Dusk had long since surrendered to a deep, suffocating darkness over Border Town. In this era, there was no "nightlife" to speak of; the very concept was a luxury the common folk couldn't imagine. The town didn't even possess a word to describe the hours after sunset beyond "the dark," and the streets were abandoned long before the moon reached its zenith. For the residents, sleep was the only escape from the cold and the hunger.
Roland retired to his quarters, his boots echoing hollowly against the cold stone of the corridor. As he entered his room, a fleeting, intrusive thought from the "old" Roland crossed his mind—the memory of a prince's prerogative to summon a maid to "practice the sport" and ward off the nighttime chill. But the engineer Cheng Yan quickly suppressed it with a flash of self-conscious irritation. He had too much on his mind to play the role of a decadent royal, and the idea of such an entitled request made his modern sensibilities recoil.
As soon as he struck the flint and lit the lone candle on his desk, the small, amber flame flickered wildly. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a slow, rhythmic clapping coming from directly behind him.
The sound was sharp, deliberate, and entirely impossible.
— "That was a spectacular lecture today, Your Highness. Truly. I certainly didn't expect the Fourth Prince—a man whose reputation preceded him as a rake and a fool—to actually be a man of such profound culture and logic."
The voice was female, unfamiliar, and laced with a teasing, melodic edge. Instantly, a violent chill raced down Roland's spine, making the hair on his arms stand on end. God only knew how a stranger had bypassed the guards, the heavy oak doors, and his own senses to enter his private sanctum. His first instinct was survival; he lunged toward the door, his hand reaching for the iron handle, but he never made it.
A sudden gust of freezing air brushed past his ear, followed by a sharp, vibrating thrum. A silver dagger was now firmly embedded in the wood of the door, its blade quivering just a finger's width from his cheek.
— "Please, do not act on impulse, Your Highness. I have no wish to harm you; I only came here to speak. If I wanted your head, you would have felt the steel before you heard the applause."
Roland swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He turned around slowly, forced to yield to the invisible pressure of the intruder's presence.
In the dim, dancing candlelight, he finally distinguished the figure. She was sitting casually on the edge of his bed, her body enveloped in a heavy, dark robe. A deep hood concealed her features, leaving only the sharp line of her chin visible. Her shadow, cast by the flickering candle, loomed like a monolithic specter against the stone wall behind her, occupying more than half the room.
— "Who are you?" Roland asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
— "I have no name that matters to the world, but my sisters call me Nightingale." — She stood up with a fluid, predatory grace and straightened her tunic. Then, unexpectedly, she knelt and performed a perfect, standard noble bow. — "First of all, I am here to express my profound gratitude to Your Royal Highness, Roland Wimbledon."
Gratitude? Roland's engineering mind began to scan for details. He noticed that certain embroidered patterns on her tunic emitted a faint, peculiar glow in the firelight. They formed a design he had seen before: three parallel triangles with a central, unblinking eye.
— "The pattern on the coin... the Eye of the Holy Mountain. You're from the Witch Cooperation Association."
The warnings Barov had dumped on his desk earlier that week surfaced in his mind like bubbles in a swamp.
— "You are... a witch."
— "Hahaha!" — she let out a series of light, musical laughs that didn't match the deadly dagger in the door. — "Your Highness is indeed very well-informed for a Prince in exile."
Upon hearing her confirm her identity, Roland felt a strange wave of relief. She wasn't an assassin sent by his siblings, Timothy or Garcia. She was something far more complicated, but at least her motivations weren't purely political.
— "Why has a witch like you ended up in a remote, muddy hole like Border Town?" Roland asked, sitting slowly in his chair to show he was no longer a threat. "If you're here for the girl, you're late. If I had truly wanted to hang her, she would have been ash and bone weeks ago."
— "I know. And if you had actually done so, I would be standing over your corpse right now, not speaking to you," Nightingale said, leaning back against the bedpost. — "The Association does not like to interfere in the affairs of the mundane world, especially those involving the rot of royalty. Honestly, for a witch of my standing to kill a prince would be no more difficult than snuffing that candle. But I wish to honor the rules of my sisters. However... if you leave a bad impression, I can still be persuaded to change my mind."
It was a blatant, razor-sharp threat. Roland tried to ease the tension with the only thing he had: the truth.
— "The witch is alive. She is safe. She is fed."
— "I know that. And besides her, there is the other one—the little healer," Nightingale nodded. — "I arrived here a week ago. I have been watching you from the corners of the room, from the shadows of the eaves. I saw everything. I saw the wall, the cement, and the way you look at them. I don't quite understand why you—and those two strange 'scholars' you keep as shadows—don't show the typical hatred toward our kind. Regardless, on behalf of the Association, I must thank you for their lives."
Roland leaned back, his eyes fixed on the silver blade still vibrating in the door.
— "Thanks are welcome, but people don't risk infiltrating a Prince's bedchamber just for courtesy," he said. "What do you want, Nightingale?"
Nightingale tilted her head, her hood shifting. — "I came for Anna and little Nana. The Witch Cooperation Association believes they belong with us. We are taking them to the Holy Mountain."
Her voice turned solemn, almost religious. — "There, they will be safe from the Church's hounds. They can live among their own kind, far from the judgment and the gallows of men. It is the only refuge left in a world that wants us dead."
Roland let out a short, dry laugh—a sound of genuine disbelief.
— "The Holy Mountain? If you've been lurking here for a week, you know the Months of Demons are at our doorstep. Trying to cross the Impassable Mountain Range right now, with the miasma turning every beast into a nightmare, isn't a journey—it's assisted suicide. You'd be leading them into a mass grave."
