CH157 · Rewrite
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Chapter 157: Ashes (Part 1)

The moment the figures solidified out of the darkness, Ashes knew they were witches.

She could feel it — not see it, not exactly. The magic on a person had texture, had weight, had what she could only call shape. The witch at the front of the group carried hers like a blade: focused, compressed, with a faint sting she could feel just by directing her attention at it. The woman’s name, Theo had told her, was Nightingale.

“My name is Ashes.” She set her sword against the hillside. “I’m glad to meet you, sisters.”

She opened her arms and the witches came forward one by one for the embrace — four of them on the ground, one small figure still circling high overhead, barely visible against the stars.

“Doesn’t she want to come down?” Ashes looked up.

“She’s our lookout.” Nightingale sounded amused. “I’m Nightingale.” She indicated the others: Scroll, Leaves, Echo. Then gestured upward. “And that’s Lightning.”

Ashes’s attention moved to Scroll and stayed there. The magic she felt from this one was wrong — not weak, but hidden, the way something looks when it’s behind water, or behind glass. Muffled by itself.

“An extraordinary?”

Nightingale looked at her with renewed interest. “You can see magic?”

“Feel it.” Ashes kept her voice level. “When a witch’s ability changes her body directly, the quality of the magic is different. I recognize it.” She looked at Scroll. “You must feel it the same way I do.”

Scroll nodded, and something knowing passed across her face. “It’s how I’ve found most of my companions.”

But Nightingale knew the word, Ashes noted inwardly. Not what is an extraordinary but how rare are they? The Witch Cooperation Association had their own extraordinaries, or had encountered them, or had been taught by someone who understood them. The Church treated that knowledge as contraband — extraordinaries were immune to God’s Stone suppression, which made them the Church’s highest-priority targets. For these witches to know the terminology without flinching meant they had access to information that most people in hiding never encountered.

“Roughly one in every thousand witches,” she said, answering the question. “I’ve known three, counting Scroll.”

“And the leader of the Witch Cooperation Association?” she asked. “Cara, I believe.”

“Dead.” Nightingale’s voice was even. “She died searching for the Holy Mountain.”

Ashes acknowledged this with a small sound. What she actually noted was that Nightingale had answered without grief — not coldly, but without the specific weight of personal loss. Whoever led them now, it wasn’t someone who had mourned Cara long.

“Who leads you now?”

“Come back to town first.” Nightingale’s smile was warm and genuinely uncomplicated. “You’ll see.”


They walked through Border Town like ordinary people, and that was what struck Ashes first: no hiding, no hoods, no careful avoidance of the guards they passed at corners. The witches moved through the streets with a comfort so complete it looked involuntary.

The town itself was wrong, too. Late as it was, light showed through paper-covered windows — not a single candle here and there but many, in residence after residence. And behind those lights, the murmur of children’s voices reading aloud in careful unison. Candles were not free. They were affordable enough that merchants used them, that minor households kept them for special occasions, but the working poor of any city she had ever passed through saved them. Here, they burned them for reading lessons. At night. In a border town on the edge of the Months of the Demons season.

None of the witches around her commented on it. She kept her thoughts to herself.

They reached the castle wall. Guards nodded as the group passed through the gate.

Inside: torchlit corridors, stone floors, the smell of old wood and recent fires. Modest by any court standard. And then a door opened onto a hall blazing with light, and inside it were more witches — waiting, it seemed, for her.

They applauded when she entered.

Nightingale stepped forward to make introductions, and then a woman came rushing from the back of the room with a warmth so unguarded it arrived before her name did.

“Wendy!” someone called.

Ashes felt the approach — felt the emotion on the woman’s body like heat, like joy with nothing underneath it that suggested threat — and chose not to move. A pair of arms wrapped around her.

“You survived.” The voice was shaking slightly with relief. “Thank you. For saving me.”

Ashes stood still inside the embrace. “You are—”

“Wendy.” The arms released her, and the woman stepped back just far enough to look at her face. Brown eyes, dark hair, a face that had been through some years and had come out the other side of them. “The little girl in the choir. Do you remember?”


Later, upstairs, in a bedroom with one candle and two chairs, it was only the two of them.

Ashes had not expected this. She had not expected to encounter anyone from before at all, let alone someone from that place.

“I escaped from the monastery,” Wendy said, “and settled in the Seawind region afterward. Then one day I heard — the monastery burned. All the children missing. Was that you?”

“No.” Ashes said it without elaboration. “The Church burned it. To eliminate evidence. I had already killed some of the managers and the Judges who tried to stop me by then. The scar—” She touched the line above her left eye automatically. “A member of the God’s Punishment Army gave me that. If I had waited for the next wave instead of leaving when I did, I would have died there.” She paused. “I didn’t know there were others. I didn’t look.”

Wendy was quiet for a moment. Then: “I know.”

“Were you afraid of me? That night.”

“I was afraid of everything,” Wendy said simply. “But you were the only thing moving toward the door.”

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