Morella Fenwick's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Morella knew the lock now. Living root knots held her throne to the swamp floor, tied by her own blood long ago. She had tried to burn them with her magic. She had tried to rot them. The moonstone's vision only showed the knots; it could not reach them. And she could not reach them either. The black water would drown any swamp witch who dove. She stood at the edge of the pool and stared at her own problem. Vex Scalebane found her there. He was tall and emerald-scaled, with slit gold eyes and claws that never stopped turning over some stolen thing. He had never cared about her crown. He cared about treasure and tunnels. But he kept showing up anyway. "You're going to stand here until you grow roots yourself," he said. He flicked a hard green scale between his fingers, then tossed it to her. "Old serpent scale. Hold it under your tongue. My people breathe wet places you can't. It won't last forever. Don't waste it." Morella closed her fist around the scale. "You knew I needed this." "I know things," Vex said. "That's the only reason you keep me around." A low growl came from the trees. Konstantin stepped out, huge and scarred, golden eyes fixed on the pool. The werewolf hated the black water. He hated her risking it more. He held something wrapped in cloth. "If you go down there, you go down armed," he said. He unwrapped a massive clawed hand, pale bone marked with carved runes. "My bloodline served yours. This claw carved your family's sigil. It cuts what ordinary blades won't. Including root." His jaw tightened. "I don't like this." "You never like anything," Morella said. But her voice was soft. She took the claw. It hummed with wild magic against her palm. She slid the scale under her tongue. Her throat opened. The black water stopped feeling like death. She stepped off the mossy edge and sank into the pool. Green light glowed far below. She followed it down to the drowned hall. The throne waited in the dark. Root knots gripped its legs like fists. She gripped the carved claw and struck. The bone bit deep. The roots screamed, a sound she felt in her chest, and began to split. One knot. Two. She cut until the throne broke free of the floor. The water shuddered. The knots had held something else down. A shard of broken mirror drifted up from beneath the throne, its dark surface showing a hall she did not know, and a woman walking into it. Not a reflection. Something older, waking. Morella surfaced gasping, the scale spent. She held the claw in one hand and the mirror shard in the other. The throne was loose now. But the roots had been a lid. Something her ancestors buried had come up with it, and it was looking back at her.