CH168 · Rewrite
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Chapter 168: Recall

“Scram! Dirty beggar!”

The man shoved her. She did not move. It was he who staggered back two steps, his confident expression crumpling into something that looked, briefly, like fear before he turned and left without looking at her again.

She moved through the crowd in the gap his leaving had opened. People stepped away from her, frowning at her worn clothes, the state of her face. She didn’t acknowledge them. Her attention was ahead, on the inner city gate — wooden posts and flower garlands, a symbolic boundary that had no physical force. The real barrier was the two rows of armored knights flanking the passage, their eagle-winged shoulderplates catching the sunlight, their red capes draped to the ground.

The capes formed a wall of color that divided the crowd. On the far side, banners flew in organized patterns: tower and pike, the Royal Family of Graycastle, the colors of a dozen noble houses.

Today was the adulthood ceremony of Tilly Wimbledon, Fifth Princess.

She had not come for the ceremony.

Her goal was the Archbishop who had been sent to preside over it. If she could reach him here — in full view of the gathered nobles and the crowd — the Church could not bury the incident. Could not claim it had never happened, could not fold it quietly into the ordinary business of managing witches. It would be visible. It would cost them something real.

She had a knife tucked against her chest. Poor quality. It would be enough.

The crowd’s noise shifted, swelling suddenly as the royal carriage came into view — four matched horses, the family emblem carved into the lacquered sides, gold trim on the wheels, a burgee floating from the roof. She moved with the crowd into the Plaza of Dawn, positioning herself at the edge of the inner ring where the guards held ordinary people back.

The royal children descended from the carriage one by one and moved to the central platform.

She found Tilly Wimbledon without searching for her — just looked, and there she was, the way certain things organize the space around them without effort. The gray braid was simply done. The dress was not elaborate. Her eyes, moving through the crowd with the attention of someone who genuinely noticed things, stopped for one moment and met hers directly.

The princess nodded, slightly, as if to a friend.

The grip on the knife handle loosened without her deciding to loosen it.

It was not the nod. It was the feeling beneath the nod — recognition without history, warmth without reason, the specific resonance of two magic sources in proximity and in sympathy. She had felt it before in other witches, but never quite this clearly, never quite this close to what she thought home might mean if home had a frequency.

She stood and watched the ceremony without remembering to be impatient.

The guards who found her afterward were polite. She didn’t resist, which surprised them. She followed them into the inner city and into the palace, through corridors that smelled of candle wax and old stone, until they reached a small room where the Fifth Princess was waiting.

So it was like this.

An unfortunate story. You’ve eventually come to Graycastle.

Don’t worry. You won’t wander anymore. From now on you’ll stay with me.

I’ll arrange new clothes. They won’t recognize your face.

The monastery burned. Only ruins and ashes are left.

Do you have a name from before?

Then from now on your name will be Ashes.


She woke to Maggie’s face.

The small witch blinked rapidly, then wrapped her arms around Ashes’s middle with the desperate enthusiasm of someone who had been waiting for a long time and was not going to pretend otherwise.

“You finally woke up, goo!”

Ashes moved her fingers experimentally. No numbness. No weakness. She reached for the wound at her right side — or where it had been — and found only the smooth fabric of her robe.

“How long?”

“One afternoon.” Maggie pulled back enough to look at her. “Nana said you could wake up at any time. She said you’d be tired at first, but by the second waking you’d be fully recovered.”

Ashes opened her robe and looked at her abdomen.

Nothing. No scar, no bruising, no evidence that anything had ever been wrong with that section of her body. She pressed against it carefully. No pain, no sensitivity. As if the last thing she could remember before falling — the ground tilting, Maggie’s legs, Roland’s shoulder — had happened to someone else.

“How did she do it?”

Maggie hesitated. “You might not want to know.”

“Tell me.”

“They — collected the pieces. Everything that had fallen, that had scattered. Placed it back. When everything was in its place, Nana released her magic and it — grew back together.” Maggie’s expression was the expression of someone who had watched this and was still processing it. “The dirt and grass that had gotten into the wound — that was discharged as the healing progressed. Nana can distinguish between what belongs and what doesn’t.”

Ashes sat with this for a moment.

Then stood up.

She was not tired. She felt, if anything, more substantial than she had before — as if Nana’s healing had repaired something that the years of fighting had slowly ground down without her noticing. She crossed to the window. The light outside was the thin gold of late afternoon.

“Where are you going?” Maggie asked.

“To see His Royal Highness,” Ashes said, and went.

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