CH975 · Rewrite
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Chapter 975: A Night in the Wild

If the demon at the forefront had noticed what happened behind it, it could have escaped.

That was the problem with living targets. A floating balloon in a drill couldn’t make decisions. Once Andrea pulled the trigger, the bullet committed to a trajectory—a precise, unalterable path toward a point in space—and if the target chose, in the seconds of the round’s flight, to leave that point, there was nothing she could do about it. She could predict the coin’s face when it left the hand. She couldn’t prevent someone from sweeping it off the table as it landed.

If the lead demon bolted, the Flight Squad would handle it.

Fortunately, it didn’t notice.

It wasn’t carelessness. Flying hundreds of meters above open ground, with the wind hitting your face at speed, the only sound in the world was the rushing air—amplified further by flying into the headwind. Lightning had tested this repeatedly: a demon flying ten meters ahead of a bullet’s path of travel, facing forward, heard nothing when the round passed through the target behind it. The test results had made the rest of the plan possible.

That was why Andrea had taken the rearmost Devilbeast first.

The large-caliber bullet opened a cavity in its belly, destroying the organs as it passed. There was no scream. The demon aboard it was dead and falling before the sound of the shot reached anyone. The lead Devilbeast continued flying, unaware.

A dozen seconds passed.

The second round came from above, struck the lead Devilbeast through the chest, and exited through its spine. The mount folded.

That left the middle one—the Devilbeast carrying a supply pack. It had no rider and no tactical function, but it had instincts. Something had gone wrong with the formation around it. Driven by those instincts, it turned and flew back toward Taquila.

Andrea found it in the silver line’s focus.

The coin turned in the air.

She already knew its face.


Late afternoon. The Ark lifted from the ground and carried the team to their overnight position—a cave in a hillside, its mouth partially obscured by a natural rockfall that the Exploration Group’s maps had marked as reliable cover.

“Are those dried bird beak mushrooms?” Amy crouched at the cave’s entrance, eyes wide.

“I put them there.” Maggie emerged from behind a stone shelf with several glass bottles cradled in her arms. “And there are barbecue seasonings.”

“You have supplies cached at all your stopping points?”

“Of course.” Lightning crossed her arms with the satisfaction of someone confirming the obvious. “And this is one of the sparse ones. If we were at Forest Pavilion right now, we could hold a banquet. Leaf built us a roof and a sunning rack for drying jerky. It’s in a tree near the Impassable Mountain Range—the tree is as big as a castle.”

Countess Spear pressed two fingers to her temple. “I estimate that the seasonings alone cost several gold royals. Any other lord would have both of you simmering in a pot.”

The Chief Butler of Sleeping Island nodded vigorously in agreement.

“I didn’t steal them,” Maggie protested. “They fell on the ground from the kitchen buckets. I collected them.”

“And I didn’t take without paying,” Lightning added. “In the Fjords, map-drawing pays well. I’ve drawn dozens of charts for His Majesty.”

“His Majesty wouldn’t blame you even if you emptied the kitchen,” Sylvie said from the back of the cave, her voice faint. “I’ve seen Nightingale slip into the kitchen six days out of seven for dried fish. She’s even broken into His Majesty’s study to steal—”

Every head in the cave turned.

“To steal what?

Sylvie went very still. “Ah—I’m just hungry. Let’s start cooking.”

A beat of suspended silence. Andrea felt her moment arrive.

“By the way—do any of you actually want to dig into Nightingale’s private life?”

The witches looked at each other. Then, one by one, they found something else to do.

Sharon went to the fire pit and produced sparks with a gesture. Amy’s knife began moving through the mushrooms with practiced speed. Ashes and Phyllis disappeared into the tree line and returned shortly with a boar between them. Countess Spear found a flat rock and arranged herself on it with the careful deliberateness of someone whose stomach still had opinions.

After a while, the smell found its way to everyone.

Not a castle banquet—not close. But in the wilderness, where most meals were cold pancakes and jerky eaten on the move, the smell of fat crisping in a pan and seasoning hitting hot iron was something that couldn’t be argued with. Ashes fried the boar’s belly in its own grease, then poured the rendered fat over the mushrooms and the remaining meat. The pan hissed.

They ate until the boar was gone.

Afterward, the witches arranged themselves in the cave and went to sleep. The cave had that quality of nighttime wilderness—a silence that wasn’t quite silence, threaded with breathing and the slow work of the fire.

Ashes and Phyllis didn’t sleep. An Extraordinary and a God’s Punishment Witch had more endurance than the others, and they took the watch.

“I’ll take the first half,” Ashes said, adding a branch to the fire. “Tilly told me your kind is more vulnerable to sleep deprivation than you appear—even though you need less sleep overall, the deficit accumulates faster and affects your motor control.”

“That’s accurate.” Phyllis settled against the wall. “But it’s still early. I’ll stay up a while.”

Ashes nodded and said nothing more. She wasn’t a talker. Even with Tilly, she was mostly a listener—present, attentive, never filling silence that didn’t need to be filled.

The fire worked quietly. Outside the cave entrance, the dark plains stretched north.

“They’re so close,” Phyllis murmured, looking at the sleeping witches. “Even in the Taquila age, I never saw a unit like this one.”

Ashes let her eyes move across the cave. Lightning lay sprawled on an animal skin, one arm flung out. Maggie had curled against her, and the little girl’s white hair had tumbled loose across both of them like a quilt, impossibly soft-looking against the rough hide.

The corner of Ashes’ mouth moved. “She wasn’t like this at the beginning. Before we took her in, she’d lived as a pigeon for years—alone. She’d nearly lost the ability to speak. At the time, even the smallest unexpected sound would send her into a panic.”

“I hope such closeness lasts.” Phyllis lowered her eyelids. “I hope this Battle of Divine Will is different from the ones before.”

Ashes looked at her. “What do you mean? Faced with a common enemy, we’ll hold together—won’t we?”

“Yes.” Phyllis exhaled. “But the war changes witches. Haven’t you noticed? Magic affects more than just our abilities.”

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