When Nightingale's voice finally ceased, the stone room plunged into an absolute, sepulchral silence, broken only by the occasional dry crackle of the candle flame melting the tallow on the table. The atmosphere, previously thick with tension and threats of assassination, was now saturated with the weight of a centuries-old tragedy.
Roland remained static, an expression of profound seriousness etched onto his features in the half-light. The gears of his modern mind, accustomed to logic and science, were finally beginning to decipher the twisted biology of that world. He finally understood what witches truly were. They were not demons. They were victims of a brutal genetic and magical anomaly.
The vast majority of magical awakenings in witches occurred inexorably during the climatic transition into the Months of Demons. To the ignorant populace, it was precisely on this day of howling winds and dark snow that the "Gates of Hell" supposedly opened. Nightingale explained, with a clinical coldness that barely disguised her own pain, that the moment witches reached adulthood was not a celebration, but a watershed between life and biological damnation. If a girl had not manifested her awakening by the time she turned eighteen, the chances of becoming a witch were practically nil. The body had solidified. However, for the unfortunate ones who awakened before this age limit, the birthday marking their maturity signaled the beginning of an agonizing cycle: they would suffer the dreaded Demonic Bite on the exact day of their awakening, every year from then on.
Hearing the description, Roland felt his stomach turn. It seemed the magnitude of that pain was physically impossible for normal people to comprehend; a short circuit of energy in the central nervous system. As Nightingale detailed this specific part of the curse, the steadiness of her assassin's voice faltered, becoming tremulous and fragile.
According to the traumatic personal experience she carried beneath her cloak, the process was devastating. It was as if a living, hot, enraged entity were trying to tear her flesh from the inside out to escape. Every blood vessel, every tendon, and muscle fiber throbbed so intensely that the mind begged for a faint that rarely came. When the body could not withstand the peak of Magic Power, the collapse began: boiling blood leaked through the pores of the skin like dark sweat, and the intracranial pressure became so unbearable that the eyeballs threatened to bulge out of their sockets.
If, by a miracle of physical endurance and willpower, the witch managed to survive the peak of the Demonic Bite, her trembling, feverish body would slowly recover after four or five lethargic days of absolute rest. Otherwise, she would die in the most grotesque and miserable way possible.
Nightingale lowered her head slightly, the hood casting deep shadows over her eyes. She had witnessed the collapse of countless companions. She had seen, with her own eyes, friends lose the battle. When the energy needed to sustain the stabilization of power failed, the magic turned against the host. The torn bodies transformed, under violent spasms, into an unrecognizable mass of twisted flesh and bones, a literal bulging, bloody meatball. Thick blood, mixed with fragments of viscera cooked from the inside out, erupted violently from every orifice of the body, and then the air around the corpse would begin to boil, turning into a dense, black mist. Jets after jets of miasma continued to spew from the failed body until absolutely nothing remained but pieces of blackened, scarred flesh.
Roland swallowed hard, the bitter taste of dread in his mouth. That was why. It was exactly because of this spectacle of pure biological horror that witches were historically considered the incarnate personification of demons.
When ordinary people, frightened serfs, or superstitious peasants witnessed such a visceral aberration from afar, they were irreversibly terrified. And, frankly, who among the ignorant of that era would pause to reason out the true pathological cause of that macabre death? To make matters worse, the powerful Church saw in it the perfect opportunity to consolidate its power through fear, adding tons of fuel to the fire of popular hatred, claiming in their fervent sermons that this grotesque end was the literal fate of those who surrendered to demons. With time and systematic brainwashing, witches, who were merely victims of their own bodies, became the absolute mouthpieces of evil.
It didn't matter how the outside world, shrouded in prejudice, viewed them. The indisputable fact was that this torture existed, it was palpable, and it was the primary reason why the life expectancy of witches was generally so tragically short. As time and the annual cycles passed, the pain became cumulative and increasingly difficult to bear. Despair took its toll, and as such, many witches chose to take their own lives before the cursed date arrived.