— "And what is more dangerous, Your Highness? The cold of the mountains, or the fire of the Church that has hunted us since the dawn of the first age?" — Nightingale retorted, rising from the bed. Her voice grew sharp. — "Furthermore, Anna is approaching her Day of Adulthood. At eighteen, witches face the 'Demonic Torture'—the Bite of Awakening. If her power isn't stabilized by the presence of her sisters, she will die in agony, her own magic consuming her from the inside out. The Association is the only place that offers her a chance to survive her own blood."
While the air inside the room grew thick with the heat of the argument, Arthur remained perfectly motionless in the dark hallway outside. His back was pressed against the cold stone, his ears tuned to every syllable. He knew that one wrong move—one poorly timed interruption—could shatter the delicate bridge Roland was trying to build. He knew the "Holy Mountain" was a tragic mirage, and he knew that the solution to the "Bite" was simpler than Nightingale believed: utility and study. But he stayed his hand, letting the human drama play out. He was the observer, waiting for the moment of choice.
Inside, Roland felt a flare of frustration. Anna and Nana were the twin pillars of his industrial dream, but the modern man inside him couldn't bear the thought of them being used as tools if they truly desired a different life.
— "Anna is in the guest quarters below. I will call her," Roland said, his voice sounding tired. "If she wants to go with you, I won't stop her. As for Nana, you can speak to her tomorrow under a flag of truce."
— "I appreciate your cooperation; it seems I didn't misjudge your character," Nightingale said, her hand moving away from her belt.
Roland walked to the door, his hand hesitating on the iron knob. He expected to have to navigate the dark corridors to wake the girl, but as he pulled the door open, he froze.
Arthur was standing there, his posture impeccable, his eyes calm and unblinking. And by his side stood Anna.
Arthur's expression was one of absolute, almost irritating tranquility. He hadn't just predicted that Roland would give Anna the choice; he had anticipated the exact timing to ensure the conversation wasn't derailed by misunderstandings. Anna stood alert, her orange-red hair glowing faintly in the spill of candlelight from the room. Her blue eyes reflected Roland's gaze with a terrifying clarity.
— "It seems your 'scholar' is more than just a man of books, Your Highness," Nightingale's voice emerged from the shadows of the room, now laced with a renewed, sharp caution. She hadn't expected anyone in this backwater castle to move with such discretion.
Roland looked from Arthur to Anna, his mind reeling. — "Arthur? How did you..."
— "I apologize, Your Highness. I was listening, and I surmised the dialogue would reach this juncture," Arthur interrupted softly, giving a brief, efficient bow. — "Miss Anna has the right to hear the Association's proposal in person. Her destiny is her own to forge."
Anna took a step forward, entering the room and facing the hooded figure. Nightingale repeated her plea—the promise of the Holy Mountain, the sanctuary of sisters, and the warning of the fatal "Demonic Torture" that would come in two months' time. She spoke of the accumulation of magic like a poison that only the Association could drain.
Arthur, leaning against the doorframe, observed the scene. He knew the truth: that constant, productive use of magic stabilized the mana flow. But he remained a silent sentinel, letting the girl speak.
— "I won't go," Anna said.
The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a mountain. Roland was stunned. — "Anna? Do you understand what she's saying? The danger—"
— "I said I won't go," Anna repeated, her voice firming. — "I want to stay here. In Border Town."
— "Anna, I am not lying to you," Nightingale frowned, her silhouette shifting. — "I feel the magic maturing in your body. It is reaching a critical mass. When your adulthood arrives, the pain will be unbearable. The camp is the only safe place."
Anna didn't even look at Nightingale. Her gaze was locked onto Roland.
— "Your Highness, do you remember when you asked me if I wanted to return to the college? To study with the other children and live a 'normal' life?" — Roland nodded dumbly. — "At that time, I didn't answer. But what you said afterward... about my fire being a tool, not a curse... I don't care if I live as a 'normal' person anymore."
Anna's voice was soft, devoid of the resignation she had shown at the gallows. — "I only want to stay here, with Your Highness. I want to build what you showed me. Nothing more."
Roland looked into her eyes and saw a profound, unfathomable tranquility. It wasn't the calm of the dead he had seen weeks ago; it was the calm of someone who had finally found a purpose. She didn't fear the "Bite," because for the first time, she felt her life was worth the struggle.
— "The torture won't kill me," Anna stated. — "I will overcome it because I have work to do."
Nightingale closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. The conviction in the girl's voice was something she hadn't encountered in years of recruiting.
— "Fine. I understand."
— "So, will you leave us in peace now?" Roland asked.
— "No," Nightingale said, pulling back her hood to reveal a face of haunting, silver-blonde beauty. — "I'm staying. The camp won't leave the region until the end of the winter anyway."
— "Why?" Roland questioned.
— "Because I don't think you realize the agony that is coming," Nightingale said, her eyes softening as she looked at Anna. — "I have been on the brink of death. I have buried sisters who thought they were strong enough. When that day comes, I will be here to help her. And if..." — she shrugged with a dark, pragmatic grace — "if she doesn't survive, I have a great deal of experience in handling funerals."
Arthur stepped aside as Nightingale moved toward the door. She sheathed her dagger in a blur of motion and knelt once more before Roland.
— "I shall take my leave for tonight," she said, giving Arthur a brief, pointed look that promised a future conversation. Seconds later, her form began to blur, dissolving into a monochrome mist that left no trace, no scent, and no footprint behind. The room felt suddenly colder, the candle flame finally standing still in the sudden silence.