Four days inside a snowbound cavern felt like four months at the bottom of a well.
Ever since the night the intruder had torn through the main hall, shattered the God's Stone of Retaliation in his bare fist, and vanished into the storm with Nightingale, the air inside the Witch Cooperation Association's refuge had turned thick enough to choke on.
Nobody sang by the campfires anymore. Nobody told stories to pass the long winter hours.
With the blizzard howling relentlessly across the upper gorges, the hunting and foraging teams couldn't go more than a hundred paces beyond the cliff ledge without risking freezing to death. By the afternoon of the third day, the last dried strips of smoked venison were gone. By the fourth morning, the one daily meal served from Wendy's iron pots had been reduced to hot water cloudier than river mud, boiled with a handful of bitter pine needles, scraped leather-root, and three spoonfuls of moldy barley at the bottom.
Hunger was an ugly, persistent thing. It scraped at the stomach walls until no one could sleep, and when girls couldn't sleep in the dark, they started to think.
Huddled near one of the smaller perimeter fires on the fourth evening, sixteen-year-old Cherry sat with her knees pulled tight against her chest, staring miserably at her empty wooden bowl.
Using her magic to change the flavor of boiled tree bark into warm rye bread had tricked her tongue for five minutes, yet once the water hit her belly, the hollow, gnawing cramp returned worse than before.
— "Do you think Lightning and Lady Diana made it down the mountain alive?" — Cherry whispered, keeping her voice so low it barely rose above the crackle of the damp twigs in the fire.
Sitting right beside her with a frayed blanket pulled over her shoulders, Selena glanced nervously toward the center of the hall before answering.
Thirty paces away, Catherine and Windseeker were pacing back and forth near the entrance tunnel with loaded crossbows in their arms, their faces darker than thunderclouds. Ever since they discovered that Lightning and Diana Argus had slipped out behind Nightingale, the senior combat witches had been watching the younger girls like prison wardens.
— "Lightning can fly above the snowdrifts, and that tall man with Nightingale broke a Church stone with one hand," — Selena murmured back, hugging her arms around her ribs. — "If anyone could cross this storm, it's them."
Next to Selena, seventeen-year-old Feather didn't say a word.
The small, painfully shy girl had both hands shoved deep under her armpits, her whole body trembling with a continuous, bone-deep shiver that had nothing to do with the draft blowing down the corridor.
Her eighteenth birthday was ten days away now.
That morning, when she had woken up on her damp straw mat, she had felt the first faint, unmistakable twinge at the base of her spine—as if a dozen tiny ice needles were pricking the marrow inside her bones. The surge of winter magic was already building up inside her veins, stretching her vessel toward the breaking point.
Every time Feather closed her eyes, she didn't see the mythical Holy Mountain that Mentor Cara promised them. She saw Airy and Abby convulsing on the stone floor in pools of boiling black blood—and then she heard Nightingale's clear, ringing voice from four nights ago: Anna turned eighteen two weeks ago, and she woke up the next morning without a single scratch! Because she used her magic every day in Border Town, she didn't suffer a second of the Demonic Bite!
If I use my magic right now to empty my body like Nightingale said, Catherine will see me and report me for wasting stamina during a famine, Feather thought, a hot tear slipping down her hollow cheek into her collar. And if I don't... in ten days, I'm going to die in the snow just like the twins.
Six paces behind the younger girls, leaning quietly against a rough granite support pillar while mending a torn leather strap on her travel bag, Cecilia Selda heard every whispered word.
The twenty-two-year-old former count's daughter—known across the camp as Fringe—didn't join their conversation.
Over the past four days, Cecilia had been the very picture of an obedient, hardworking sister. She had helped Scroll count the remaining firewood, she had carried water buckets for Wendy without a single complaint, and she had stayed far away from the outer tunnel so Windseeker wouldn't have an excuse to point a crossbow at her chest.
Yet every hour that passed inside her head was pure calculation.
