CH158 · Rewrite
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Chapter 158: Ashes (Part 2)

“They are the Church’s greatest weapon against us,” Ashes said. “The God’s Punishment Army. Their strength equals mine. Their speed equals mine. And they have no conscious thought left.”

She was still at the window. Outside it, Border Town was beginning its morning.

“When I fought one of them — managed to cut off his right hand — he struck at my eye with the left without a single moment’s pause.” The scar above her brow caught the light when she turned. “Not courage. Not willpower. Willpower you can feel; it changes the rhythm of a fighter. This was something else. When you lose a hand, your balance shifts. You compensate. Even the most disciplined fighter in the world compensates. He did not compensate. He moved as if the hand had never existed, as if the body didn’t register loss.”

Wendy was quiet for a moment. Then: “I’ve only heard of the Army of Judges.”

“The Judges are soldiers. The God’s Punishment Army is something the Church does to soldiers.” Ashes pressed her thumb against the windowsill. “Before the ceremony, they’re Judges — the best ones, apparently. It’s voluntary, they say. The success rate is better when the candidate consents.”

“What does that mean? Voluntary for what?”

“For whatever the transformation requires.” Ashes shook her head. “I heard this from a presiding Judge I interrogated later. He didn’t know the full process. He knew that the outcome was no longer quite a person.” A pause. “I think that’s why they don’t deploy them openly, the way they use the Judges in normal campaigns. When you lose yourself entirely, you become indistinguishable from the things we’re all afraid of.”

“You went back,” Wendy said softly. “To the Old Holy City.”

“I couldn’t let them go so easily.”

She said it without particular feeling. She had spent months hiding in wells and sewers during daylight, emerging at night to move through the believers’ quarters. She had been systematic about it. When the Church launched a citywide search, she had left — covered in blood that had dried stiff against her skin, barely recognizable as human-shaped. She had not felt monstrous. She had felt clean, in a way that nothing before or since had quite replicated.

Something touched her shoulder. Wendy’s hand, warm through the fabric.

“That time doesn’t matter anymore,” Wendy said. “Here, you can live like an ordinary person. After the Months of Demons, after the battle against Longsong’s forces — most of the townspeople have accepted us. This place, the place we searched for.” She said it simply, without theater. “It’s this.”

Ashes looked at her — really looked. The woman in front of her carried almost no trace of the girl she dimly remembered from the monastery: hollow-eyed, still, enduring. What remained was something Ashes could only call settled. As if Wendy had found the location where she belonged and had simply stayed there until it fit.

“I’m not staying,” Ashes said. “That’s not why I came.”

Wendy’s expression held.

“I came to take you away from here. All of you. To somewhere actually safe.” She kept her voice level, not persuasive — she had never been good at persuasion and knew it. “Tilly has gathered most of Graycastle’s witches. There are islands in the Fjords, difficult terrain, sparse population. The Church’s reach there is minimal. No soldiers of the God’s Punishment Army on the islands. We’re building something.”

“The Fjords also have Churches.”

“Weaker. Scattered across the archipelago, unable to coordinate. And if they sent the Army—” She didn’t finish. The witches would move island to island; the Church would follow and find nothing. You hunt the hunters the same way they hunt you.

“Wendy.” She kept her voice even. “The Association’s rumors have already reached Silver City. Which means they’ve reached the Church. They will come here. They never allow witches to organize — not anywhere on the continent. And when the God’s Punishment Army arrives, the Prince will not die for you. No secular lord in the history of this world has chosen to die for witches. He may believe his promises now. In the crisis, he will abandon you. I don’t say this to wound you. I say it because it is the pattern and the pattern does not change.”

Wendy was silent for a long time.

Then she said: “If I left the town to avoid danger — if I left him when the danger came — what would be the difference between that and what you say he’ll do to us?” She exhaled. “I don’t want to be that person.” Another breath. “And I don’t believe he’d do as you predict. Nightingale already asked him the same question. He said he would make this town a place where witches live freely as ordinary people — even if it made him the Church’s enemy.”

Ashes said nothing. She had heard promises like this from lords before; she had heard them from men who meant every word in the moment they spoke it and were gone by morning when the Church arrived. Words were not armor. Words were not swords.

But she had come here for the Witch Cooperation Association, and the Witch Cooperation Association had apparently dissolved itself into Border Town so thoroughly that extracting it would require either a compelling argument or a sword she was not yet willing to swing. She needed to understand what Roland Wimbledon had done and how he had done it.

“I want to speak with him,” she said finally. “With Roland Wimbledon.”


The office in the morning light was smaller than she remembered from Tilly’s descriptions — not modest, just functional. He was already at his desk when Nightingale brought her in. He looked, at first assessment, almost like Tilly: the same grey hair, same line of the forehead, same nose. Looking for the similarities irritated her.

He was dressed plainly. No jewelry, no rings, no display of accumulated worth. Sitting still in his chair with the particular quality of stillness that belongs to people who have learned to wait.

That’s the aura of someone who leads, she thought, and was immediately annoyed at herself for thinking it.

“Welcome,” he said. “Ashes, I’m told.”

“It was my own decision to come to Border Town.”

“A messenger by any other name,” he said pleasantly.

She caught the implication and dismissed it. “I could call myself that.”

“Good.” A small, unreadable smile. “Then, Ashbringer — I hear you’ve come to take my witches away.”

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