The colossal Demonic Bite that a witch faced the moment she reached biological adulthood was, by far, the most lethal hurdle to overcome. Indeed, before this temporal marker, the magic flowing in their veins was unstable and incomplete; only after weathering the physiological storm of adulthood did their arcane power finally merge with their body in a stabilized form. Following this catastrophic stabilization, the witch not only survived but also experienced an exponential increase in her strength, and new branches of incredibly complex abilities could even be created. Evolution exacted a toll in blood.
Listening to the painful account, Roland fell silent for a long, heavy moment, his fingers tapping soundlessly on the edge of the table. When he finally spoke, his voice was merely a deep whisper:
— "According to the ancient books and Barov's babbling... witches need to find the Holy Mountain, where they will finally receive eternal peace and be saved once and for all from the Demonic Bite. Tell me, Nightingale, is this a tangible truth or just a legend to keep you marching? Arthur already told me that the Holy Mountain is nothing more than a myth."
— "No one knows for sure," she replied, her voice carrying an aching honesty. — "The Holy Mountain has only appeared in legends and the delusions of ancient witches. However, if we don't try, what is left for us? And regardless of what your aide said, he can't state it with certainty either."
Roland rubbed his eyes, profoundly irritated. Anna and Nana were not just helpless little girls; they played an indispensable strategic and logistical role in his monumental plan for an industrial revolution. But the human side of the prince – the conscience of the modern man – could not bear the cruel thought of them running such an astronomical risk to their lives simply for the sake of his political and industrial convenience. He sighed, defeated by the circumstances.
— "Anna is downstairs," he said, his voice weak, feeling himself age with every word. — "I will call her. I will explain the situation, and if she wants to leave with you, I won't stop her. You can take her. As for Nana, the case is different. I will only see her tomorrow, and her family resides here."
— "Thank you for understanding, Your Highness. It seems that, in the end, I did not misjudge you," said Nightingale, the gratitude evident in her tone, as she stood fluidly from the bed to greet him.
Roland moved toward the door, ready to go down the cold stairs and call the guards to fetch Anna, but before his hand could even touch the iron doorknob, the heavy sound of rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor. Then, three rhythmic, energetic knocks vibrated on the solid wood.
The door burst open, and William walked in as if he owned the place. Beside him, her blue eyes wide with mild surprise and wearing a simple cloak, was Anna.
— "Sup, my man Roland. Room service arrived early," William joked, his eyes quickly scanning the room. He immediately noticed the faint smell of ozone and Roland's tense posture, although he couldn't see the invisible form of Nightingale, who had retreated to the dark corners of the room the instant she saw Anna's magical flow in the corridor.
William's presence there was no coincidence. Hours earlier, while looking at the map, Arthur, with his sharp memory of the script, had pulled William into a corner. Arthur muttered, his expression grave, "Nightingale must have finished her evaluation. She will confront Roland tonight. When the castle lights dim, go immediately to Anna's room and bring her to the prince's quarters."
William, true to his practical nature, followed the plan. He had descended the dimly lit flights of stairs, his muffled footsteps echoing in the corridors until he reached the witch's room. When he knocked heavily on the door, Anna had not yet gone to sleep. She was sitting at a raw wooden desk, meticulously copying mechanical diagrams by candlelight. Seeing the 1.85-meter-tall man with short brown hair and a relaxed posture on the threshold, an instinct of pure terror froze the girl's blood.
In the medieval world where Anna grew up and suffered, when a large man holding the keys to the castle knocked on the door of a lonely plebeian girl's room in the middle of the night, the intention was rarely anything other than abuse or violence. Anna gripped the fabric of her skirt, her heart racing like a caged bird, and her mind screamed that he might want to do something "horrible" to her. However, when William spoke, his voice was the same as always: exasperated, pragmatic, and devoid of any predatory malice. "Time to get up, shorty. The scoundrel nerd... I mean, the Prince needs you upstairs for an urgent meeting." He didn't invade the room; he merely leaned against the doorframe, waiting.
