Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 831: A Decision with No Regrets

Two days later, a strange-looking concrete boat slipped away from the dock of Neverwinter without fanfare.

A massive shape dominated the deck — something like a moving hill under burlap cloth, guarded by fully armed soldiers standing erect on either side and flanked by a dozen God’s Punishment Witches. It was the Victory, bound for the Great Snow Mountain, carrying the soul device. There, the Taquila witches would complete their incarnation ceremony and be integrated into the worm carriers.

No whistle. No farewells. Even the loading had been done the night before, unwitnessed. Secrecy demanded it.

Roland stood on the sodden brick-and-slab dock and watched the boat’s silhouette dissolve into the grey river haze. Three worm carriers in Neverwinter — that was what this meant, once the conversion was done. Immense help for both municipal construction and the defensive line. He knew it. He also knew he felt none of the satisfaction he had expected.

The two volunteers were called Jasmine and Lyra. In the Dream World, they had looked barely past twenty — nearly Tilly’s age — with the kind of outgoing ease that fills a room without effort.

He had wanted to give them something. So he had taken them, along with Phyllis and the other witches, to the amusement park outside the city. They had ridden the Ferris wheel and screamed through the roller coaster’s inversion; Jasmine had accidentally shattered a prop ghost’s head during the haunted house, and both girls had laughed over strawberry sundaes like anyone’s neighbors on a summer afternoon. Roland had scraped together the funds by killing a handful of Fallen Evils days prior — had he not, he could not have afforded it.

In those two days, Jasmine and Lyra had been in a state of perpetual astonishment, yet they had followed him without a single question. They screamed where everyone screamed. They laughed where everyone laughed. There was nothing in their faces to betray what they had already decided — that they would surrender their human bodies to the fight against demons, exactly as they had decided four hundred years ago, kneeling before the magic core at the bottom of a ruin.

When the dream ended, they were calmer than Roland had expected.

He had wanted to say something. Words came and stalled, came again and dissolved. There was no argument to make — dissuading them was neither in his interest nor the interest of the united front, and anything he said would sound like performed sympathy dressed up as sincerity. In the end, he had been the one comforted.

He still heard them clearly.

“Thank you,” Jasmine had said, smiling. “And…”

“We don’t regret it.” Lyra had finished the sentence for her.

At that moment Roland had felt their heartbeats in his own chest — or thought he had.

They had loved everything here.

And they did not regret the decision.

“Your Majesty?” Phyllis, who had come to see her companions off, looked at him. “Aren’t you going back to the castle?”

Her voice pulled him back. The Victory was gone. Only a smudge of river fog remained where the boat had been.

Roland exhaled slowly. “They really can’t disconnect themselves after being integrated into the carriers?”

Phyllis lowered her voice, as though she already knew what he was trying to ask. “A God’s Punishment Witch is different from a carrier. The former retains some basic consciousness even without a soul transfer — our conversion was more like issuing commands than a true fusion. But carriers are different. They are specific vessels. Once integration is complete, the soul is sealed permanently, though the vessel goes dormant if unused for a long time. Nobody has ever escaped one. Not any of us. Not even Pasha.”

“But there are beams of light above the carriers, yes?”

“Yes.” Phyllis nodded. “Without magic power, those bodies can’t move on their own.”

Roland looked up at the distant, azure sky — that particular pale blue of early spring that holds no warmth yet promises it. “Perhaps one day we’ll find a way to return their souls to the Dream World,” he said.

Silence.

Then Phyllis turned her gaze in the same direction. “Well. Perhaps one day.”

To Lorgar, the snow-draped jungles of the Western Region were entirely new.

Traveling merchants had described snow to her more than once, and she had always imagined it as cold, white sand — fine-grained, like the purest river sand in Silver Stream. Seeing it in person, she found it finer still, and whiter; it made river sand seem coarse and yellow by comparison. The world had changed color.

According to Ashes, even though the Months of Demons had passed, at least half a month remained before the snow would melt completely.

That suited Lorgar perfectly. She wanted to see a white city.

There was little to occupy herself with on the voyage. She had gone over the steel ship stem to stern and found no obvious source of power. Andrea, when pressed, gave only a vague answer — something about a machine that continuously boiled water. As for how it worked, she was told only King Roland and Miss Anna knew.

She did not know much about King Roland. But Ashes had mentioned that Miss Anna held a place on Neverwinter’s Battle Strength Ranking.

Princess Lorgar of the Wildflame clan found herself growing more curious about this intelligent and powerful woman.

When she raised the subject with Andrea, the other woman dismissed it with a sharp sideways glance.

“Battle strength ranking?” Andrea’s scorn was precise and without heat. “Men aren’t wolves. No single person competes with a group. Isn’t it animal to fixate on individual fighting capacity?”

“Wolves are social animals,” Lorgar said.

“Fine. Take tigers and snow leopards then.” Andrea coughed. “Anyway — Anna is the power source of Neverwinter. It was Anna’s ability that let the First Army crush the watchdog and Iron Whip clans in a single blow. I’ll wager Ashes never told you she was nearly beaten by an ordinary man.”

The wolf girl stiffened. Andrea went on: “That man used a weapon built by Anna. There’s no point discussing fighting capacity without accounting for the weapons. If you want to become stronger, ask His Majesty for a proper set. If you can carry one of these” — she patted the long-barrelled gun on her back — “after your transformation, it will serve you better than any combat technique.”

Lorgar did not fully agree, but she filed the advice away. Her father had always told her to listen and observe, and never to forget what she had originally wanted.

On the fifth day inside the Western Region, moving upstream against rising water, the iron ship slowed. The wolf girl spotted a fat, beautiful pigeon hovering high above the bow — a strange hesitation in its flight — before it dove straight for Ashes.

Lorgar thought briefly about lunch. Then she saw Ashes produce a bag of cooked food and feed the bird with the ease of old friendship, and the pigeon nuzzled against her like someone returning from a long absence.

Then it spoke.

“Coo, coo coo!”

“Understood,” Ashes said, smiling. “Tell Princess Tilly I’ll be there soon.”

“And me!” Andrea called, unwilling to be left out.

“Coo!”

The pigeon gave a decisive nod, spread its wings, and vanished into the northwest.

“She’s…” Lorgar began.

“Maggie.” Ashes turned around. “Like you, she can perform a full-body transformation.”

Lorgar absorbed this. Then she remembered that Maggie’s transformation was supposed to produce something fierce and terrible — a giant monster, by the accounts she had heard. She was still puzzling over why anyone who could become that would choose a pigeon when Ashes clapped her on the shoulder.

“Time to pack up. We’ll reach Neverwinter soon.”

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