Morella Fenwick's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

The cracked moonstone hummed in Morella's palm all night. Green and purple light pulsed through its seams, like a word she could not hear. She held it to her ear. She pressed it to her moss-covered skin. Nothing. The gem had hung above her throne, and it knew what chained the chair down. But it would not tell her. She could not read it alone. So she sought someone who read old things for a living. Arachnia's home rose on twisted legs of wood, draped in gray web and purple blossoms. Morella climbed the stairs and knocked. The spiderfolk met her in the doorway, eight black legs folding and shifting beneath her corseted waist. Arachnia Vess collected bloodline secrets the way others collected coins, and Morella's family was a secret she had always wanted. "The drowned witch comes to me at last," Arachnia said. Her dark eyes dropped to the gem. "And she brings a gift." "I need to read it," Morella said. "It knows what holds my throne down. You know old magic. Tell me the price." Arachnia circled her, legs clicking on the floor. "The stone remembers. But its memory is sealed. To open it, I need two things you don't own." She lifted one long black strand from a hook on the wall. It shimmered green and purple, taut as wire. "A binding thread, old as the hall itself. And blood from a court that watched your bloodline fall." "Vampire blood," Morella said. "Valerian Nocturne keeps a vial of it," Arachnia said, teasing. "Your rival. He will enjoy watching you beg." Morella went to him that night. Valerian stood tall and pale in the Moonveil Sky Temple, crimson eyes bright under the great moon window. He smiled with sharp fangs when she asked. "You want my blood to raise your drowned crown." He drew a crystal vial sealed in dark wax from his coat. "I give it freely. I want to see what you dig up. A throne is only worth taking once someone proves it can be taken." He set the vial in her hand. His fingers were cold. "Owe me nothing. Owing me later will be worse." Morella carried both back to Arachnia. The spiderfolk wound the black thread around the moonstone. She broke the wax seal and let one drop of old blood fall on the gem. The thread drank the light. The humming stopped. Then the stone spoke into Morella's mind. Not words. An image. Great chains of living root bound the throne to the swamp floor. At their center sat a knot no siren could cut, a knot tied by a hand of her own blood long ago. The vision ended. Morella's throne was not sunk by accident. Her bloodline had chained it there on purpose. Someone had wanted it to stay drowned. Now she knew the lock. She did not yet know why her own people had turned the key.