Chapter 962: The Invisible Supply Line
“Oh?” Roland raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“The Taquila devouring worms bored through the Impassable Mountain Range.” Edith held up two fingers. “They can do the same thing beneath the Barbarian Lands. Two worms working in parallel can open a passage wide enough for a wagon. I consulted Minister Karl already. His assessment: the unstable structure of the mudlands may prevent us from hollowing out anything as large as the underground palace beneath the Third Border Town, but if we go deep enough, a passable tunnel is achievable.”
“How would we construct it?”
“Work begins inside the First Army’s main camp. The tunnel entrance would be a vertical shaft sunk from the center of the camp—covered by a tent, indistinguishable from any other structure.”
“What happens to the passage when we withdraw?”
“We seal the shaft and cover it with soil. A vent keeps air circulating below.”
“Construction time?”
“Expected to exceed the march to the combat zone by two weeks. In practice, demon harassment will slow the march itself—the timelines will likely converge. The First Army’s greatest vulnerability is its supply tail. This plan removes it entirely. The army appears as a fist. The logistics behind it are invisible. That fist draws all the demons’ attention.”
Roland couldn’t quite stop the smile. A full night of work, and this plan had matured down to its mechanism.
“You proposed this yourself?”
“Roughly,” Edith admitted. “Though it was genuinely a collaboration—not just the Ministry of Construction, but the Arithmetic Academy as well, though they weren’t told the details of the second plan.”
He wanted to praise her, but the words fell short of what he meant. The valuable thing here wasn’t the novelty of the idea—underground tunnels weren’t new to anyone who’d seen the Taquila ruins. What was exceptional was how Edith had exploited every available resource to refine it. Most people would never have thought to put the devouring worms to such use. The Arithmetic Academy had barely existed for a year and spent most of that time on assignments he’d given them directly—yet she had already found a way to channel the department’s precision into operational planning.
To find someone with that kind of lateral reach, that natural instinct for using new tools in unexpected ways—it was the sort of thing that should have surprised him. Somehow it didn’t, which was its own kind of surprise.
He had a faint sense, standing there, that the Edith in front of him was not quite the same person he’d assigned to the General Staff. Some deeper layer of her had come to the surface, and he wasn’t sure when it had begun.
“Well done,” Roland said. “Follow the second plan.”
“Yes.” She paused. “But one thing I must make clear: even with the second plan, casualties are unavoidable. This won’t be an easier battle than Coldwind Ridge—it may be harder. The demons have the initiative. The First Army won’t be able to establish stations and blockhouses the way they did in previous engagements. They’ll have to move fast, without the defensive scaffolding they’ve relied on.”
“Are you recommending we hold position and wait?”
“No.” The word came out slowly but without hesitation. “I intend to crack this nut regardless of how hard it is. If the Battle of Divine Will is as brutal as the Taquila witches describe, the First Army needs to be baptized in blood before that war comes. It’s you—” she said it carefully, but said it “—who cares so much about the soldiers’ lives that you think twice before every step. Now that the demons are our enemy, and they possess inhuman capabilities unlike anything we’ve faced, I ask that you prepare yourself for losses.”
Roland thought: this is strange. Once, she would have stopped well short of those words to a superior. A remark like that, framed as counsel rather than flattery, would have been received as insult in any court he’d heard of. Edith was too perceptive to make a clumsy political mistake.
Is this a backlash from the last time I reprimanded her?
Does it matter?
She served him well. The rest was irrelevant.
“I understand. You may go.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
When Edith had withdrawn, Nightingale materialized from the fog with an expression that said she had been listening to every word and disapproved of several of them. “How could a lord be faulted for caring about his men? She clearly overstepped.”
“I don’t think she was wrong,” Roland said. “Every leader needs to hear different points of view—especially unflattering ones. That’s the only way to make a right decision.” In his own mind, though, he disagreed for a different reason. He couldn’t afford losses—not as a matter of emotion but of calculation. His soldiers weren’t mercenaries or pressed serfs. Almost all of them could read. His officers could interpret charts and write reports. Literate, trained men weren’t replaced the way tools were. He would take any measure to reduce casualties, and the second plan existed precisely because of that.
Before Nightingale could press further, the Sigil of Listening at her chest began to glow.
Roland’s pulse jumped. “New movement from the demons?”
The communication was brief. Nightingale’s hand stayed pressed against the sigil while it played out, and then she let out a breath. “No—good news. The third batch of witches from Sleeping Island, led by Lady Camilla Dary, will arrive in Neverwinter tomorrow evening.”
“Tilly sent word…” He let the tension out of his shoulders. “Go tell Wendy to receive them the same way she handled the last two groups.”
These were the final witches to make the crossing—almost half the total population of Sleeping Island. Now that Sleeping Spell’s organizational framework was in place, Wendy would handle the intake without difficulty: cataloguing abilities, running assessments, making the newcomers feel they had arrived somewhere real. As for the remaining holdouts, they would eventually come around. Neverwinter was not the kingdom they remembered.
“Of course.” Nightingale was already reaching for the misty border of her power when Roland stopped her.
“Wait. You said Camilla Dary is leading them? The one who was preparing to sail to the Sealine with Joan?”
“Yes. Why?”
Roland was quiet for a moment, turning something over in his mind. “Edith’s scenario assumes the demons always hold the initiative because they see everything in the air. But perhaps I can narrow their field of vision.”