Remembering how William had defended her powers in the dungeons, treating her not as an object, but as a fundamental person, Anna forced her muscles to relax. She swallowed the ancestral trauma of her class, chose to trust him, and followed him silently through the corridors.
Now, standing in the center of Roland's room, the girl looked around. Upon hearing from William that there was another hidden presence in the room, she subtly went on alert. Nightingale slowly dispelled the veil of mist, materializing before the three of them, which caused William to let out a low, impressed whistle.
Roland, trying to maintain diplomacy, took Anna's cold hand and briefly introduced them. After the initial shock, the three original occupants of the room sat around a small round table, while William remained leaning against the door with his arms crossed, acting as the silent bouncer.
Nightingale repeated everything she had said before, emphasizing the Demonic Bite with a pitying look. — "In our camp, far from the Church's hatred, there are many people exactly like you, Anna. They will guide you and be your sisters."
Roland intervened, his voice painfully neutral. — "That seems to be the indisputable case, Anna. Even though I signed an employment contract with you, in the event of obscure circumstances that put your own life at risk, I must and will respect your choice. If you agree with her..."
— "I will not."
The three syllables cut the room's tension like breaking glass. Roland blinked, stunned by the speed of the response. — "What did you say?"
— "I said I will not go," Anna interrupted quickly, her voice not rising in volume, but gaining the density of lead. — "I want to stay here."
— "Anna, I am not lying to you to scare you." Nightingale frowned, frustration breaking her calm. — "I can feel the growing Magic Power in your body is dangerously close to maturity. Your day of adulthood will arrive after the start of the Months of the Demons. The sooner you reach our camp and receive instruction from those who have already survived, the safer you will be!"
Anna paid no attention to Nightingale's dramatic pleas. Instead, she turned her head and fixed her piercing gaze directly on Roland.
— "Your Highness, do you remember when you asked me, a few weeks ago, if I would like to return to classes at Karl's College with Nana and learn passively with the other children?"
Roland nodded slowly, recalling the conversation.
— "At that time, I did not answer immediately. But what you said afterward stayed with me... I don't care whether or not I must live pretending to be a normal person." Anna's voice flowed, soft, unshakeable, and absurdly natural in the face of the threat of a bloody death. — "I am what I am. I just want to stay and work with His Royal Highness. Nothing else."
Roland thought, with all his intelligence as an older man in another body, that he had finally understood Anna's complex and damaged mind, but now, facing her, he realized he didn't understand anything at all.
He peered deeply into the witch's blue eyes. He couldn't see any of the emotions he expected to find. It wasn't a pathological dependency, it wasn't the panic of a frightened child, and it wasn't a blind, romantic love that made her stay. There was no superficiality there... there was only an abyssal, deep, bottomless tranquility, the terrifying calm of someone who had already accepted the worst of the world and decided she would no longer run.
He remembered the first time they met, when she was tied up in the execution yard, awaiting the gallows and the people's stones. In that dark hour, right before he saved her, her eyes had also seemed as mysteriously calm and unfathomable as they did now.
The one formidable difference was that, in that mournful moment, she was awaiting the end; today, her face in the soft candlelight was flushed and full of vibrant life, like a blue flower blooming against the frost of death. Even with all the bloody threats detailed by Nightingale, she didn't fear death, nor did she wait for it with crossed arms.
— "The Demonic Torture will not kill me," declared Anna, her voice sounding like an irrevocable promise to the universe. — "I will defeat it."
Nightingale stared at the girl for a long time, her shoulders slumping. She closed her eyes, absorbing the magnitude of that stubbornness, and took a deep breath, letting the air out slowly. — "Alright, Anna. I understand your choice."
Roland felt an immense relief flood his chest, but the tension returned shortly after. — "So, since the decision has been made... are you going to leave and let us be in peace?" he asked.
