CH170 · Rewrite
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Chapter 170: The Gift of Revenge (Part 1)

The sun set behind the Impassable Mountain Range and the missionary group made camp on a patch of open ground beside the road.

They were disciplined about it — tents positioned quickly, the bonfire laid in the center with wood gathered before the light went, the porridge set to boil with the efficiency of soldiers who had made camp in worse conditions than this. The armor came off and the warriors stretched the fatigue from their bodies, settling around the fire with the weary patience of people who had been riding for weeks and had one more day left.

Alicia carried hot water to the Priestess’s tent.

“Thank you.” Mira dipped her towel. “Tomorrow we arrive.” The line of her shoulders eased slightly. “I won’t miss the porridge.”

“Your horsemanship,” Alicia said. “I hadn’t expected it, from a Priestess.”

“I wasn’t born a Priestess.” Mira wiped the day’s dust from her face, the motion practiced, thorough. “I was a peddler before the Church. You learn to ride quickly or you learn to walk slowly. I preferred the former.” She handed the pot back. “Wash your face. It will help.”

Alicia took the pot. Said nothing.

“You’re still thinking about what Abrams said,” Mira said. Not a question.

”…”

The God’s Punishment Army. Abrams’s brother was one of them now — had chosen to become one, had entered the ceremony voluntarily and had emerged from it no longer quite himself. When Abrams had encountered his brother in the corridor of the Hermes compound, the man had looked through him without recognition. No anger, no distance — nothing. The face of his brother wearing someone else’s absence.

“Sacrifice is necessary,” Mira said, her voice settling into the particular register she used when she was teaching rather than simply speaking. “The Church’s enemies are powerful. The God’s Punishment Army is our answer to them. Those who join it do so understanding what they give up. That sacrifice is written into the monument of glory, alongside the Church’s continued existence.” She paused. “Choose the lesser of two evils. You know the motto.”

“Choose the lesser of two evils,” Alicia said.

The weight she’d been carrying shifted. Didn’t lift entirely, but shifted — redistributed itself into something she could carry further.

She raised her right hand to her heart.

“Thank you for your guidance.”


She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep when she heard the first sound.

A heavy thing hitting earth. Then again. Then, unmistakably: the ring of a blade hitting armor, a sound that carried through the tent fabric and the camp noise and arrived in her chest as something her body recognized before her mind did.

She was already sitting up when the presiding Judge’s voice split the night: “We’re under attack!”

Then a second sound — louder, different, wrong — and the voice stopped.

Alicia rolled out of the tent with her sword in hand.

The Judge was in two pieces. Precisely in two pieces, with the mechanical specificity of a cleaving blow that had not hesitated at the breastplate or the spine. His blood had gone up before it came down. At the center of the camp, a woman in a black robe stood with a blade that was catching the firelight — not throwing it back but drinking it, the surface of the weapon too dark and too dense to reflect normally.

Gold eyes, beneath the hood.

Two Judges moved at her simultaneously. She moved through them: one sound, two sounds, the specific crunch of steel meeting bone at speed, and one was down and the other was down and there were nine of them remaining and the gap was not narrowing.

Witch!” someone shouted.

“Take the Priestess and flee.” Abrams, from behind her, his voice entirely steady. “The objective is her survival. That’s why we’re here.”

“I won’t—”

“Their deaths will mean nothing if you don’t move. She’s an extraordinary. God’s Stone won’t help us.” His jaw was set. “Take the Priestess back toward Longsong on the road. Stay visible — flag down any caravan you see.” He looked at her once, fully, the look of a man distributing what time he has left into decisions that matter. “Go.”

He turned and went toward the woman.

Alicia went toward the tent.


She pulled Mira out still reaching for her shoes, got them to the horses, changed her mind — the horses on the road would be heard — turned into the tree line instead, pulling the Priestess by the hand through undergrowth that tore at their clothes, moving by moonlight and instinct further from the fire and the sounds that were still, intermittently, happening behind them.

The sounds stopped.

She didn’t stop moving.

When they reached the foot of the mountain range, she finally slowed. The forest around them was quiet except for birds. No pursuit sounds, no footsteps. She had been counting her own breathing for the last quarter-hour and it was finally slowing to something reasonable.

“What now?” Mira asked. The Priestess’s voice was remarkably even. “Border Town is closer.”

“No.” Alicia shook her head. “The extraordinary was here, between us and Border Town, moving in that direction. It’s not coincidence.” She looked at the dark tree-line behind them. “The Lord has associated himself with witches. The direction isn’t safe.”

“That is a reasonable conclusion,” Mira said. And then her eyes went wide.

Alicia turned.

The woman in the black robe stood at the edge of the shadows. No hurry in her posture. An owl, silent, on her shoulder. The gold eyes found Alicia and held.

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