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Chapter 911: The Gleaming Star of Doom

Four days after the encrypted letter arrived, Roland had assembled every senior officer from the Hermes campaign and the Northern operation. They gathered in the First Army’s command tent at the edge of the Holy City’s suburbs — a canvas room that smelled of lamp oil and cold stone and the particular anxiety of people who do not yet know what they are anxious about.

Nobody panicked. The General Staff murmured theories to one another; the Western campaign officers made guesses about new orders. The low conversation only stopped when Roland entered with a face that offered no encouragement.

He tapped the desk once.

“I call this meeting for one purpose. We return to Neverwinter at once.”

The tent erupted.

He had spent the four days since the first letter trying to determine whether he could afford to doubt it. The source was questionable — Lorgar Burnflame, a wolf girl who had gone into the Barbarian Land to sharpen herself against demons, whose account contained not a single verifiable detail about when or how she had found the army, or how large it was. A threat that enormous, unsupported by any corroborating evidence, should have been easy to discount.

But the animal messengers had not stopped coming.

They had arrived rattled and exhausted, flung from the Western Region one after another, and when he read them in order he had to piece the timeline backward: the birds that traveled farthest had been given to the largest animals, so the most urgent letters arrived first and the earliest ones last. The sequence that should have been chronological ran in reverse. Working through it was like reassembling a shattered window.

What he reconstructed: Lorgar had used Lightning’s map to locate the Taquila ruins, intending to train herself by fighting demons and large demonic beasts alone. She had survived — barely — with the help of Nightfall’s Seed of Symbiosis. If Roland did not return to Neverwinter before late autumn, the demons would have had time to establish themselves on the Fertile Plains.

He had spoken with Lightning directly to confirm it. The news was real.

She deserves something more than a thank-you. A Special Award for the Service of Neverwinter. And something practical — a weapon built to her particular shape of fighting, since standard equipment was designed around bodies she did not have in either of her forms.

“That is the situation.” He laid out the key facts from the letters, kept his voice level, watched the room absorb it. “All companies begin preparations for retreat today. I will withdraw first and restore order in Neverwinter as quickly as possible.”

The silence afterward had a different quality than the earlier noise — heavier, more deliberate. Most of them had heard of demons. None of them had faced one. The knowledge and the experience were not the same thing, and standing at the gap between the two was making the senior staff very still.

Sir Eltek raised his hand. “Your Majesty — can we trust the information?”

“Soraya’s mark cannot be forged. Neither can Honey’s animal messengers.” Roland held the officer’s gaze. “I haven’t verified every detail, but given the nature of what we’re dealing with, I’d rather treat an uncertain threat as real than learn I was wrong after the fact.”

“What about the Kingdom of Dawn?” The Duke of Evernight asked what everyone else had been calculating toward.

Roland glanced at Andrea, who was doing the careful work of keeping her face composed. “We will not abandon our allies. The King of Dawn will answer for what he has done — the wrath of Wimbledon is slow, but it arrives. I will make other arrangements. The First Army will not be involved.”

No one raised an objection.

The general staff was ordered to draft a retreat proposal. The First Army knew how to move: launch, hold, fall back in order. He trusted the machine he had built.

Duke Kant’s secondary city hall in the Northern Region would handle supply provisions and staff allocation between the new and old Holy Cities. Isabella, along with the New Committee of Nuns and the Northern garrison, would remain until the transfer was complete — enough of a presence that the church’s remnants would find no opening to resurge. The Hermes Plateau was now, in every practical sense, Roland’s territory.

As for the New Committee: he had filled it with a doctrine oriented toward loyalty to the crown and toward accommodation of witches. Whether it could eventually replace the old church as a tool of political coherence was something for a future assessment. His immediate concern was keeping the Holy City from becoming a deserted ruin before the Battle of Divine Will had a reason to use it.

Most of those policies had been in motion before the letter arrived. Now he simply accelerated them. The war against the Kingdom of Dawn would continue — by different means.


After the meeting, he asked Andrea to stay.

“Without the First Army, the plan changes.” He said it plainly, without prelude.

“Please don’t worry.” She was doing her best to sound steady. “Princess Tilly and the witches from Sleeping Island will hold Neverwinter. You’ve done everything you can. No one expects more.”

“You’ve misread me.” Roland shook his head. “Without the First Army, we have another option — one I’d been holding in reserve. If I aim for Appen Moya’s head instead of his army, if we abandon the pitched battle entirely, we might save Otto Luoxi as well. We might take control of the region faster than the original plan ever allowed.”

“Faster?” She blinked. “You’re planning to use…”

“Yes.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Fifty God’s Punishment Witches. Even in the age of the Union, no one dismissed fifty Extraordinaries on a battlefield. God’s Stones of Retaliation don’t stop them. Knights’ swords don’t reach them. Appen Moya is living on borrowed time regardless — this only shortens the debt.”

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