CH919 · Rewrite
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Chapter 919: Repay the Great Chief’s Kindness

“Then you admit I’m qualified to fight demons?” Lorgar felt the energy return with the question — quick, clean, arriving before she had decided to feel it.

“I’ve never questioned your capability.” Roland held her gaze. “In this war, even a woman who has never lifted a weapon will eventually be involved — somewhere behind the main line. What I’ve always objected to is the idea of you going alone.” He kept his voice level. “If the Sleeping Island witches had been any later, without Nightfall’s Seed of Symbiosis, you would be in the Western Zone Cemetery right now.”

“But if I hadn’t gone as deep into the Barbarian Land as I did, Neverwinter wouldn’t have received the warning about the demon army.”

“I can reward a good result without approving the behavior that produced it.” He shook his head. “What I’m most glad about — in everything you did — is that you brought the intelligence back to Neverwinter instead of staying to fight alone. If you asked me again whether I’d want you to go by yourself, my answer would be the same. I’ll be asking the sentries to increase their vigilance, in case you come home more dead than alive again.”

“What?”

“That’s the great chief’s command.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Now. Your reward.”

Lorgar closed her mouth. The expression on his face was noticeably more serious than it had been when he was touching her ears.

“Three options,” he said. “Gold royals, Chaos Drinks, or a piece of equipment custom-made for you.”

The first two were clear. The third was a different kind of question. Custom equipment. Iron claws, perhaps? Steel tusks for the wolf form? She had considered something like that before — some of the Wildflame warriors had worn toothed metal wraps on their arms for exactly that purpose. But when she shifted back to her human form, weapons that belonged to the wolf were a burden to carry and impossible to conceal.

She said as much to Roland.

“I don’t have a finalized design,” he said, “but I can tell you the principle. It would be a firearm — a powerful one, designed specifically for God’s Punishment Witches, which means it’s also suited to someone in a half-animal form. Ashes told me that you can maintain partial transformation — wolf strength in a human body — and that this gives you roughly half the power of a God’s Punishment Warrior. The weapon is built around that.”

She recognized what he meant. The weapons the First Army had used to destroy the oasis watchdog. Lightning’s rifle. She had watched that weapon cut through things that should not have been cuttable. It was powerful, undeniably. But it depended on a particular kind of ammunition that only Neverwinter could produce, and the great chief would never trust her with a supply of it — not if his goal was to keep her within the city’s reach. Without the ammunition, the weapon sat on a shelf.

Besides, she trusted her teeth and claws over any manufactured thing. They were hers. They did not run out.

She turned the question over in her mind, and then arrived at the thought she had not expected to arrive at.

“Can I join the Witch Union instead?”

Roland blinked. It was, she thought, the first time since she had woken up that she had genuinely surprised him. “You can. But earlier you said—”

“I changed my mind.” She wagged her tail once, a small involuntary motion. “The gold royals and the Chaos Drinks get used up. I don’t have any other skills apart from fighting. If I join the Union, I get both every month. That seems more efficient.”

“That’s — yes, that’s correct.”

“And I promised Lightning and Maggie that we’d explore the Barbarian Lands together when the time came. They’re both Union members. If I’m a member too, it’ll be easier to coordinate with them.” She met his eyes. “Under those circumstances, you wouldn’t stop me from going into the wasteland, would you?”

He cleared his throat. “Technically, you’re correct. Though you’d still need to treat your own safety as a priority.”

“Then that’s what I want.” She paused. “I’m sorry I refused your offer before.”

“It’s your choice to make.” Roland spread his hands. “Wendy will go through the details with you. And I’ll have the kitchen send something up — you need to eat before you do anything else.” He stood. “The witches will have plenty of time for you to thank them later.”

He left. His footsteps faded on the stairs.

Lorgar let her ears droop and lay back against the pillow.

There was one thing she had not told him.

Not the drinks. Not the gold. Not even the appeal of exploring with Lightning and Maggie, though that was real.

She was Mojin, and Mojin believed in facts rather than words. From the first day she had come to Neverwinter, she had kept a specific account of Roland Wimbledon, tallying his promises against his actions, waiting for the moment when the account came up short. She had expected it. She had been certain it would happen. Northern nobles — powerful ones, kings especially — made promises to the Mojin that cost them nothing to make and nothing to break.

She had refused to trust him.

But then she had been lying in a bed with a Seed of Symbiosis keeping her alive, and the witches of Sleeping Island had been sending letters to the Northern Region asking for Nana Pine to be released from the campaign, and she had been calculating the distance — the full distance, Iron Sand City to Neverwinter, measured in days of flight for a creature the size of Maggie — and trying to determine whether it was possible that Nana could arrive before the Symbiosis ran out.

And Nana had arrived. Not after the campaign concluded. Not when it was convenient. First, the moment she landed.

An army healer. Probably the most irreplaceable one he had. Sent south ahead of everyone else, for a wolf girl who had asked him for nothing and given him only arguments.

A warrior of the Southernmost Region would have sworn herself to a lord for less. Lorgar was not precisely a warrior — she was a Divine Lady, which was something different and sometimes something more — but she was Mojin to the bone, and what she felt looking at the facts was the same thing a warrior would feel.

She stared at the ceiling.

Why not believe in the great chief a little more?


Roland came downstairs into the reception hall.

The guards at the gate opened the doors, and every person in the hall rose at once.

Lightning had brought his convening order back ahead of the army, and the hall had filled accordingly. He swept his gaze across the room: City Hall department heads; the garrison commander; representatives of the Witch Union and Sleeping Spell; the governor of the Longsong district; the Senior Witches of Taquila, their forms half-transparent on the light curtain at the far end of the room. More than fifty people, dressed in the particular solemnity of those who understand they are here for something real.

Their faces were different. Some held a measured blankness — the response to an enemy they had only heard of in rumors. Some showed a flat, unmasked hatred, the kind that has been building in a person for a long time and has finally found a direction. Most were simply serious.

The war was coming. Whether they were ready for it or not was, at this point, a secondary question.

Roland took his seat.

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