Beneath the left lapel of her coat, her fingers brushed lightly against the small, tightly tied square of linen she had stolen from Herb's medicine basket four mornings ago.
The barley sacks will be completely empty by Saturday, Cecilia thought, her dark eyes sweeping calmly toward the heavy animal-hide curtain hanging across the rear alcove of the cavern. Wendy and Scroll are too soft to make a hard move while Cara is out cold. Which means everything comes down to what happens the second that curtain moves.
She didn't have to wait much longer.
Behind the thick leather hides of the rear chamber, the air smelled stiflingly of sour sweat, dried blood, and the sharp, bitter tang of boiled willow bark.
A single tallow candle flickered inside a hollowed-out niche in the rock wall, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone platform where a mattress of furs had been laid out.
Kneeling beside the furs, Herb dipped a strip of clean linen into a bowl of cold snowmelt and reached out to dab the sweat off the patient's pale neck.
Before the wet cloth could touch the skin, five bony, ice-cold fingers shot up from the furs like a striking claw and clamped viciously around Herb's thin wrist.
— "Gasp—!"
Herb froze, the linen strip dropping from her other hand as her heart leaped straight into her throat.
On the fur mattress, Cara's sunken golden-green eyes were wide open.
Half of the founder's pale forehead and left temple was wrapped in a thick linen bandage stained dark red where the rock wall had split her scalp open four nights ago. Tight strips of cloth bound her ribs beneath her dark robe, and her lips were cracked and crusted with dried blood. Yet the gaze staring up through the dim candlelight carried a ferocious, bloodshot madness that made Herb feel as though she were kneeling in front of a cornered viper.
— "Where... is he...?" — Cara rasped out, her voice sounding like broken glass ground underfoot as a sharp spasm of pain in her cracked ribs made her wince and bare her teeth. — "The mortal... Nightingale..."
— "M-Mentor! You're awake! Don't try to sit up too fast, your ribs—" — Herb stammered, trying gently to pull her wrist back.
Cara didn't let go; her fingernails dug harder into the healer's skin as she hauled herself halfway upright against the stone wall through sheer, spiteful willpower, her chest heaving with loud, rattling breaths.
— "Wendy! Scroll! Get in here!" — Cara barked, her hoarse shout tearing her throat raw.
Within five seconds, the leather curtain was pushed aside. Wendy, Scroll, and Catherine hurried into the cramped stone chamber, stopping short when they saw their leader sitting up against the wall.
— "Mentor Cara, thank the gods you finally opened your eyes," — Wendy said, stepping forward quickly to help prop a rolled fur behind Cara's back while motioning for Cara to release Herb's bruised wrist. — "Herb was worried the fever might keep you under until the end of the week."
— "The end of the week?!" — Cara's head snapped toward Wendy so fast that a fresh spot of bright red blood bloomed through the bandage on her forehead. — "How long... how long have I been lying on this rock?!"
Wendy exchanged a brief, hesitant glance with Scroll before answering.
— "Four days, Mentor," — Scroll said evenly. — "The attack happened four nights ago. The impact against the wall cracked two of your ribs and gave you a severe concussion. You have been unconscious since Tuesday night."
Four days!
The words hit Cara's brain like a splash of boiling oil.
For four entire days and nights, she—the absolute ruler and founder of the Witch Cooperation Association—had lain helpless in the dirt like a crippled dog while her authority rotted away!
Behind her bandaged brow, the memory of those final three seconds by the brazier replayed in a loop of pure, suffocating humiliation. She hadn't even seen the man's face. One second she had been putting Wendy and Cecilia in their place; the next second, an invisible battering ram had slammed into her back and sent her flying across her own hall like a sack of garbage in front of sixty subordinates!
And worse—far worse than the broken ribs or the bruised pride—was what that attack meant.
— "The God's Stone..." — Cara hissed, her fingers clutching tightly at the fur blanket. — "And Nightingale?!"
