Tilly Wimbledon's mourning was intense, tearing, but obligatorily brief. She didn't have the mundane luxury of time to drown in tears or wear mourning black for weeks on end, as the court ladies in the capital would do. As the Fifth Princess of Graycastle, living in the epicenter of a nest of aristocratic vipers, she had learned from a very young age that prolonged sadness was a lethal weakness in politics; and, much more importantly than that, as the hidden leader and founder of a witch rescue network, hesitation would cost much more than her own pride.
It would cost the lives of dozens of her sisters who trusted her blindly.
Slowly, her breath still trembling, she moved her hands away from her face. Ashes, the grayish-haired warrior who still remained kneeling by her side with canine devotion, offered her a clean linen handkerchief embroidered with the royal family's crest.
Tilly accepted it in silence, wiping the moisture from her pale face and composing her majestic posture, forcing her spine to straighten in the heavy mahogany chair. Her gray eyes, which seconds before were tear-filled and absurdly vulnerable, now shone with a calculating, sharp, and almost inhuman coldness.
Her peculiar magic—"Innate Intelligence", an absurdly accelerated cognitive, analytical, and large-scale photographic memory capacity—activated at its maximum capacity.
It was as if the gears of a colossal clock began to turn inside her mind. The world around her seemed to slow down as her brain mapped out escape routes, evaluated logistical variables, calculated cavalry speeds, and measured survival probabilities in fractions of a second.
The map of the continent spread out on the office wall wasn't just a drawing to her; it was a three-dimensional chessboard. Silver City, the "City of Silver," was a valuable, rich, and resource-filled commercial hub, but strategically, it had just turned into a death trap with its doors closing. It was the closest large city to King's City. With the death of Wimbledon III and Timothy's usurping and militarized ascension, the countdown had begun.
The capital's elite troops, the Knights of Judgment, or worse, the bloodhounds of the Church of Hermes' Inquisition could reach the gates of Silver City in a matter of two or three days of forced riding.
Their mission would be to "peacefully" escort her back to the royal slaughterhouse so she would bend the knee before her murderous brother.
Staying and trying to fortify the city was not an option; the local nobles would betray her at Timothy's first offer of gold. Negotiating peace agreements was pure suicide.
Tilly's mind flew over the craggy mountains, the fertile plains dominated by feudal lords, and the merchant ports, frantically searching for the only safe haven in the known world that could shelter an army of witches without attracting the kingdom's cannons.
— "We are going to the sea." — declared Tilly, her voice suddenly firm, completely devoid of the tremor from minutes ago.
Ashes leapt to her feet, the sound of her leather armor creaking.
She rested her heavy hand on the pommel of her sword, the fury from her Princess's mourning channeled into a readiness to follow any order, however bloody it might be.
— "We have money in the mansion's coffers to charter three merchant galleons tonight, if we bribe the right captains." — Ashes confirmed, her military mind following the reasoning. — "But to where, Your Highness? The Port of Clearwater in the south is the domain of your sister Garcia, and she would use us as cannon fodder in the war against Timothy."
— "We will not go south, much less to the west." — Tilly stood up from the desk, walking slowly to the large map hanging on the wall. She raised a pale finger and pointed to the edge of the parchment, pushing into the unknown and hostile waters of the wild ocean. — "We are going to Sleeping Island. Right in the heart of the Fjord Islands region."
Ashes frowned, surprised by the boldness of that destination.
The Fjords were not lands for nobles accustomed to luxury; they were brutal rocks inhabited by hardened sailors, mad explorers, and creatures of the deep.
— "Sleeping Island..." — Tilly murmured, her gray eyes focused on the tiny dot of ink on the map. — "Timothy has the largest land army on the continent and holds the loyalty of the best-trained Knights. However, Graycastle's maritime fleet is pathetically weak and disorganized. The Fjords are neutral territories, politically fragmented and extremely dangerous for heavy warships that do not know the currents. Sleeping Island is inhospitable, infertile, and terrible for the common nobility and traditional agriculture; no army would waste time trying to conquer it."