— "I am not going anywhere. I will remain here in Border Town," she said, grabbing the dark fabric and pulling the large hood back over her golden hair, standing up. — "Besides, with the rivers freezing soon, the main camp in the mountains will not move substantially until the cruel end of the Months of the Demons."
— "But why stay here lurking?" Roland frowned, shocked and uncomfortable. Did that formidable assassin really plan to secretly watch them, observing their every step, from the bathroom to the planning table, for the entire damn months-long winter?
— "I don't think stubborn and brave little ones who haven't yet reached adulthood truly understand the physical danger that awaits them," Nightingale's voice turned cold again, a living reminder of mortality. — "I have been on the brink of death, tearing out my own nails, and I have witnessed countless times the loss of my companions. When that damn day comes for her, I will be in the shadows, and I will help her endure. If..." Nightingale shrugged, a casual gesture that contrasted terribly with the weight of her next words. — "If she is not strong enough and does not survive, I have vast experience in dealing with the remains. I will organize a quick funeral so you won't have to clean the blood off the floor."
Without waiting for a response to that macabre statement, she walked silently to the dagger-marked door. William made no move to stop her, merely watching her with admiration and fascination. Nightingale pulled the silver dagger from the wood with a single, fluid yank and, solemnly, knelt again in a quick bow before Roland.
— "Then, Your Highness, I will take my leave for tonight," she whispered. Before anyone could blink, her body seemed to melt away. She gradually disappeared, the edges of her cloak swallowed by the darkness of the room until nothing was left but empty air.
As William opened the door to check the empty corridor, Roland sat heavily in his chair, amazed and terrified. Could this be Nightingale's Magic? he pondered, his engineer's brain trying to dissect the impossible. Spatial folding? Sound concealment? Her absolutely silent movement and voice simply make her a lethal assassin, something out of the worst nightmares of modern warfare. And by the perfect way she threw the dagger into the oak door, she obviously wasn't just born with the power, but had severe military training. Aside from being a mere survival group of the same kind of people, does the Witch Cooperation Association also act as a military guild and assist her in this kind of lethal training? Or did she already possess the brutal skills from her past life even before awakening and being hunted?
The information available in his brain about the obscure group was frustratingly scarce. The original Roland was a stupid prince focused on pleasures, and no matter how much he scoured the fragmented mind of the body he inherited, he could find absolutely nothing useful in his old memories.
Roland blinked away the analytical thoughts and focused his attention on the quiet girl in front of him, who was now looking resolutely at her own calloused hands.
— "It is late, and tomorrow will demand a lot from us at the forges," said Roland, his voice softening. Overcome by a paternal impulse, he reached out and, with a gesture he considered gentle and comforting, patted the top of the girl's head. — "Go back to bed and rest under William's guard, Anna. We will sort everything out in due time."
But the reaction he received paralyzed him.
To the prince's absolute and genuine surprise, Anna did not accept the comfort. With a sharp, quick movement, the girl raised her hand and swatted his touch away from her hair with a cutting firmness. The gesture carried no hatred, but a clear rejection of that infantilization. She stood up abruptly, smoothed her skirt, and without looking back or saying a single word of farewell, marched toward the exit, walking right past William, who merely raised an eyebrow at Roland.
William closed the heavy oak door behind her.
In the freezing corridor, away from Roland's rational gaze and William's curious stare, the distant lights went out, and Anna was completely enveloped in the merciless shadows of the castle. All the unshakeable facade and colossal calm she had maintained before Nightingale and death suddenly abandoned her. Her legs gave out, and she leaned delicately, her back against the cold, rough wood of the prince's door. The hot sting of repressed emotions crushed her chest, and her clear eyes filled with thick, painful tears.
She didn't want to be treated like a helpless little puppy that needs a pat on the head. She had just promised to fight the most brutal death known to humanity so she could stay by his side, not as a rescued pet, but as a strong and indispensable woman.
She raised her trembling head, put her two thin arms in front of her wet face to muffle her own crying in the darkness, and sighed, her chest heaving as she whispered a word that no one but the old stones could hear.
— "Fool."