— "The intruder shattered the God's Stone in his hand, freed Nightingale, and escaped with her through the Mist before anyone could intercept them," — Catherine reported grimly, stepping forward with her jaw clenched. — "We checked the gorge ten minutes later, Mentor. There was no sign of an army outside, only... they weren't the only ones who left."
Cara's bloodshot eyes narrowed into razor slits.
— "Speak!"
— "Lightning and Diana Argus deserted that same night," — Catherine spat, her voice shaking with anger. — "They took their bags and ran out the tunnel right after the chaos broke out. By the time Scroll and I locked down the entrance, the blizzard had already covered their tracks."
For three long seconds, the only sound inside the rear alcove was the wet, raspy wheezing of Cara's lungs.
Inside Cara's head, the last fragile remnants of rational leadership snapped completely, swallowed whole by a black tidal wave of paranoia.
Three of them, Cara thought, cold sweat breaking out beneath her blood-stained bandages as her heart hammered wildly against her cracked ribs. Nightingale, that little flying brat Lightning, and that baron's daughter Diana! All three of them are marching straight down to Border Town to kneel in front of the Fourth Prince!
In Cara's twisted mind, there was zero possibility that Prince Roland Wimbledon was actually offering witches a peaceful home. As far as she was concerned, mortals only ever wanted two things from witches: to chain them up as slave weapons, or to burn them at the stake.
And now, Prince Roland had a map straight to her front door, an assassin who could walk through walls, a flyer who could spot their trails from the clouds, and a monster of a commander whose bare hands could crush a God's Stone!
If we stay in this cavern another forty-eight hours, that mortal monster will march back up this gorge with five hundred royal soldiers and trap us in a stone coffin! Cara's mind screamed in silent terror. And what about the girls sitting outside this curtain right now?! If Diana and Lightning ran away on the very first night, how many others are whispering behind my back, waiting to slit my throat in my sleep and sell my head to the Prince for a loaf of white bread?!
— "We are leaving," — Cara grated out, shoving the fur blanket off her legs and trying to plant her boots on the stone floor. — "Pack the pots. Wake the camp. As soon as the sky turns gray at dawn, we abandon this cave and march north through the Hidden Forest toward the Holy Mountain!"
Wendy gasped, stepping forward to catch Cara's elbow as the older woman swayed on her feet.
— "Abandon the cave at dawn?!" — Wendy protested, genuine alarm in her green eyes. — "Mentor, think about what you're saying! You could barely sit up two minutes ago, the blizzard outside hasn't stopped, and our food sacks are nearly empty! Half the younger girls are so weak from hunger they can barely walk across the hall, and Feather is less than ten days away from her Awakening! If we force sixty sisters into the deep snow of the Hidden Forest right now, the weakest ones won't survive three days!"
Cara yanked her arm viciously out of Wendy's grasp, wincing as the jerky movement stabbed at her ribs.
Looking at Wendy's earnest, pleading face, Cara didn't see the loyal sister who had stood by her for five years anymore; all she saw was the woman who had stepped in front of her iron poker four nights ago and asked the hall who wanted to follow Nightingale.
— "Did I ask for your opinion on when we march, Wendy?" — Cara's voice dropped into a venomous whisper that made Wendy flinch back half a step. — "Every hour we sit in this hole is an hour that mortal executioner gets closer to our necks! Or would you prefer we sit here waiting politely until Nightingale brings the Fourth Prince's army to hang us all?!"
— "You know that isn't what I meant—" — Wendy started, her voice tight with hurt.
— "Then shut your mouth and go check the medical packs!" — Cara snapped, waving a pale, tattooed hand toward the leather curtain. — "All three of you—get out! Leave the attendance ledger and the ration tally on the crate, and tell Violetta to step inside. I want to speak to her alone."
Scroll opened her mouth as if to point out the mathematical impossibility of feeding fifty-seven women on three sacks of barley in a blizzard, then caught the unhinged, cornered glint in Cara's bloodshot eyes and thought better of it. Placing the leather ledger quietly on the wooden crate beside the candle, Scroll took Wendy gently by the arm and led her and Herb out through the curtain, followed by a stiff-backed Catherine.