The Princess turned to the warrior, a glint of fierce defiance replacing the tears.
— "But with the combined magic of our sisters, we can transform that dead rock into the only untouchable sanctuary in the world. Far from the pyres and the torture of the Church, and a thousand leagues away from the bloodthirsty madness of Graycastle. There, we will not be hunted. We will be masters of our own destiny."
Ashes nodded slowly, the tactical genius of the plan seeping into her mind. A predatory and fierce smile appeared on her lips.
— "A whole island just for us. A kingdom of witches surrounded by treacherous waters. It is an absolutely perfect plan, Tilly." — Ashes beat her fist against her armored chest. — "But the logistics will be a nightmare. We need time to buy supplies, charter the ships at the old docks, and board all the dozens of sisters we've rescued over the months without raising the suspicions of the city guard and the port spies. When your brother's dogs arrive here and realize you haven't responded to the summons, they will close the port and come after us with everything they have."
— "And that is exactly why they will not realize it immediately." — Tilly walked back to the desk, her plan architected in all its sordid and painful details. — "We will need to forge a substantial delay. Timothy will send an advance cavalry to 'escort' my entourage tomorrow or, at the latest, the day after. We need them to find this mansion seemingly empty, silent, but not sacked or turned upside down, so they waste time investigating what happened instead of galloping straight to the docks."
Tilly stared at the oak door where Edgar, the elderly and kind butler, had exited minutes before. An uncomfortable weight, a taste of bitter lead, settled mercilessly at the bottom of her stomach.
The cost of leadership was invariably the loss of one's own moral innocence.
— "Ashes..." — the Princess began, her voice dropping to a tense whisper, guilt lightly coloring her words, making her look away toward the inkwell. — "We will have to neutralize Edgar, the stable master, and all the civilian maids in the mansion."
Ashes frowned deeply, confusion stamped on her hardened face. The Extraordinary warrior had no qualms about bathing in the blood of enemies, mercenaries, or Church guards, but civilians?
— "Kill them? Slaughter the servants, Your Highness?" — Ashes asked, her hand slipping down from her sword, uncomfortable. — "They... They don't know our secret. They served well."
— "No! By the gods, never!" — Tilly shook her head vehemently, horrified by the mere suggestion of that bloodlust. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her mind cold and detached from her heart. — "They have been immensely loyal to me. Edgar looked after my food and security in this city better than the Royal Knights, but it is exactly because they are innocent civilians that I cannot trust them to resist the cruel interrogations or the brutal torture in the dungeons of Timothy's Royal Guard. If they remain free and are captured, they will tell them we went to the port. Pain breaks any oath."
Tilly walked around the table, approaching her friend and warrior, her gray eyes pleading for understanding regarding the vile action they would have to take.
— "I need you and the most discreet combat witches to kidnap them tonight. In the middle of the night, subdue all of them while they are sleeping, without seriously hurting them. Gag them, tie them firmly with hemp ropes, and lock them in the deepest levels of the south cellar basements, behind the heavy iron door."
The Princess swallowed the lump in her throat. — "Leave sacks of dry bread, smoked meat, and enough barrels of water for a whole week in the dark. They will be locked up under the terror of your brute force until Timothy's Royal Guard searches the entire mansion, goes down to the basements, and finds them a few days from now. When they tell the guards they were attacked by hooded robbers in the middle of the night and didn't see where we went, they will be telling the pure truth. We will save their lives by taking away their freedom."
It was a draconian measure, drastic and deeply cruel to servants who owed them nothing but loyal service.
Tilly felt dirty, felt like the worst kind of tyrant for treating them as prisoners in her own home, but the moral balance of a ruler of witches was ruthless. The temporary discomfort, cold, and fear of Edgar and the maids in the dark basement would buy the three precious days of advantage that the witches' ship urgently needed to weigh anchor and disappear forever into the oceanic mists of the Fjords.
It was the only viable logistical option that preserved lives on both sides.
— "Consider it done, Your Highness. I will be quick and silent." — Ashes tapped her chest again, her eyes shining with unconditional loyalty, accepting the burden of sin for her Princess. — "No one will leave this mansion to warn the new king's crows. Before dawn, Silver City will no longer have a Princess to rule it."
