CH316 · Rewrite
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Chapter 316: Re-exploration of the Stone Tower

The moment His Highness left the hall, Lightning seized Maggie by the wrist and dragged her into the corner.

“Goo?”

Maggie’s white hair fell nearly to the floor, so that when she moved she looked less like a person than a sheet thrown over a ghost. She’d pushed the curtain of it aside just enough to reveal her puffed cheeks—and the crisp pork chop still dangling, half-swallowed, from her mouth.

“I found a place,” Lightning said, keeping her voice low. “Inside the Concealing Forest. Hidden. I’m going tomorrow to explore it—will you come?”

Maggie swallowed. “I want, I want!” She nodded rapidly. “What do we need to bring?”

“Three things—” Lightning caught herself. She’d been spending too much time around His Highness; his phrasing kept bleeding into hers. “The three essentials. A flint, dry food, a dagger. The place isn’t far. A day’s rations is plenty. And don’t fill your whole pack with food like last time.”

“Okay goo,” Maggie said, patting her chest. She turned to go back to the table.

“Maggie.” Lightning caught her arm. “This is our secret. Don’t tell anyone.”

She watched Maggie’s retreating back—the hurried shuffle toward the food—and curled her lip. Tomorrow, she thought. We leave at first light.


It was not simply about a place inside a forest.

The bombing run had gone well. His Highness had said so himself. But since that flight—since the moment she had hit her top speed over unfamiliar terrain with the feeling of something behind her that wasn’t there—her flying had changed. A hesitation lived in it now. Something in her body that had not been there before, flinching before she’d even decided to flinch.

Fear, she recognized. And she recognized the shape of it precisely because her father had named it for her years ago: fear of the unknown.

The Stone Tower. She had been inside it—she had heard the voice, seen the shape in the basement doorway—and she had fled without thinking, the way prey fled, and she had hated herself for it all the way home. An explorer who could only be brave surrounded by an army wasn’t an explorer. She was just a passenger.

Fear is not terrible. The terrible thing is the unknown. To overcome it, you must approach it first.

She repeated her father’s words until they felt like walls she could lean against. Tomorrow she might find real danger waiting in that basement. She was going anyway—just the two of them, her and Maggie—not because it was safer than waiting for the First Army’s scheduled expedition, but because it wouldn’t mean anything if it were safe. If she could only face the Stone Tower with a hundred soldiers at her back, she would never know whether she had actually conquered the fear or merely buried it.

His Highness would probably confiscate her ice cream. Her sisters would worry. She had decided to accept both consequences.

She was the daughter of Thunder, the greatest explorer the Fjords had ever produced. She refused to be anything less.


Still, she was not reckless. She made careful inventory: the revolver His Highness had given her, the honeyed meat wrapped in cloth, torches, water-skins. She had a far better understanding of the Devils now than she’d had on the first trip. And she had Maggie—who could not take her demonic beast’s form against an active enemy, but who could fly, and two people who could each fly independently were not easily cornered.

An explorer doesn’t need a brigade for courage, she thought, but she can still have a trusted partner.


Before first light, she climbed to the top of the castle. Maggie was already sitting on the parapet, waiting, her pack open in her lap for inspection. The food had been cut to half—but the flint was there, and the dagger.

“Qualified,” Lightning announced. “Let’s go.”

They rose into the grey morning air, a girl and a pigeon angling northeast toward the wall of dark trees.


She had flown the route so many times in her mind that the real thing felt redundant—a rehearsal she was already past. The overcast sky was gentler than the storm that had shadowed her first approach. Still, as the forest rose up beneath them and the shape of the tower’s broken crown emerged through the branches, a coldness settled in her chest that had nothing to do with altitude.

“Is it an eagle nest?” Maggie asked from just above her head. “You said it was more interesting than an eagle nest.”

“It’s a ruin. More than four hundred years old.” Lightning kept her eyes on the tower. “A stone tower. There might be ancient books inside—bring one back to His Highness and he’ll give you a whole basket of eggs. Steamed or boiled, whatever you want. Three a day for weeks.”

The pigeon perked up instantly. “Really? Then we must hurry—googoo!


By midday they were circling the tower.

It looked unchanged—moss on the stones, vines reclaiming the mortar, the surrounding forest quiet. Lightning made three low passes before she trusted her own eyes and set down in the clearing. Maggie landed on a branch overhead.

“Hush,” Lightning said sharply, before Maggie could speak. In the silence of the trees, a voice carried far. “There could be Devils inside. Climb to the top of the tower and wait. I’ll check first.”

Maggie’s tail shot upright.

Lightning moved across the dead grass alone, revolver in hand, until she stood at the tower entrance. The cluster of vines she had cut last time still hung there, withered now. She stepped over it and followed the interior wall to the passage descending into darkness. When the stairwell opened before her and the cold rose from below, she heard her own heartbeat.

Fear is not terrible.

She lit a torch. She went down.


At the corner of the passage she stopped and looked.

The basement door—what remained of it—hung in splinters. No shadow blocked the threshold. Only darkness, deep and still, like a held breath.

And then: barely audible, eerily familiar in its cadence—

A voice.

Every hair on her body stood. Her legs, of their own accord, shifted her weight backward. The urge to run was so immediate and complete that she had to consciously override it muscle by muscle—grip the wall, plant the foot, stay.

She bent toward the sound and listened again.

“Help me…”

The interval. The tone. Exactly as before, months ago. Unchanged—as though whatever spoke it had been saying it in the same breath the whole time she’d been away.

Lightning pressed her back to the wall and did not move.

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