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Chapter 718: Loyalty to Her Belief

“Snowwolf. Your right — about four hundred fifty meters.”

The branches shifted in Leaf’s particular signal. A pause, and then: “Are you going to wait for Ashes?”

Andrea had already worked out the distance. Nine hundred paces. She was already walking.

“Let Ashes know where I am when she gets back.” She glanced at the treetops, confirming the sight line. “It’s only a wolf. With you watching, it can’t surprise me.”

She said it matter-of-factly rather than boastfully. Her first target had tested the new ability and confirmed what she’d expected. The compressed air columns were clean, controllable, and powerful enough to render a demonic boar unconscious from close range without killing it. Distance required adjustment — the energy spread over longer arcs — but the derivative she’d developed on the ship addressed that. She could lock trajectory now, which meant anything in her sightline was simply a matter of timing and power.

Even a two-winged hybrid wouldn’t get away.

She moved through the trees with the unhurried precision of someone who has genuinely stopped being afraid of the forest.


“I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” Phyllis said. She was watching Agatha move ahead of her through the snow, finding the natural paths between the drifts with the ease of someone who had spent time in colder places. “I agreed without thinking it through.”

“Why apologize? I prefer this to the laboratory.” Agatha glanced back at her. “If I’d had no time, I wouldn’t have agreed at all.”

“Then — should we simply capture a few to meet the minimum? The king did say friendship first.”

“He said it. That doesn’t mean the others believe it.” Agatha paused and tilted her head slightly, listening to something. “You could see it in their faces when they lined up. Lightning and Andrea would compete even without a prize. The prize is just permission to take it seriously.”

Phyllis considered this. She was not wrong.

“And since it’s a competition,” Agatha continued, “and since we’re representing Taquila—”

She stopped walking. The crystals in her palm had been forming without Phyllis noticing — a continuous small process, the way some witches breathed.

Leaf’s branches shifted. “Wolf-eagle hybrid. Two hundred meters directly behind you, approaching fast.”

Phyllis stepped back and turned. The forest behind them was white and still. Then the stillness broke: a white-furred shape moving low through the trees, wings pressed flat against its sides to avoid the branches. She hadn’t heard it at all.

The temperature around Agatha dropped sharply — not an observation but a physical fact, the air tightening and hardening. The snow on the ground stiffened. Ice crept outward from where Agatha stood, sheeting over the packed snow in a thin transparent layer that caught the light.

The hybrid lunged.

Agatha threw the ice crystals underhand rather than overhanding them — not at the creature but ahead of it, forcing a dodge to the left. The hybrid landed wrong on the newly glazed surface, legs skidding in different directions. It went down.

Before it could recover, Agatha was already moving — skating, almost, across the ice she’d made, arriving at the animal’s side before it finished falling. Her hands found its flank and she pressed, and the ice worked inward from her palms. Within seconds the hybrid was half-encased — head and forelegs free, the rest of its body locked in a translucent shell.

She stepped back and assessed her work.

Phyllis watched with the particular attention she gave to things she wanted to understand properly. Agatha’s fighting style had none of the formal techniques the Union’s combat branches had developed — it was built from observation and improvisation, which was consistent with what Phyllis knew of the Quest Society’s scholarship. But the instincts were genuinely good. The combination of terrain control and timing placed her opponent at a disadvantage before the decisive moment arrived, which meant the decisive moment required less of her.

“How did you detect it approaching? I heard nothing.”

“I spread a thin layer of ice at my feet before we entered the forest. It transmits vibrations from anything moving on snow.” She looked at the encased hybrid. “We can leave it here until we’ve caught more. It won’t freeze to death quickly enough to matter.”

“I see.” Phyllis began to walk. “Should we find the next one?”

“Yes.” Agatha fell into step beside her. “Quickly.”

She was serious. The contest had not been a concession to social obligation — she genuinely intended to win it.

Phyllis found, after a few more steps, that she could not leave the question unasked.

“Lady Agatha—”

“Just Agatha. We agreed on that.”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “You said the Witch Union’s sisters might be the heirs of the new era.”

“I think that’s true.”

“I want to ask—” She chose the words carefully, because they were precise rather than diplomatic. “Where does your loyalty lie? With Taquila, or with Neverwinter?”

Agatha stopped walking.

She turned to face Phyllis directly, and Phyllis met her eyes without looking away, because the question was important enough to be asked honestly and receive an honest answer.

“With my belief,” Agatha said.

“Belief.”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in it. “My belief is that the only way to survive what’s coming is for Taquila’s survivors to come to the Western Region and fight under Roland Wimbledon’s leadership. That’s what I want. That’s what I’m working toward.” She tilted her head slightly. “Is that the answer you were looking for?”

Phyllis thought about it.

“No,” she said. “But it may be the right one.”

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