Tilly did not answer immediately. She walked back to the table and looked once more at the official letter irreparably stained with her own tears. The innocent girl who loved her enigmatic father, who spent her afternoons reading history in the gardens of Graycastle, had died in that sumptuous office.
In her place, the ruthless and astute ruler of Sleeping Island had just been born from the ashes of mourning.
.
.
.
Meanwhile, thousands and thousands of kilometers west of the feverish political agitation and the conspiracies of the capital and the continent, the icy wind of the Impassable Mountain Range beat relentlessly against Prince Roland's thick bear-fur-lined coats.
Border Town was bathed in the faint and diffuse light of the pale winter morning sun.
The relentless fury of the Months of Demons, which historically lasted long months of uninterrupted terror, seemed, miraculously and statistically inexplicably, to be losing its strength much earlier than expected.
Roland walked along the upper walkway of his proud creation: the solid cement wall. He inspected the defenses on a morning patrol, accompanied by a small contingent of militiamen marching behind him with raised spears, their steps sounding heavy on the polished stone floor.
Below the imposing wall, the plain of the snowy field was macabre, dotted by countless craters blackened by gunpowder and large black stains of dried blood and frozen carcasses—a mute testimony to the carnage of the past weeks—but the horizon beyond the wooden stakes was wonderfully empty.
There were no chilling howls cutting through the wind, no dark and bestial masses writhing and drooling at the obscure edge of the forest.
Roland stopped near one of the wooden watchposts, where Svend, one of the newly promoted veteran warriors now proudly wearing an armband of dyed leather that marked him as part of William's personal elite, was on guard.
— "How is the visual movement today, soldier?" — asked Roland in a friendly tone, his gloved hands resting on the incredibly cold cement parapet.
Svend turned immediately, clicked his heels, and executed a salute with impeccable military precision.
— "Long live Your Highness! Report of absolute calm, sir. Over the past two or three days, the number of beasts has plummeted drastically. It's almost as if the source of the evil miasma high up in the mountain has simply retreated or run dry. We've only seen a few measly stray boars that ran past from afar and didn't even try to advance against the spear trench; our muskets have been cold since yesterday."
Roland smiled broadly, steam escaping his lips. The relief was thick and palpable, and his sleepless nights had been worth it.
— "That is excellent, Svend." — Roland tapped the cement of the wall. — "The wall designed by me and erected by the sweat of Karl and the militia has proven to be truly unbreakable; the worst is definitely over."
Svend, however, shook his head slowly, with a rustic smile laden with a reverence that was not directed at the engineering of the cement wall.
He extended his arm and pointed with the sharp tip of his spear to the vast snowy plain down below, specifically to a huge black-stained crater far beyond the stakes—the exact spot where Commander William had descended with ropes and single-handedly slaughtered a colossal hybrid bear and a corrupted buffalo weeks ago.
— "With all due respect to your genius, Your Highness, the wall is indeed formidable and saved our families..." — began Svend, the militiaman's eyes shining with a feverish and undeniable fanaticism. — "But the most experienced rangers and scouts, like Iron Axe himself, think the real reason for the beasts' retreat is something quite different."
— "And what would that reason be, in your military opinion?" — Roland narrowed his eyes slightly.
— "The beasts are dumb, irrational, and guided by chaos, yes, Your Highness; but even the vilest monsters have an animal survival instinct ingrained in their bones." — explained Svend, his voice thick with pure warrior pride. — "They smell the visceral scent of the slaughter. Commander William's destructive aura still remains heavily impregnated on this bloody plain. The brutal massacre he committed out there alone, grinding the bones of one-ton beasts with his bare fists... That is terrifying the lesser beasts down to the root of their souls. Their predatory instinct warns them that this place holds a bigger monster, and they simply do not dare to challenge our Lord Commander's hunting ground."
Roland's friendly and royal smile didn't waver a millimeter on his face, but his jaw muscles went rigid under his skin.
