CH536 · Rewrite
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Chapter 536: The Dream (Part I)

“Annie, I’m tired.”

“Hold on a little longer. We’re nearly there.”

Hard gravel, each step a nail driven upward through the sole. Iffy wanted to stop—her body wanted to stop, had been wanting to stop for hours—but Annie’s hand was clasped around hers and the grip did not waver. Through bramble and thornwood, through the cold iron of a stream, Annie had not slowed once. From behind she looked immovable. Like something that had always been there.

“Annie, I can’t—”

Annie bent and pressed her ear to the ground. Then she pointed to a raised flat stone a few dozen paces ahead. “There. We’ll rest there.”

The last thread of will Iffy still possessed pulled her forward. She reached the rock and collapsed against it, and she thought: I could stay here forever. I could be part of this stone.

Annie didn’t sit. She gathered broken branches and arranged them around both sides of the overhang—camouflage, a rough ceiling, walls against the wind. In the space of minutes she’d made something that was nearly shelter. The ground inside was uneven and the stone bit into their legs and there wasn’t room to lie flat side by side, but it was enclosed, and Iffy breathed more slowly.

“The church won’t follow us this far.”

“Don’t relax yet. It’s not far enough.”

Annie listened to the surrounding dark with the patient attention of an animal that had learned early what inattention cost. She was nothing like a wildcat—she was steadier than that, more deliberate. She monitored everything without appearing to watch anything.

“Does the Bloodfang Association actually exist?”

They had set out as five. After Graystone Stronghold, the church’s soldiers had split them. Three scattered; Iffy had walked east for three days before finding Annie on a stony beach at the edge of nowhere.

“Of course.” Annie rubbed her toes. “Wolf Tooth Island, across the sea. I heard they’re there.”

“But we have no way to cross.”

“Walk to the shore and find a boat.” She said it simply, the way she said most things—as though the gap between having nothing and having what you needed was merely a question of going to look. “Leave it to me.”

Iffy said okay, and meant it.

Annie produced a piece of dried pork skin from the pack. She held it between her palms—a thread of white smoke rose, and the skin became soft and hot. Her ability made fire in her hands. It had always seemed to Iffy like the simplest and most necessary gift in the world.

“Eat,” Annie said, holding out the larger piece. “I’m not very hungry yet.”

She wasn’t. She never was. She always gave Iffy more.

Iffy ate and licked every finger clean.

When she tried to get to her feet, the branches around them began to tremble—not the long shudder of wind in leaves, but the sharp staccato of something approaching fast across uneven ground.

Annie’s eyes went wide. “Horses. Run!”

The hand on her wrist again, pulling.

The horses crested the end of the beach behind them—more than ten, moving carefully to spare the hooves, but still far faster than two girls on raw feet over rock. Iffy looked back once and understood the arithmetic: they could not outrun this.

She wrenched her hand free.

“You go. Run ahead.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“You can’t run fast enough that way!”

“Listen to me. Go—”

The front riders had lifted their crossbows. One had a throwing spear.

Then the ground opened.

The first rank of horses went down into it—riders screaming, the whole formation pitching into chaos. The survivors wheeled to spread out and then went down too, one by one, horses collapsing beneath them as if something pulled their legs from below. Out of nowhere, red-clothed figures rose from the stone beach itself, bows already drawn, and the volley at close range was over before anyone could call for it to stop.

In seconds, ten soldiers of the Judgement Army lay on the beach. The red figures stripped them of armor, provisions, God’s Stones of Retaliation, and moved with the practiced efficiency of people who had done this before.

One of them walked toward Iffy and Annie.

“Are you looking for the Bloodfang Association?”

“How did you know?” Iffy asked.

Annie pinched her hand—be careful—and said, quietly and clearly: “Yes, my lord. We are. We’re both witches. Three others were separated from us on the road. Could you help them?”

“We don’t have the resources for that.” The woman pulled back her hood. Short red hair, cut close. “If they couldn’t get here on their own, they’re not Bloodfang material.” She looked at each of them in turn. “Not everyone who arrives is accepted, either. Show me your abilities.”

Iffy demonstrated. Annie demonstrated.

The red-haired woman studied Annie for a long moment. Then she looked at Iffy and nodded. “You go to Archduke Island.”

She looked at Annie. “Not you.”

“Why?” Iffy asked.

“We’ll send her to another association. One more suited to what she can do.”

“She can cook, she can survive, she kept me alive for three days—”

“That’s not—”

“My lord,” Annie said quickly, and Iffy could feel her grip tighten to the edge of pain. “I—”

“The Bloodfang Association doesn’t need a cook.” The woman’s voice carried no heat. Just finality.


“Why are you crying?” The red-haired woman’s impatience was a thin skin over something like boredom. “You’ll make the Lord angry, walking in looking like that.”

“I want to be with Annie.”

“She’s a burden.”

“She’s not. She saved me. She’s the real combat witch—”

“Combat witches are made by what they awaken with, not what their limbs can do.” She studied Iffy with flat appraisal. “You’re five years younger than she is. You’re crying because she’s stronger now. Give it time. She has no potential left. You have more than you know.”

“Where will she go?”

“That’s not your concern.”

Iffy felt the tears coming again and could not stop them.

The woman’s jaw tightened. “Listen. The Lord doesn’t like weakness. If you want to survive on Archduke Island, you don’t mention this. You forget about it. You become something she can use.” She paused. “You leave the past where the past belongs. Do you understand me?”

Iffy understood.

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