Left alone in the dim chamber, Cara sank back onto the edge of the stone platform, clutching her bandaged right side with one hand while flipping open Scroll's attendance ledger with the other.
Her eyes scanned the list of names and the grain tallies at the bottom of the page.
Even through the haze of her paranoia, Cara knew basic arithmetic.
Scroll and Wendy weren't lying about the larder: they had lost four full days of foraging while she was unconscious, and they were down to less than a week of starvation rations. Worse still, moving fifty-seven women in a single column through waist-deep snow in the Hidden Forest would reduce their marching speed to a crawl.
Every time a non-combat girl with a weak body stumbled in a snowdrift, a combat witch like Stone or Violetta had to stop and haul her out. And those same useless girls—who couldn't throw fire, couldn't shoot a crossbow straight, and couldn't fight off a single demonic wolf—were eating half the porridge every evening!
Burdens, Cara thought coldly, her long fingernail dragging down the column of names in the flickering candlelight. Dead weight. And worse than dead weight—they are the exact ones whose weak minds were poisoned by Nightingale's lies about warm beds and painless Awakenings!
If she dragged those frightened, useless mouths along on the final push toward the Holy Mountain, they would eat the food the combat witches needed to survive, slow the column down until the blizzard killed them all, or start a mutiny the first night someone froze to death.
Yet if she stood up in the main hall tomorrow morning and announced that she was abandoning the weakest girls in the snow to save food... Wendy, Scroll, and even loyal fighters like Beatrice and Red Pepper would revolt on the spot.
Unless I don't call it an abandonment, a cold, cunning smile twisted Cara's cracked lips as the plan locked together in her head. What if I give the weaklings exactly what Nightingale promised them?
She grabbed a scrap of crumpled parchment and a stick of charcoal from beside the ledger, rapidly writing down eight names from the bottom of the roster:
Mystery Moon. Cherry. Ellen. Eyesight. Soraya Zoen. Library. Feather. Selena.
Eight girls whose powers were completely useless in a real battle—or, in Mystery Moon's case, an uncontrollable magnetic hazard more likely to pull their own iron pots into their faces than hurt an enemy.
I'll tell the camp that for the sake of our supplies, I am sending these eight down the mountain as an advance scouting party to Border Town, Cara plotted, her eyes gleaming feverishly in the dark. Wendy can't object if she thinks I'm letting them go to the Prince's 'sanctuary,' and the main column gets rid of eight hungry mouths overnight!
Before she finished folding the scrap of paper, the heavy leather curtain at the entrance of the alcove parted without a sound.
Stepping into the low candlelight was a tall, broad-shouldered woman wrapped in a heavy white wolf-fur mantle over a dark dress. Long, straight hair the color of deep twilight purple framed a face carved out of cold granite, and her dark purple eyes held the silent, unflinching discipline of a veteran soldier who never wasted a single word on camp gossip.
It was Violetta.
Out of all the combat witches in the Association, Violetta was the most reliable shield they possessed. Her condensed Violet Matter could stop the charge of a one-ton mutant boar dead in its tracks or slice through bone like a scythe, and her devotion to the survival of her sisters was absolute.
Stopping two paces in front of the stone platform, Violetta bowed her head in silent respect.
— "You summoned me, Mentor."
Cara looked up from the crumpled parchment, forcing her raspy voice into a low, solemn whisper that wouldn't carry past the thick animal hides behind Violetta's back.
— "Come closer, Violetta. What I am about to tell you does not leave this chamber."
Violetta took a single quiet step forward, her stern brow creasing slightly as she noted the fresh blood seeping through Cara's forehead bandage.
— "In two hours, before the sun rises, I am calling the entire Association into the main hall," — Cara whispered, holding up the scrap of parchment with the eight names. — "Our food sacks cannot support sixty mouths through the Hidden Forest. To save the flock from starving on the march to the Holy Mountain, I am separating eight of the younger non-combat girls from the main group and sending them south toward the foot of the mountain, on the trail to Border Town."