Nightingale’s expression went from suspicious to baffled. “Those two things are related?”
“I’m not certain yet. But I need to try.” He looked up. “I’ll speak with Camilla personally when she arrives.”
As the boat passed from the Redwater River into the Western Region, the fields on either bank had turned the soft yellowish-brown of harvested straw mixed with autumn soil. The piles stood high on both sides—another bumper year.
Andrea stood at the bow and breathed it in. The air of late harvest had something in it she couldn’t quite name—sun-baked earth and dry grass and the particular coolness that arrived with shorter days. Relaxation moved through her chest without being invited.
She couldn’t tell whether it was the lingering mood of the harvest or her own anticipation at finally going home. Probably both.
“They don’t collect the straw?” A voice behind her, genuinely curious.
Andrea turned. It was the God’s Punishment Witch named Carol. “You know about it?”
She had asked her father the same question as a small girl, watching the farmers bundle and stack the cut straw after the wheat came in. They do it to live, he had told her. They can’t afford firewood. Straw burns well, and it’s everywhere. When people are short of clothes, they sleep under it too. It pricks and it smokes, but it keeps them from freezing. You might think it’s worthless—but for the people who need it, straw is as essential as the grain it comes from.
At the time she hadn’t understood. She hadn’t understood until she was expelled from the City of Glow, until the weeks without shelter and without food during the escape taught her what the weight of living actually felt like.
She hadn’t expected to hear the question again—not from a Taquila survivor.
“Why wouldn’t I know about it?” Carol said, leaning easily against the railing.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Andrea said, slightly flustered. “I suppose I assumed that ancient witches never had to concern themselves with those kinds of things.”
“Because common people took care of everything?” A quiet glint in Carol’s eye. “I was never very different from them, in truth.”
“How could that be?”
“The Union had limited resources. How much could they spare for a weak non-combat witch?” Carol looked out at the water, as if reading something in the current. “My ability and magic power ranked at the bottom after awakening—I was nearly forgotten in the latter years of the war. When my allowance was cut, I lived among common people. When the city fell, it was their endurance I borrowed to survive until the very last moment.”
“But in the Kingdom of Dawn—your abilities were nothing like those of a non-combat witch.” Andrea remembered the battle clearly. Even Ashes the Extraordinary would have struggled against her.
“Three hundred years of training will change most things,” Carol said, opening her hand and slowly closing it. “In a strange way, I consider myself fortunate to have become a God’s Punishment Witch. I’m stronger than I was. I’m no longer overlooked. I’m able to do something that matters.” A pause. “And since we met His Majesty, that’s been its own kind of reward.”
Andrea realized, then, that this hadn’t begun as an idle conversation. She asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
Carol looked up. “Because I envy you.”
Andrea stared.
“With your ability, even in the days of the Union, you would have stood among the best combat witches. A High Awakening at your age—you could have risen to Taquila’s highest rank.” The words came lightly, without a trace of bitterness. “Do you know what my greatest wish was, in those days? To join the Blessed Army and receive Lady Natalia’s blessing before a battle. For you, that would have been simple. Now I’ve reached the limit of what I can become. You haven’t come close to yours.”
She paused, then continued: “The stronger you are, the harder the trials and the more painful the setbacks. But don’t forget—no matter what hardship finds you, you are already someone others would choose to be.”
The meaning settled slowly.
She was offering comfort. She had watched, noticed the shadow that had been over Andrea since her father’s belated apology and the farewell to her childhood—and she had chosen to share her own past rather than speak around it directly.
These kinds of twists are nothing to a Taquila survivor. And what she still had—what all of them still had—was more than what they’d lost.
“Thank you,” Andrea said, after a silence.
“I only told the truth.” Carol straightened and walked toward the cabin.
“About your question,” Andrea called after her, “—the straw. They bury it as fertilizer now. Nobody needs it for fire in Neverwinter anymore.”
The God’s Punishment Witch didn’t look back, but raised one hand in acknowledgment.
Andrea turned to face the direction of travel, the river narrowing as the current quickened, Neverwinter somewhere ahead. Something lifted in her chest—light, specific, impossible to name.
I wonder what Her Highness is doing right now. Ashes will have stayed close, as always.
Shavi must be missing me. We’ll play cards all night the moment I’m back.
Maggie’s out there somewhere in the wastelands with Lightning, watching the demons’ every move—
“Coo!”
A shape dropped from the sky, barrel-round and unerring, aimed directly at her face.
Not an illusion.
There was no pigeon heavier than Maggie.
Andrea caught her by reflex, spat out a feather, and held the protesting bird at arm’s length. “You’ve put on weight again. What about the demons? Don’t tell me you’re slacking off.”
“Definitely not, coo!” Maggie ruffled her feathers with great dignity. “His Majesty sent me personally, coo!”
“I’m almost there—”
“I don’t know the reasons, just that I’m absolutely not loafing, coo.” Maggie landed on the deck, shifted into her Devilbeast form, and the ship dropped a full meter in the water. “Get on. They’re waiting, coo!”
Andrea scrambled onto her back before the hull had time to protest further. “Who—who exactly is ‘they’?”
“Countess Spear and Miss Camilla, coo!” Maggie spread her wings and launched them both toward Neverwinter.