from the world—precise and practiced. This is what most witches use when the stakes are high.”

She lifted the silver thread. It shimmered like moonlight in her hands.

“It’s different from the magic you use to sense emotion—or what resides in the totem,” she added, more quietly. “What the totem holds is living magic. These are spells that have taken on lives of their own. You don’t cast them. You encounter them. You survive them. And sometimes—if you’re lucky—you learn to carry them.”

Thera placed a warm hand on Bell’s shoulder. “If you bring that thing out of the lake, Bell, it may try to live inside you.”

“I know,” Bell whispered. “But I also know what it’s like to carry something heavy and not know why.”

Nyla folded the velvet shut again. “Are you ready to begin preparation, then?”

Bell looked out the cabin window. The poisoned lake shimmered faintly beneath the distorted crystal light.

“There’s no time to waste,” she murmured. “The god is screaming.”

And somewhere far below, in the deepest bend of the lake, something ancient and wounded turned its gaze toward her.