A Witch and her Dragon 003

 Chapter 3

    The Temple air still smelled of incense and parchment. It had been decades since Sabel last walked these corridors.

It wrapped around Sabel like old prayers—familiar, comforting. The stone beneath her feet was smooth from centuries of footfall, inscribed with the runes of protection etched by the first witches who had built its halls.

The courtyard had changed little. The same old moss crept along the walls, ivy grew unchecked between carved serpents and silver-leafed saints. The fountain still trickled with enchanted waters, said to hold glimpses of fate, though Sabel never believed it. A pair of younger witches sat beside it, giggling behind their hands. They were barely older than apprentices, all silver braids and too-bold lipstick. 

Sabel allowed herself a smile.

After days on the road and the weight of the Blade pressing into her hip like a stone, it felt… good. Good to exhale. Good to hear laughter that wasn’t immediately silenced by fear of pissing of a Lords handsy son. Even her cloak felt lighter in the Temple breeze.

“Still brooding in corridors, I see.” A voice—sweet and teasing, cut through the silence.

Sabel turned.

Isolde stood in the archway, arms crossed, a crooked smirk lifting one side of her mouth. The years had not dulled her. Her hair, always a riot of warm copper curls, was pulled into a loose braid strung with decorative glass beads. She wore her robes half-buttoned, as usual. Her carefree air belied her true power. Isolde was a sorceress not many wanted to cross. Sabel eyed the tattoos that covered her neck and chest, which matched the design of Sabel's. Sigils and wards etched in the skin, for protection and long life.`

Sabel let herself be pulled into a tight, surprisingly grounding hug. “You smell like wine and trouble,” she muttered.

“Better than blood and dragons,” Isolde shot back.

They laughed, the kind that pulled from the belly and released something tightly coiled in her chest. It was easier than she remembered to just be.

They walked the perimeter of the inner gardens, passing beneath hanging lanterns and lines of drying herbs. The Temple’s quiet hum grew louder near the sanctum—a pulse of magic just under the skin.

“It’s strange,” Sabel said softly. “I left thinking the Temple would fall without us.”

“Oh, it nearly did. Then we realized we don’t need saving, just thicker skin.”

A pause.

Then Sabel’s voice dropped. “Something’s different, though. I can’t explain it. The magic here—it hums wrong. Off pitch.”

Isolde’s smile didn’t falter, but her gaze sharpened. “You always were too sensitive, Bell.”

Sabel nodded, but the itch in her spine didn’t fade.

❧❧❧

Later, she found fresh linens, jasmine oil, and a pot of lemon tea steeping near the hearth in the guest chambers, which had been prepared for her.

A simple comfort.

But the candle beside the basin—etched with runes only a high-ranking steward would use—had been replaced. A newer marking. A faint scent underneath the wax: smoked pine and salt.

Something she hadn’t smelled since the Isles of Mist.

She stared at the flame for a long time, waiting to feel cold.

It never came.

❧❧❧

The Grand Hall of the Temple had not lost its grandeur.

Lanterns floated on invisible currents above the vaulted ceiling, casting golden light across long tables draped in saffron and wine-red silks. Crystal orbs pulsed with soft enchantments at the head of each aisle, and laughter curled like incense in the air. Music hummed beneath it all—an old string melody, ancient and bittersweet.

Sabel stood beneath the archway, hands tucked at her sides, almost reluctant to enter.

“Sister of flame,” came a voice, ringing clear through the hall. “Returned to us by mercy or fate—either way, welcome home.”

The High Witch rose at the central dais, arms spread in ceremonial welcome. Her hair was silver now, wound with threads of amethyst, but her voice held the same melodic steel. The room followed suit—witches of every rank rising from their seats with raised goblets.

“To Sabel,” the High Witch intoned, “who walked away from fire but was never forgotten in its glow.”

They drank. She bowed. It should have felt good.

She found herself seated near Isolde and two younger witches she didn’t know, their robes neat, expressions bright with awe. They asked her questions she didn’t quite answer, spoke of temple affairs she hadn’t followed in years. Her wine was spiced with cinnamon bark and something sweeter.

Everything tasted... warm.

And then—eyes.

Across the hall, seated beside the High Witch, was a man she didn’t recognize.

Not a witch—no rings or rank upon his fingers. His robes were dark, expertly cut, and pinned with a simple gold clasp marked with the Temple crest. His hair was black as crow feathers, swept back with meticulous ease. His gaze, however, was not at ease at all. It was fixed on her.

He didn’t smile. Not immediately. But when he did—it was a slow, precise curve of his mouth. Polite. Measured.

And unsettling.

Isolde nudged her. “That’s the new steward,” she whispered. “Appointed three years ago. Elias. Acts as an advisor to the High Witch now. Knows more about temple records than the records know about themselves.”

Sabel kept her expression neutral, but something in her chest tightened. He raised his glass to her from across the room.

She didn’t return the gesture.

❧❧❧

 

That night, Sabel bathed and braided her hair, letting her limbs finally relax into the soft linens of the Temple’s guest quarters. The breeze drifted in and smelled of river mist and lavender. For the first time in days, she unclasped the Ebony Blade and set it beneath her pillow, wrapping it in a protective charm before closing the curtains.

She slept.

And sometime just before dawn, a soft click echoed through the quiet room. It wasn’t loud—the sound you’d miss if you were deeper asleep.

Sabel’s eyes opened. The flame in the wall sconce flared. A shadow stood just inside the room.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Elias said quietly, the door closing behind him without a sound. “I have something I believe you should see.”

He did not move closer. Not yet.

The candlelight flickered across his face—too smooth, too calm.

The blade beneath her pillow pulsed once, faint but alive.