— "A very interesting theory. The Commander has indeed been a tirelessly valuable sword for Border Town, without a doubt." — Roland nodded in feigned agreement, patting Svend's shoulder. — "Keep up your excellent surveillance work, Svend. Do not lower your guard."
As soon as Roland walked a few meters away from the watchpost and was out of the militia's earshot, his cordial smile disappeared as fast as snow melting on embers, being entirely replaced by a dark, cold, and dangerously thoughtful expression.
The Prince walked in absolute silence back to the stone stair tower, leaving the escort a few steps behind.
Mentally, he couldn't—and wouldn't try to—deny that he was immensely and genuinely happy, as well as relieved, to have made it through the terrible and legendary Months of Demons so masterfully and peacefully. It was an unprecedented victory that none of his noble predecessors in Border Town had ever come close to achieving. Civilian casualties were statistically nil, and the town hadn't just survived; it had thrived under the fury of the blizzard.
However, the militiaman Svend's proud words wouldn't stop echoing and hammering in the back of his strategic mind like an uncomfortable and frightening military warning bell.
*Our Lord Commander's hunting ground.*
The disproportionate influence the outsider William was gaining in the muddy streets and courtyards of Border Town was rapidly exceeding the normal and healthy limits of mere military gratitude or respect for a hero.
It was actively turning into a religious and deeply concerning cult of personality.
Roland began to see the cracks in his own reign.
The army wasn't just formally loyal to Roland as their food provider and blue-blooded sovereign; the militia was, in fact, in the trenches and in their hearts, idolizing William as an incarnate demigod of war. And Roland was a smart engineer, but above all, a student of the harsh human history of his previous world—enough to know an indisputable golden rule that governed all nations: he who holds unconditional control of the army and the swords, holds the true and absolute power of the State.
Kings fell easily when generals were loved by the troops.
His solitary hegemony was being devoured, little by little. His astute royal decrees, his industrial plans, and even the unbreakable cement itself that he had idealized on the drawing board were being overshadowed by the absurdly charismatic blood and brutality of an invincible outsider who fought in the mud alongside the commoners.
More and more recruits, in informal ceremonies that escaped the Prince's control, swore direct, lifelong, and personal loyalty to William, exactly as Erik and his squad had openly done in the training courtyard. If the order was given, Roland knew the bitter truth: those men would die for William without hesitation, before accepting to die for a Prince who commanded from a heated office.
The pieces on the political chessboard of the small, snowy Border Town were moving dangerously and silently out of his reach.
Arthur held the unquestionable logic of logistics, the control of numbers, infrastructure, and a political intelligence that made Barov look like a senile apprentice.
William held unparalleled brute force, the feverish hearts, and the sharp spears of the men.
What if those two outsiders—who not only possessed everyone's loyalty but had also demonstrated possessing frightening and incomprehensible magical abilities—woke up one day, drank some bad wine, and decided, in a quick chat, that the Fourth Prince of Graycastle was an administrative hindrance to the town's growth?
The conclusion was spine-chilling: Roland would be deposed, chained, or silently decapitated in less than a winter's day, without the very militia he fed caring to lift a single finger, a single musket, to defend him.
They would probably applaud the new rulers.
The incredibly cold north wind blew against Roland's face, making the flap of his fur cloak flutter, but the icy and paralyzing chill that ran down his entire spine definitely didn't come from the mountain snow; it came from the primal fear of losing control.
He urgently needed to secure his supreme and unquestionable authority as the monarch of the new world.
He needed to balance the scales of military and mystical power that tilted aggressively to William's and Arthur's side, before the brutal gears of that new and accelerated industrial era he had helped create crushed him like a mere obsolete pawn in their history.
Roland clenched both fists with extreme force inside his furry gloves, his gray eyes focused on the tall, gray stone towers of his own castle in the distance. He needed to take definitive action regarding the dichotomy of William and Arthur, and he needed to be insidiously meticulous not to trigger a civil war in his own backyard.
The winter against the beasts was ending, but the real war for the throne of Border Town was just beginning.
And Roland Wimbledon wasn't going to lose.