Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 763: The Female Lycanthrope

The thumping started before Guelz Burnflame reached the training hall.

Heavy and rhythmic, it came through the walls like a pulse — a solid instrument meeting resistance, again and again, the kind of sound that accumulated rather than dissipated. Whatever was happening inside was not casual.

“Chief!”

The guard at the door lowered his head.

“Is that Lorgar in there?” Guelz gestured toward the ajar gate.

“Yes, sir. She came early this morning. Said not to disturb her.”

“I’ll have a look.”

“But Chief—” The guard stopped himself.

“What?”

“Nothing. You may enter.” A slight shudder moved through him.

My daughter is becoming more and more formidable, Guelz thought, without any particular displeasure. The obstruction was a good sign. If the clan’s warriors respected her enough to hesitate before overriding her instructions — even for the chief — the succession would be a clean one.

He opened the door.

The training hall was assembled from thousands of leather panels, hemp rope, and wooden poles. In all of Iron Sand City, only the Wildflame chief’s Stone Castle was large enough to contain something like this. The floor was packed fine yellow sand — not soft underfoot but gritty and particular, threaded with broken teeth and weapon fragments left behind by years of trainers. A portion of the sand had gone dark red where blood had soaked through. Guelz’s grandfather had once said that when all the yellow sand turned red, Wildflame would be peerless in the Southernmost Region forever — because if they were ever defeated and lost the Stone Castle, they would carry every grain of that sand with them when they returned to retake what was theirs.

Lorgar was barefoot, pants and sleeves rolled to the knee and elbow, working a row of hanging sandbags at the far end of the hall. She threw her punches without pause, without apparent effort, with a regularity that suggested she had been at it for some time. Each one would have split a man’s viscera.

“Excited by the Osha clan’s performance?” Guelz smiled.

She turned, drove an aerial kick into a rebounding sandbag — legs moving in a sharp, clean arc — and sent it airborne. The hemp rope that held it was not designed for that. It snapped partway through the subsequent swing, and the sandbag spun out and fell, spilling sand across the floor.

“Hoo.” She exhaled long and slow, and the bestialized hands returned to their ordinary shape. “You already know what I’m thinking, Papa. You don’t have to make me say it.”

“You admire that Divine Lady called Ashes.”

“Understandably.” Lorgar’s mouth curved. “In one-on-one combat, it’s hard to find me a suitable opponent anywhere in this city.”

“Unfortunately, they’ve just won the right to enter Iron Sand City. There won’t be another contest for some time. Even if we issue a challenge, they’ll likely decline.”

“Of course. As the newly-promoted clan, they’ll have many things to sort out before they’re settled. No one would waste energy on an optional fight right now.” She sighed. “Which leaves me with the sandbags.”

“You’d rather hang out with sandbags than talk to your father?”

“That’s — no. That’s not what I meant.” She shook her ears, let them drop in concession.

“Watch your expression.” Guelz controlled the impulse to reach out and stroke those soft, ridiculous, fluffy ears. A future chief could not afford them. Her subordinates needed to revere and obey her, and reverence did not come to someone whose ears gave away their every emotion. “That face belongs to private rooms, not training halls.”

“Oh.” She straightened at once, ears up, expression composed. The transformation was immediate.

He gave a small nod.

Ever since Lorgar had awakened as a Divine Lady, she had grown steadily more oriented toward combat — strength accumulating, instincts sharpening, the fighting impulse that the Mojins valued finding a true home in her. There was nothing wrong with any of it, from the clan’s perspective. But the gifts of the Three Gods had, over years of battles and practice, begun to extract their price.

She had learned to transform limb by limb rather than all at once. This gave her a reliable method for handling God’s Stones of Retaliation, whose effective range extended only two to three steps — she could keep her distance and bestialize one arm, generating force no ordinary person could resist. She had become unbeatable in a duel because of it. The clan’s warrior contingent, heavily depleted by years of defending the first position, had steadied and grown stronger when she entered it. No one had dared challenge Wildflame for five years.

But the years of practice had left marks that did not undo themselves. Parts of her body had settled permanently into their animalized form: the pointed ears, the half-visible tail, which no longer retracted when she withdrew her abilities.

Lorgar was now half human, half wolf, and permanently so.

The implications were not small. No warrior of any notable quality would be drawn to her body and appearance — and Lorgar herself had never shown interest in men who failed to meet her standards, which were set very high. There was only her father who regarded neither form with any particular hierarchy.

So she had fixed her ambitions on the chieftaincy. Only the position that others had to look up to could silence the questions about her. It was not a resignation — it was a solution, precise as the training that produced it.

“What did you make of the holy duel?” he asked.

Lorgar wagged her tail — unselfconsciously, the way she did when only he was watching. “Impressive to watch, but really it was just a trick by Drow Silvermoon. Only Ashes showed anything genuinely remarkable.”

“A very good trick, though.” Guelz stroked his beard. “She used her ability to draw the audience into the duel while remaining clear of all the restrictions, and fully controlled how the duel unfolded. Not one person died to determine the outcome. I haven’t seen anything like it in years. When the Cut Bone clan has time to reflect, they won’t hate Osha for it.”

“That trick only works once,” Lorgar said. Her disapproval was mild but definite. “I’d wager that in upcoming duels, spectators will start wearing God’s Stones too. Winning their respect was clever, but respect doesn’t fill a granary. Their first challenger could easily be a recovered Cut Bone clan. Who knows?”

He patted her shoulder. That she noticed these things — that she placed the clan’s interest before her own desire for an entertaining fight — were the marks of a chief. She wanted the well-matched contest. But she would not seek one at the cost of the clan’s security.

The guard outside appeared in the doorway, walking fast, and saluted before speaking. “Chief — I’ve just heard that the Osha clan has issued another holy duel challenge.”

Guelz straightened. “Already? It’s been barely a day since they entered Iron Sand City.” He paused. “To whom?”

“The fourth-placed Sandstorm clan.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be moving into Iron Sand City? Accepting Cut Bone’s terms?”

“No, sir. I’m told they rejected Cut Bone’s arrangements entirely. They’re not moving.”

Crazy. What exactly are these people thinking? Was their goal not entry into Iron Sand City?

Lorgar had been quiet. Now a soft laugh escaped her. “So we were wrong about them.” She looked at him with something bright in her expression that the composed, chieftain’s face could not quite contain. “A duel with Ashes may not be as unlikely as I imagined. What do you think, Papa?”

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