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Chapter 1175: Ursrook’s Letter

The shriek reached Roland before he cleared the corridor.

It rose from somewhere in the depths of the central hall — ragged, high, animal — and then cut off as abruptly as it had started.

“Kabradhabi,” Phyllis said, without breaking stride. “It broke down when we told it about Ursrook’s defeat. Tried to kill itself three times. We sedated it eventually.”

“I suddenly feel it would have been better to let it succeed,” Tilly said.

“It must live.” Phyllis said it with the flat certainty of someone who had already argued this and won. “Ursrook’s letter gives us a way into their minds — how they mastered our language, what the Union never managed to learn. That knowledge dies with it.”

“You think Kabradhabi agreed to cooperate?” Nightingale asked.

“No. It’s complicated. You’ll see.”


The interrogation stand was bolted to the center of the hall. Kabradhabi occupied it in the shape of a God’s Punishment Warrior — broad, iron-grey, bound to a metal post with a feeding tube threaded into its abdomen. Its eyelids had been propped open. Before its fixed gaze lay a sheet of paper covered in foreign characters.

“Summer’s reconstruction?” Wendy asked.

Agatha nodded from the far side of the stand. She looked hollowed out — the shadows under her eyes had deepened since Roland had last seen her. “Maggie spotted the letter in midair during the replay. If not for her, we’d have missed it entirely.”

After the battle, Roland had sent the Neverwinter Detective Group forward to gather what ordinary soldiers couldn’t: the residue of moments, the weight of decisions, the particular texture of choices made at the threshold of death. He had expected Summer to reconstruct the ambush — how Ursrook had baited Sylvie, how the counter-ambush had been laid. The letter was not something he had planned for.

He had not expected to see Ursrook at all. Yet there the demon lord had been in Summer’s replay: perched on the giant skeleton, writing in the long light of sunset, unhurried, as if composing something for posterity.

“Aaaargh—” Kabradhabi lurched against its restraints.

Agatha glanced at Breeze. A single stamp. Silence.

“Breeze is forcing it to read,” Nightingale said.

“And Ms. Camilla reads Kabradhabi’s reactions as it reads,” Celine confirmed. Her main tentacle gestured toward Camilla with something approaching tenderness. “It tried to falsify its responses, but involuntary reactions can’t be faked indefinitely. We vary the letter’s content, isolate the spikes — the method came from Your Majesty, actually.”

“From me?” Roland said.

“The intermediate biology textbook. Pavlov’s dog salivates at the bell whether the dog intends it or not. Unconditioned response applies to all creatures.” Celine’s voice carried the particular satisfaction of a theory confirmed. “We assembled Kabradhabi’s reactions into a cipher key. Ms. Camilla made the final decryption possible.”

Camilla bit her lip. “I only wanted — I hoped to help Lady Tilly.”

That was the irreducible fact of witches: every ability unique, every limitation absolute, the combination of them together capable of things no single power could accomplish alone. Perhaps witches with Camilla’s gift had existed during the first two Battles of Divine Will. Perhaps they had simply died before a Senior Demon was ever taken alive. That gap in fortune had cost the Union everything it had yearned to know.

It was, Roland suspected, exactly why Ursrook had made the extermination of witches a strategic priority. Yet the logic still puzzled him. Ashes, Sylvie, the others — were they truly more dangerous to the demons than securing Taquila? The Red Mist could flow from an Obelisk raised on those ruins. Once the demonic beasts crossed the Impassable Mountain Range, the interior of the Four Kingdoms would be open. The ancient witches and the General Staff had agreed on this: Taquila was the prize, the object around which everything else rotated.

The letter might explain why that assumption had been wrong.

“Tell me what it says,” Roland said.


Celine transmitted the deciphered content in fragments, the sentences broken into the short phrases the method required. Some passages were gaps. What remained formed a shape.

Dear Sky Lord — the final settlement is around the corner. I am well prepared, not only for the battle but for myself.

In the past month I have heard the summons numerous times. The sign is strong. I am confident I will advance in the coming battle.

I know my action will subject you to criticism, but I do not believe it will affect your plan for the Western Front.

If I succeed, our enemy will lose their only means of — and we will, once again, control the pace of the battle.

Send troops ten times what we have now, and human beings will not stand a chance.

Nevertheless, I cannot guarantee victory at this moment. If I fail —

Please treat humans as equals and annihilate them with all our strength. If necessary, we may have to abandon the Fathomless Abyss.

As long as we obtain their legacy shard, there will still be a ray of hope to crush the Sky-sea Realm.

Finally, please send my regards to the king and the Nightmare Lord.

Cold sweat gathered between Roland’s shoulder blades.

He understood now why Phyllis had come to the Administrative Office with that particular expression on her face.

Ursrook had failed. He had not killed the ambush unit. He had gotten himself killed instead. Which meant the Sky Lord would read this letter and turn to the second proposal — the one written in the conditional: if I fail.

Strip away the missing words, and the shape of the argument was unmistakable: abandon the contest with the Sky-sea Realm. Turn everything against the humans. All of it. Now.

A leaden weight settled in Roland’s chest. He had weathered bad news before — setbacks, reversals, the deaths of people he could not save. This was different. This was Ursrook reaching across his own death to change the shape of the war.

“We’ll have to suspend the development plan for the Fertile Plains,” Wendy said. Her voice was quiet, measured, the kind of quiet that contains something large. “It’s too dangerous to build residential areas outside the defensive line if the demons are dedicating everything to our extermination.”

“But what about the Red Mist?” someone asked.

“They could erect the Obelisk in Starfall City instead of Taquila.”

“Then the Mist won’t reach the whole Fertile Plains. We’d still have four hundred years before the next Battle of Divine Will. That’s nearly the same as what we projected.”

“The difference,” Roland said, “is that the demons will spend those four hundred years trying to kill every last one of us.”

The room went quiet with that.

“No.” Edith’s voice cut through. “There’s something wrong with this letter.”

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