9 The Witch's Apprentice Chapter 9

The world tilted.

The river seized her.

Bell was ripped away from the bank with a jolt that knocked the breath from her lungs. The boat lurched wildly into the dark, narrow tunnel, the current yanking it forward like a summoned beast. Cold spray slapped her cheeks, and she scrambled down, pressing herself flat against the base of the boat as Elspeth’s final warning echoed in her ears.

The ceiling dropped low above her, and within moments, the walls closed in. Jagged stone flew past her face, just inches away, illuminated only by the flickering light of her rings. The tunnel was impossibly tight, carved by water and time into twisting, suffocating passageways.

The sound was deafening.

Water thundered all around her—slamming against the boat, slapping against rock, roaring through every crevice with relentless force. The air reeked of wet stone and minerals, damp moss and ancient places that had never known light. Every surface around her gleamed with moisture, and every shadow seemed to twitch, like something unseen was rushing alongside her in the dark.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a wild rhythm that matched the churning current. Her breaths came in ragged, high-pitched gasps, chest rising and falling too fast. She couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t slow it down.

And then she screamed.

It tore from her throat involuntarily, high and raw, swallowed instantly by the howling of the river. The boat scraped the walls more than once, and she felt splinters break away beneath her fingers. Her body jolted with every twist, every sudden drop. She didn’t know how long it lasted—only that time meant nothing here, in this vein of living black water.

It felt like dying.

And then—gradually—the current began to ease.

The roar softened to a hush. The air shifted.

Bell opened her eyes and peeked over the side.

The river had widened into a slow, meandering braid of water, rippling through a broad chamber of stone. The silence that followed was surreal, unnatural in its stillness. She drifted through a branching network of tunnels. The boat turned—once, twice, then again—choosing paths without her input, drawn by some unseen force.

At last, the passage opened.

Bell blinked in disbelief as her boat slipped out into a vast underground lake. The air here was warmer, heavy with the scent of mist and flowering herbs. The waters shone pale and clear, and above her, high in the ceiling of the cavern, hung a massive quartz crystal. It radiated a soft, luminous glow, catching on every ripple of the lake below and scattering light across the chamber in shimmering beams.

It hung like a sacred star. A chandelier of stone and power.

Mist drifted in gauzy veils across the water, glowing silver in the quartz’s radiance. Strange plants curled along the banks—luminous ferns, white flowers that opened toward the light—and somewhere in the distance, a melodic humming echoed faintly, like voices just out of reach.

Bell stared, too stunned to move. Her body was trembling, her mind still reeling from the journey, but a deep and unexpected peace washed over her now. Not safety—never safety—but serenity. Stillness. Magic.

She let herself fall back in the boat, eyes blinking up at the cavern ceiling.

Exhausted, damp, and shaking, she let the boat carry her the rest of the way to shore.

Bell arrived on shore with a sudden, jarring scrape—wood against stone, sharp and final. The dark little boat rode up onto the rocks with surprising force, the sound echoing in the stillness like a door snapping shut.

The air was thick with mist and the earthy tang of moss, wet stone, and smoke from distant fires. As the boat rocked to a stop, Bell sat up shakily, her limbs stiff and soaked, breath still shallow in her chest. Before she could gather her bearings, a figure stepped forward from the swirling fog—tall, cloaked in deep grey, the same silhouette that had haunted her dreams for nights.

The figure reached out a hand.

As their eyes met, the stranger pulled back her hood with a smooth motion, revealing not some terrible specter, but a woman. Middle-aged, sun-kissed, her skin a warm bronze that caught the quartz-glow above. Her eyes were brown—steady, knowing, kind—and her long dark hair was woven into thick, practical braids tied back with copper wire. There was strength in her build, the lean muscularity of someone long accustomed to heavy lifting and hard work.

She smiled wide, teeth flashing white in the cavern light.

“Come on, now,” she said, her voice familiar—the same one Bell had heard from behind the counter in Elspeth’s shop. “Up we get.”

She offered both hands, and before Bell could think to respond, she found herself being lifted bodily from the boat—placed with surprising gentleness on the stony shore. Her legs quivered beneath her, barely able to hold her weight after the terror of the river ride. The rock beneath her feet was cool, slick with mist, and the air had a strange energy to it—like thunder held in suspension. She didn’t dare take a step, afraid her knees might betray her.

“Welcome, Bell,” the woman said warmly. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

Bell blinked up at her, still dazed. Her throat was raw from screaming, her hair damp and clinging to her skin. She opened her mouth but no words came—just a thin croak of breath.

The woman laughed gently and slipped an arm around Bell’s shoulders. Her cloak smelled of lavender smoke, old herbs, and river water. She was warm—real. And Bell leaned into her before she realized she had done it, her body still vibrating with fear but starved for something solid.

“Easy,” the woman murmured. “You’re safe now.”

She guided Bell along the stony shore, her steps sure and unhurried. Ahead, just visible through the silver mist, was a small cluster of buildings pressed against the cavern wall—low, ancient-looking things built from carved stone and driftwood, moss crawling up their sides, their windows glowing with flickering orange light. The scent of woodsmoke grew stronger, mingling now with roasting herbs and something vaguely sweet.

As they passed between the buildings, Bell heard laughter, the clinking of glass, the rustle of fabric and whispered spellcraft. Turning the final corner, she was met with a sight that stilled her.

In the heart of the underground village blazed a great firepit, its flames licking high into the cavern air, casting dancing shadows across the wet stone. Smoke curled up lazily toward the unseen ceiling, vanishing into the darkness. Around the fire, women gathered—dozens of them, all ages, all shapes, all colors. Some sat on carved benches or thick rugs, others crouched near cauldrons or drifted past with bottles in hand. A few were painting runes on the stone floor. One woman laughed as a small, glowing creature darted from her sleeve into the shadows.

It was nothing like the quiet elegance of Dûrnarn’s upper districts. This place breathed wildness—a raw, untamed sort of beauty, shaped by stone and flame and time.

Bell’s eyes were wide. “Where…” Her voice cracked, ragged and uncertain. “Where exactly am I?”

The woman’s grip on her shoulder tightened slightly—not in warning, but in grounding reassurance.

“We have many names,” she said, steering them through the encampment, past cauldrons and drying herbs and arcane sigils scrawled on stone walls. “Some call us witches. Others call us traitors. But most here?” She smiled again. “We just call ourselves the Coven.”