The Merlinian Legacy (working title)

Chapter 3: A Riddle With No Answer

"Hey, you! Yeah, you in the Druid outfit," the prisoner called out, pointing with her foot since her hands were tightly bound by an overgrown beanstalk. It lifted her just high enough for her bare feet to dangle a few centimeters off the ground, swaying gently in the breeze.

Her long, flowing robes—once deep blue silk—were now dirtied and torn from her capture. The fabric, which had once shimmered in the light, hung limp and tattered, with wide sleeves that fell gracefully to her wrists. A plain cloth belt fastened around her waist had once held sachets and pouches, now being sorted through by a group of sentinels in their human form.

Beneath the robe, she wore loose silk pants, now crumpled and stained, and her multi-tonal-ginger hair, cut to shoulder length, was wild and tangled from her ordeal.

Despite her disheveled appearance, the prisoner held herself with quiet dignity. Her blue-flecked hazel eyes were sharp with deep wisdom, though they occasionally flickered with something more elusive—something unsettling.

"What do you want, prisoner? Can't you see we're busy with a patient?" Taran snapped, his voice tinged with impatience as he looked up from his work, dressing the wounds of the werewolf Alpha, Rhydian Wolfhart.

Taran's mind was running in a dozen directions at once—tending to the Alpha, keeping track of the Acolytes, and now dealing with the prisoner who refused to stay silent. The weight of responsibility pressed on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

"And to think the name Merlin used to command respect, once upon a—"

"Merlin?! Priest Taran, didn't you teach us that the Merlinian coven was an extinct witch coven?" Acolyte Orin interrupted, cutting the prisoner's rant short as he worked on the Vale twins' cocoons with the others.

"You are correct, Orin. Now, who can tell me approximately how long ago the majority of that coven vanished?" Taran continued, shifting his focus to the Acolytes, who were weaving roots from a nearby tree into protective cocoons with their combined magic.

"Oh, that I know all too well," the prisoner murmured, her voice softening as she waved one of her bound hands lazily, her fingers trailing in the air like she was recalling a distant memory. "1,290 years, two months, and—" Her voice faltered, and a brief shadow of sorrow crossed her face, only to vanish just as quickly.

"Didn't I tell you to shut it, prisoner?" Taran snapped, though he barely noticed the shift in her tone, too focused on maintaining control over the situation.

Just as Taran's eyes fell on the prisoner, his expression shifted to alarm as several things started happening at once—the blue flecks in the prisoner's hazel eyes flashed and shifted to amber, and she grinned, a mischievous glint crossing her features. As she winked, a loud CRACK echoed from above. A thick branch broke free from the trees and plummeted toward Taran, but at the last moment, it veered sharply toward the prisoner instead.

The branch stopped midair, floating just beneath her now steady feet, and she stepped onto it as though it were as solid as the forest floor. A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and the blue flecks returned to her eyes, as if she were simply making herself comfortable.

Taran stared at her, shaken by the unnatural display, his heart still racing. He could feel the weight of her presence, like a pressure on his chest, as if the very air around her was different—charged with something ancient and wild. A shift in the light breaking through the canopy above reminded him of the time, and he blinked, regaining his focus.

"Halfpaw, are you quite done over there?" he called to the werewolves inspecting the prisoner's belongings, his voice betraying the unease he felt. "It's a full moon tonight. You'd better hurry if you want to join your brethren before the elven protective ritual begins at the Moon Pond. Take your Alpha with you—I'm almost done dressing his wounds. Their healers might be able to do more for him," he added, forcing steadiness into his tone.

"Oh, so you have elves here too? That's great. What a relief, now I don't have to worry about that Alpha dying," the prisoner said casually, though there was an underlying sincerity in her voice that made Taran pause. Her concern for Rhydian seemed genuine, which only deepened his confusion.

Was she really trying to heal him when I pulled her out of Rhydian's shadow, like it was a body of water? How did she even get there? Is she really a long-lost member of the Merlinian coven, like she claims? Taran's mind churned with questions, each one leading to another, spiraling deeper into uncertainty. The more he tried to make sense of her, the more she unraveled in front of him, like a riddle with no answer.

"Willow, when you finish growing the transformation cocoon for the twins, send a message to the Alpha Pack. Inform them about the fight and the prisoner—ask them to send Redcloak. Maybe she can confirm this witch's identity," Taran instructed the youngest of the Acolytes.