Violetta's dark eyes flickered with brief surprise, though she didn't interrupt.
— "If I send those eight girls into the snow alone, they won't survive the first five miles against the demonic beasts, and Wendy will never forgive me," — Cara continued smoothly, weaving her manipulation around the warrior's protective instincts. — "Therefore, I am assigning you and Fringe to escort them safely through the forest to the lower transition ridge. Once they are down out of the worst of the mountain beasts' territory and on the road to the valley, the two of you will turn around and catch up to our main column. I will make sure the main group marches slowly so you can rejoin us without difficulty."
It was a cold-blooded lie—Cara had zero intention of slowing down a single step once the burdens were out of sight—yet to a loyal soldier like Violetta, the order sounded harsh yet necessary.
— "I understand the logistics, Mentor," — Violetta said in her deep, quiet voice. — "Fringe and I will get the eight girls to the foot of the mountain alive."
Just as Violetta turned half an inch to leave, Cara leaned forward off the stone platform, her cold fingers shooting out to grip the edge of Violetta's white fur mantle.
— "Wait. That isn't the real reason I chose you for this march, Violetta," — Cara hissed, her voice dropping so low it sounded like a snake slithering across dry leaves.
Violetta stopped and looked down at her leader.
— "Listen to me very carefully," — Cara whispered, her bloodshot eyes boring into Violetta's. — "Keep an eye on Fringe."
Violetta stiffened slightly, genuine confusion crossing her severe features.
— "Fringe?" — Violetta repeated softly. — "Cecilia has fought beside us in the vanguard for over a year, Mentor. Her Attraction Magic has saved the foraging teams more than once."
— "And she is also the daughter of Count Henry Selda of Valencia—a highborn aristocrat raised in silk, just like Nightingale and just like Diana Argus, who deserted us four nights ago!" — Cara spat venomously under her breath. — "Did you forget who stepped out of the crowd right before that mortal monster attacked me, Violetta?! When Wendy faltered by the fire, it was Fringe who raised her voice in front of the whole hall to demand I take the God's Stone off Nightingale's neck!"
Cara's fingers twisted tightly into the wolf fur on Violetta's shoulder.
— "The noble rot runs deep in their blood, Violetta. I saw the way Fringe looked at that prince's drawing before I burned it. I am putting her on this escort with you to test her," — Cara whispered, her paranoia leaking into every syllable. — "Watch every step she takes on that trail. Watch who she whispers to by the fire, and never turn your back on her in the snow. If she tries to convince those eight girls that I am abandoning them, if she tries to desert to Border Town herself instead of returning to the column with you, or if she shows a single trace of betrayal..."
Cara slowly drew her index finger across her own throat in the dim candlelight.
— "You deal with her on the spot before she can poison the others. Do I make myself clear?"
A heavy, unpleasant knot settled into the pit of Violetta's stomach.
For a warrior who had spent her life standing between her sisters and the claws of monsters, being ordered to spy on a fellow combat witch—a woman she had shared campfires and battle lines with—felt like swallowing a mouthful of ashes.
Yet when Violetta looked at the blood-soaked bandage on Cara's head and remembered the terrifying violence of the intruder who had broken their sanctuary four nights ago, she forced her doubts down behind her iron discipline.
— "Understood, Mentor," — Violetta said quietly, bowing her head once more. — "I won't take my eyes off her."
As Violetta turned and stepped back out through the heavy leather curtain into the dark, freezing main hall, Cara leaned back against the stone wall, letting out a long, ragged wheeze as she clutched the crumpled list of eight names in her fist.
Outside, the darkest hour before dawn had arrived.
— "Catherine!" — Cara called out through the curtain, her hoarse voice cutting across the sleeping cavern. — "Wake every witch in the quarters and bring them to the center rock right now! Anyone who is two minutes late answers to my snakes!"