CH326 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 326: Contact

“Is this where you landed last time?” Tilly asked, looking at the tall rocky cliff rising before them.

From the moment they’d first sighted the coastline, the Charming Beauty had followed it westward until Ashes called for them to stop. The beach here was narrower than Tilly had pictured—rockier, hemmed in at both sides, the cliff face sheer and wind-scarred above it.

“Look up there,” Ashes said, pointing toward the peak.

Two orange flags, one on each side of the summit, snapped against the grey. Small from this distance, but unmistakable.

“Those flags weren’t there before, but they confirm we haven’t gone wrong,” Ashes said. “Someone marked it for us.”

“Last time you came, they used a large balloon to carry the women over the mountain,” Jack said, pipe as always in the corner of his mouth. “How are you planning to manage it without one?”

“A large balloon?” Tilly looked at Ashes.

“It flies when filled with hot air.” Ashes nodded. “One of His Highness’s inventions, apparently. The heat carries it up.”

Tilly frowned slightly at the snow-covered peak. “The court tutors never taught us anything like that.” She blew out a breath—white in the cold air—and straightened. “No matter. I’ll understand it when I see it. Let’s go ashore.”

“You’re certain you don’t want to wait aboard until he sends someone?” Jack asked, knocking ash from his pipe into the water.

“Shavi will manage it,” Tilly said, and smiled.

The Charming Beauty couldn’t approach the shore—no one knew the depth of the seabed close in—so they rowed to the sandbar in the landing boat and climbed out into snow that reached their ankles. Cold came up through their boots immediately, through the thin soles, the kind of cold that feels deliberate.

Tilly turned back toward the ship. “Mr. Captain—please wait here another three or four days. Lotus and the others will need passage back to Sleeping Island.”

“Of course,” Jack said immediately. “Without you witches on board, I wouldn’t dare try the return voyage. Who knows if those Sea Ghosts will come at us again.”

At the cliff’s base, Tilly channeled magic into the flying stone and rose alone to the summit to survey what lay beyond. The ground on the far side was considerably higher than the beach—nearly level with the peak itself. Only ascent required; no matching descent on the other side. The cliff stood roughly fifty paces. Shavi’s barrier cost more against solid objects than open air, but fifty paces was within her range, and she had rested well these past two days.

Tilly drifted back down beside the others. “Shavi, I’ll need you to take the three of them up.”

“Yes, Lady Tilly.” Shavi patted her chest and grinned, then summoned the barrier—a platform of almost-nothing, a faint optical distortion against the grey sky, the kind of thing the eye keeps trying to resolve into something solid. One by one they stepped onto it, and Shavi began to push.

The cliff descended below them slowly, wind cutting harder as they rose. At the summit, the barrier settled onto firm ground, and the wide snowfield beyond the mountain stretched out in all directions—grey-white, unmarked, rolling toward a dark line of trees far to the east.

With Ashes leading, they spent half a day crossing the terrain to Border Town.


The first thing Tilly saw was the bridge.

It spanned the river in a single great arc, two piers at the base, and nothing else asking to be noticed. Its iron beams were arranged with the logic of something designed for function and nothing beyond it—no ornamental weight, no patterns carved into the joins. Snow had settled along the upper deck in a white line, and against the exposed black iron below it the contrast was stark and somehow formal, like a document sealed in two colors.

“This bridge is enormous,” Breeze said softly. “How many iron ingots did it take?”

“A waste of materials,” Ashes said. “A pontoon bridge would have solved the traffic problem just as well. What’s the point of building it so high? Border Town sits at the end of the merchant routes—no fleet is going to sail upriver.”

“That,” Andrea said, raising one elegant finger, “is the opinion of someone with only superficial foresight.” She had the tone of a person delivering a lecture she has been waiting to deliver. “I am not a citizen of Graycastle, and even I can see that the western forest has value for future settlement. There is no town there now. That doesn’t mean there won’t be. When the territory expands westward, a pontoon bridge becomes a hindrance. Lady Tilly’s brother thinks further ahead than you do.”

Ashes raised an eyebrow. “Previously you called him a vulgar nobleman who loved barbaric cooking. Now he’s ‘Lady Tilly’s brother.’”

“The words ‘vulgar nobleman’ were contributed by you,” Andrea said, with the precise dignity of someone who has been misquoted before. “And thinking long-term doesn’t conflict with having a crude palate. Don’t stir up enmity in front of Lady Tilly.”

Tilly had stopped listening.

The snow was still falling. The temperature was something close to deep winter. In King’s City on a day like this, the streets would have been nearly empty—everyone indoors, rationing warmth, moving only for what couldn’t wait. Even the hardened kept their cold-season activity to a minimum; illness was expensive and cold was expensive and the sensible response to both was stillness.

But on the riverside below the bridge, there were people working.

Not a few. Dozens—pushing carts, hauling sacks across their backs, moving between tasks in patterns that suggested coordination without supervision. She looked for an overseer with a whip, or even a foreman standing apart from the rest. There was no one. They were simply moving, purposefully, in the cold, as though this were ordinary.

She could not account for it.


They were stopped at the bridge by two guards carrying weapons she didn’t recognize—long and angular, unlike any spear she knew—and wearing uniform clothing that actually fit them. Their bearing was different from the city patrols she’d grown up watching: no performance of authority, no suppressed boredom, no private commerce of who they were and what they could be bribed to overlook.

One of them studied the group for a moment, then asked: “Why have you come from the south? Wait—are you… witches?”

The question landed cleanly, without any of the usual weight that word carried. Tilly knew that witches lived openly here. She had known it before she arrived. But knowing it and hearing it spoken in the matter-of-fact tone of a man doing his job—the same tone he might use to ask if you’d come from the market—were different things. Something passed through her chest that she didn’t immediately name.

“Yes,” she said. “We are witches.”

“Then you’ll want to join the Witch Alliance.” He relaxed slightly, almost smiled. “Please wait here—I’ll go report this.”

“Wait—” Ashes started.

Tilly extended one hand. “We’ll wait.” To the guard: “Can you tell me what those people along the riverside are doing?”

“Repairing the dock. The early snow caught them off guard—there’s a lot to fix. I don’t know the details.”

He returned to his post. Ashes turned to her, puzzled. “Why didn’t you tell him who you are?”

“Aren’t you curious?” Tilly kept watching the riverside—the steady, unhurried movement of the workers. “I wanted to know what it looks like. What it feels like from outside.”

It didn’t take long.

The woman who came to meet them walked in white, her long blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She was striking the way certain weapons are striking—not ornamented but purposeful, the form inseparable from the function. Even before she spoke, Tilly felt it: a concentrated precision, like a blade that had been drawn and not yet decided where to go.

A combat witch. A strong one.

The woman glanced at Ashes first. “I thought you had already returned to Sleeping Island.” Then her gaze moved across the group—Breeze, Shavi, Andrea—and finally rested on Tilly. Something changed in her expression: the edge of it softened, replaced by something that moved like water rather than light.

“Hello.” She inclined her head. “My name is Nightingale. You must be Tilly Wimbledon—His Highness Roland’s younger sister.”

Discussion

Suggest a change