Chapter 95: The vessel
The inn sat at the edge of the old quarter, half hidden between a tannery and a closed apothecary shop. Its lanterns were dim, and the sign above the door creaked with every gust of wind. Inside, the smell of ale, smoke, and damp wood hung thick in the air.
A figure in a green hood stepped through the door and paused just inside. She did not move toward the bar. Instead, she stood still, head slightly lowered, eyes scanning the corridor that led to the private rooms at the back. A drunk laughed too loudly near the hearth. A serving girl passed with a tray of cups. No one seemed to be paying attention.
Only when she was certain did the green-hooded figure move. Her boots made little sound as she walked down the corridor and stopped before the last door. She pushed it open just enough to slip inside, then shut it quickly, the latch clicking into place. The sound was too loud in the quiet.
Five figures sat around a square wooden table, their faces lost in the shadow of deep hoods. A single candle burned at the center, its flame barely lighting the room. There was one empty chair at the head of the table. She walked to it, her boot soft on the floorboards. She sat down, her back straight. She scanned the hooded shapes but saw nothing recognizable.
She reached up and pulled back her hood, letting it fall to her shoulders. Rowena’s face was pale, and her hair was tightly tied back. Her eyes still moved from one hooded figure to the next.
"I received your message," she said. Her voice was steady, but there was tension beneath it. "You said it was urgent. What do you want from me?"
For a moment, no one spoke. Then one of the figures to her right leaned forward slightly.
"The Dark Lord seeks your presence."
The words landed hard. A cold wave of fear washed through her, tightening her skin and squeezing her lungs. She stood up so abruptly that the stool scraped harshly behind her.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," she said quickly. "You’ve made a mistake."
One of the figures raised a hand in a calming gesture. "Sit, child. No harm is meant. Neither by the Dark Lord nor by us."
Rowena did not sit immediately. Her heart was pounding, her thoughts racing. Slowly, the figures raised their hoods and drew back. The candlelight fell on wrinkly faces and grey hair. Rowens’s eyes widened. She knew the three of them.
Elder Toben with his pointed nose and thin lips. Elder Hiram, his eyes sharp and intelligent under bushy brows. Elder Varon, whose beard was still mostly black. These were respected men in the council of Lycanthria, men who advised the king on trade and law. The other two were younger, strangers with hard faces and neutral expressions—messengers from Drakwyne.
Finally, slowly, Rowena lowered herself back into the chair, her back rigid.
Hiram gave her a thin smile. "It is good that we survived the attack," he said. "It allows us to continue our purpose for the Dark Lord."
Rowena stared at him. "You’re working for him," she said, disbelief creeping into her voice.
"We always have," Varon replied calmly.
Rowena leaned back slowly, as if her legs had finally remembered how to move. Her hands rested on the table, fingers tense.
"My mother," she said. "Where is she?"
Hiram’s expression sobered. "Eirene is alive. Badly injured, but alive. She is being held in captivity."
A knot in Rowena’s chest loosened just a fraction. Her mother was alive. She released a shaky breath she had not realized she was holding. Relief washed over her, brief but intense. "I need to get her out," she said immediately.
"Impossible," Toben said, shaking his head.
Hiram nodded in agreement. "The dungeon is heavily guarded. Too heavily. There is no simple way."
"There is always a way," Rowena said. Her mind was already working. "We give them a reason to let her go. We can take something they value. Maybe one of the princesses. We trade. A Royal life for my mother’s freedom."
The men exchanged glances. Not surprised looks but assessing ones.
Varon leaned forward to speak. "Your mission in Lycanthria is over, Rowena. You are needed in Drakwyne. Your destiny awaits you there."
Rowena’s jaw tightened. "I’m not leaving without my mother." Her voice was low and clear.
"You don’t understand what you are," Toben said quietly.
"Your duty is to the Dark Lord and the entire army now," said one of the messengers.
"I understand enough, but I need my mother!" Rowena snapped. "And if that means nothing to you, then I will renounce it. I will renounce my status as a vessel. I already failed the Dark Lord, didn’t I? So take my status as a vessel away. I don’t want it anymore."
The second messenger from Drakwyne spoke for the first time. His voice was sharp. "You are playing with fire, girl. You cannot renounce what is in your blood. You are a vessel for the Witch Queen’s Spirit. It leaves only when you die."
Elder Toben’s lips pressed into a thin line. "There is no turning back once the feeding has begun."
The word ’feeding’ hung heavy in the air. Rowena felt her hands begin to tremble. She locked them together on the table, squeezing until her knuckles turned white.
Hiram watched her closely. "Strega." He said quietly.
The name was a key turning in a lock. The inn room seemed to fade. She saw the older man’s face again, peeing in the alley. She smelled the blood of him. She felt the impossible, terrifying power surging up from her gut into her arms, into her hands as they closed around his throat. Not just to choke but to siphon.
"I killed him cause he spoke ill of my mother," Rowena whispered, the justification ash in her mouth. It was the reason she had given herself, but it wasn’t the truth. The truth pressed in on her.
