CH681 · Rewrite
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Chapter 681: The Preparation of Sleeping Island

Sleeping Island in the Fjords.

As winter closed in, the sea wind swept through every crack and gap, and even with the windows shut Tilly could hear it howling in the walls. Few people ventured outdoors—but the square stayed lit and loud. Grand bonfires burned through several days and nights while pots of fish soup steamed at the edges. The witches had transformed that open space into something warm and bright, a small paradise cut from the grey season, and the celebrations showed no sign of dimming.

Tilly wanted to join them. She wanted to stand beside those fires and let the victory settle into her bones.

She had too many things to deal with.

The news she had carried back from the mainland had changed everything—not the physical conditions, which remained what they were, but the inner weather of the place. Burdens she hadn’t realized people were carrying had simply lifted. Eyes were livelier, voices looser. Everyone spoke and moved as though a pressure she had grown so accustomed to she no longer noticed it had finally, quietly broken.

This is probably what Roland meant by ‘liberation.’

A knock at the door. Camilla Dary, Chief Butler of Sleeping Island, stepped inside and settled cross-legged across the low table, setting a list between them.

“Your Highness. I’ve completed the preliminary census of witches willing to go to the Western Region.” She smoothed the edge of the paper. “Nearly half have signed up.”

“Half?” Tilly looked up. “Better than I expected. Well done.”

She had been careful about how she framed the invitation. No deception, no omissions: she had told them everything—about the ancient witches’ empire, about the Union, about the demons. The church, she explained, had only been a part of something far older. The real enemy of humanity was not the priests who had hunted them for centuries but the demons who had always stood behind the Months of Destruction. Helping the Western Region meant helping themselves. She had also made clear, without pressure, that any witch who wished to stay on Sleeping Island could do exactly that.

She had half expected fear to keep most of them here. The demons were an unknown enemy, vast and ancient. These women had spent years learning to be invisible. But nearly half had said yes anyway—because demons they had never seen were less frightening than a church they had already survived, and because the hunger for a wider world had not died in them.

“They’re curious about Prince Roland,” Camilla said with a faint sigh. “He defeated the Pope, which earns considerable interest. And your brother has gained extra benefit from the trust they already place in you—it transferred naturally.”

“You seem worried.”

“Of course.” The chief butler’s frown settled into old familiar lines. “He is a noble. A common person. There is a fundamental difference between us. Blood can become a barrier when interests diverge. Your Highness, I’m not questioning your judgment—I’m not saying he is dishonest—but what if his interests come to oppose ours? What if he acts like any other noble?”

“I’ve thought about it carefully.” Tilly set down the list and took Camilla’s hand. “Witches and common people are different, yes—but under the threat of the Battle of Divine Will, we share the same essential goal: survival. Why not use this moment to build something genuine, to integrate rather than remain apart, to form bonds of mutual interest that benefit both sides? As our abilities become woven into every part of Neverwinter’s operations, Roland cannot simply discard the witches even if he wished to. That is not weakness on our part—it is foundation.”

“But will he loosen his grip on us?”

“Based on everything that’s happened in the past six months, he has imposed no additional restrictions on the witches already in his city. The Witch Union works with him freely and openly.” Tilly smiled. “I also trust my instincts more than abstractions.”

“Your instincts?”

“Yes.” She tapped the table slowly. “I don’t think he’ll do that.”

Camilla hesitated, then gave a small defeated laugh. “Your instincts have never been wrong in all the time I’ve known you.”

“They won’t be wrong this time either.”

“I understand, Your Highness. I’ll complete the relocation preparations as quickly as possible.” The chief butler pressed a hand to her chest and rose.

“Thank you.”

Tilly understood Camilla’s worry—a woman of noble birth who had watched nobles do terrible things for power and position. Camilla had never had occasion to see Roland from the inside, as Tilly had. There was something in him that didn’t fit the mold. He treated everyone differently—not just witches, not just allies, but everyone. When Tilly called him “brother,” she did so not out of biological fact but because the relationship itself felt natural and uncomplicated in a way she had almost forgotten was possible. When she talked with Roland she felt at ease. She suspected the other witches felt it too.

“I’ve also been hearing some troubling rumors,” Camilla said from the doorway—she had paused, half-turned.

“What kind?”

“About the news you brought back. Some witches are saying that since the witches’ ancestors once ruled a great empire over common people, perhaps Sleeping Island should do something similar—form an organization with witches in command, reclaim that old glory.”

“Where is it coming from?” Tilly lifted an eyebrow. “The Bloodfang Association?”

“No—oddly enough, no. Those witches believe in loyalty to strength, and the Western Region has demonstrated strength beyond any doubt. Iffy, Softfeathers, Nightfall—their confirmation settled it. The combat witches were the first to register for Neverwinter.” Camilla shook her head. “From what I can tell, it’s coming from one of the smaller organizations.”

Sleeping Island held more than just the Bloodfang Association. There were scattered groups—organizations formed before Tilly’s arrival, built around the practical need to evade the church and shelter one another. They had never had the Bloodfang’s reach, and they had rarely troubled her policies.

“I see,” Tilly said.

“Should I speak with their leader?”

“No. Let them be.” She smoothed the list in her lap. “When they reach the Western Region, they’ll understand on their own that the Union is history. A completely different path is waiting for all of us.”

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