Dawn broke on the morning after Anna's awakening with an atmosphere that the gray stone walls of Border Town's keep had rarely experienced during the Months of the Demons: genuine, unshakeable hope.
Watching the seventeen—now eighteen-year-old—fire witch cross the threshold of adulthood without shedding a single tear or suffering a single spasm of pain had lifted an invisible mountain off Nightingale's shoulders. For the past four years of her life with the Witch Cooperation Association, every approaching birthday had felt like a death sentence ticking down in the dark.
Now, the biological hypothesis that Arthur and William had laid out in Prince Roland's study a month ago was no longer just a theory on paper; it was proven, repeatable law. The Demonic Bite wasn't the devil claiming his due—it was simply a build-up of magical pressure inside an unconditioned vessel. And if a witch systematically drained her Magic Core every night before sleep, she didn't burst into black ash; she evolved.
For the first time since the day her own powers had awakened in Silver City, Veronica breathed the crisp morning air without feeling the executioner's clock hanging over her sisters' necks.
Around eight o'clock, William found her standing alone in the third-floor eastern gallery, looking out through one of the narrow lancet windows at the snow-covered courtyard below.
Outside the glass, a fresh morning squall was whipping white powder across the rooftops, yet as Nightingale stood in the pale winter light with her white cloak fastened neatly at her throat, her posture was relaxed and a bright, determined gleam burned inside her eyes.
Walking up quietly behind her, William leaned his broad shoulder against the cold stone embrasure and crossed his arms over his heavy black wool winter tunic.
— "Already packing your mental travel bags, gorgeous?" — William asked, a warm, easy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Nightingale turned her head to look at him, a small, genuine smile softening her pale features.
— "I need to leave for the northern peaks as soon as possible, William," — Nightingale said, her husky voice steady and filled with quiet urgency as she glanced back out at the driving snow. — "After what we witnessed in Anna's room at midnight... I can't keep this truth locked inside these walls for another day. There are at least five younger sisters in our caravan whose eighteenth birthdays fall before the spring thaw. If I can reach the Association's camp in time and teach them how to empty their Magic Cores every night, I can keep them from being devoured by their own power in the dark."
— "I know," — William replied, uncrossing his arms and straightening his tall frame beside her. — "Which is why my boots are already greased and my pack is sitting by the stable door. I'm going up into that mountain range right beside you."
Nightingale blinked, turning fully to face him in surprise at the immediate, matter-of-fact declaration.
Even though she had seen him tear through mutated buffaloes and wolf packs in the snowfield the day before like an unstoppable force of nature, the Impassable Mountain Range in the dead of winter was a completely different beast. Up above the timberline, the problem wasn't just monsters; it was eighty-mile-per-hour blizzards, treacherous ice crevasses hidden beneath five-foot drifts, and sub-zero temperatures that froze human lungs solid.
— "Are you sure about this, William?" — Nightingale asked softly, her tone heavy with a mixture of gratitude and genuine, protective concern. — "Inside my Mist World, I can bypass the snowdrifts and the wind, yet if I carry a second person inside my veil for hours at a time, my stamina drains three times as fast. The mountain trail up to the northern valleys is absurdly long, steep, and narrow. For most of the climb, we would have to stay in complete physical contact so the Mist doesn't throw you out into a gorge."
The serious warrior mask on William's face immediately broke into his signature, shameless rogue's grin.
Leaning down slightly so that his face was level with hers, he dropped his deep baritone into a smooth, velvety murmur:
— "Even better," — William winked, not missing a single beat. — "If the trail is that narrow and your magic requires contact, that just means we're legally required to walk pressed right up against each other the whole way up the mountain. The longer and narrower the path, the more hours I get to spend holding my beloved's hand."
Three days ago—or even yesterday morning—a line that cheesy would have made Nightingale roll her eyes toward the ceiling, scoff at his audacity, or slip backward into the gray mist to hide her blush.
This morning, however, after the tears she had shed against his chest in his bedroom and the quiet hours they had shared across the kitchen table at midnight, the last defensive wall between them was gone. She no longer felt like a scarred, blood-stained weapon hiding in the shadows; around him, she felt cherished, safe, and whole.
Instead of stepping back or firing off a sarcastic remark, Nightingale's smile widened, her striking eyes crinkling with a rare, unguarded sweetness.
Taking half a step forward into his personal space, she raised her right hand, pulled off her white leather glove with her teeth, and—with a disarming, natural boldness—slid her slender, pale fingers directly between William's large, calloused ones, intertwining their hands and giving his palm a firm, warm squeeze.
Thump-THUMP!
This time, the tables turned completely: it was William whose breath hitched in his chest, his eyes widening slightly as a sudden, warm wave of heat crept up the back of his own neck.
He was a guy who had spent his whole life dishing out bold provocations and playboy one-liners with a bulletproof grin—yet havingGraycastle's most elusive assassin look right up into his eyes, take his bare hand without a shred of hesitation, and return his affection so openly caught him completely flat-footed.
Inside his chest, a quiet, overwhelming wave of genuine happiness settled beneath his ribs. So this is what the real Veronica looks like when she isn't carrying the weight of the world alone, he thought.
Yet as much as William wanted to stay in that sunlit gallery holding her hand all morning, the cold reality of what waited for them up in those peaks refused to be ignored.
Slowly, William tightened his fingers around hers and raised his free hand to cover the back of her grasp, the playful teasing fading from his dark eyes to reveal the sharp, serious gravity of a commander briefing his partner before a war:
— "Veronica, listen to me very carefully before we go down to the stables," — William said quietly, using her birth name to underscore every word. — "When you and I reach your sisters' camp up in the mountain range, our mission is to convince them to turn around and come down to the warmth of Border Town. However... I need you to promise me right now that the moment we step inside that camp, you will keep your guard up at one hundred percent—even around your own sisters."
Nightingale's soft smile faltered slightly, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion, though she didn't let go of his hand.
— "Keep my guard up against my sisters?" — she asked softly. — "William, Wendy and Scroll are my family. What did you see in those chronicles of yours?"
— "I'm not worried about Wendy or Scroll; I'm talking about Cara and her hardcore loyalists," — William warned, his voice dropping low and firm. — "Think about the psychology of that camp, Veronica. Cara has spent her entire adult life preaching that mortal lords are monsters and that the mythical Holy Mountain is the only salvation for witches. Now, imagine you walk into her tent alongside a six-foot-two man working for a royal Prince, and you tell her that the Holy Mountain is a lie, that the Demonic Bite can be cured with simple daily exercise, and that she needs to lead her flock into a nobleman's castle."
Nightingale went very still as the political reality of that confrontation clicked in her head.
— "To girls like Wendy or Leaf, who just want their sisters to survive the winter, your news will sound like a miracle," — William continued grimly. — "To a proud, dogmatic leader like Cara, however, admitting that the Holy Mountain doesn't exist means admitting that every sister who froze to death on this march died for nothing. She will view our offer as a trap set by Prince Roland—and if you push her too hard in front of the others or try to lead the younger girls away from her authority... Cara won't hesitate to turn her venomous snakes on you and treat you as a traitor."
A heavy, painful silence hung between them for three seconds.
To Nightingale, the mere thought of crossing blades with Cara—the strict, grey-haired mentor who had pulled her out of the gutter years ago and taught her how to survive—felt like a knife twisting in her stomach. If anyone else had suggested that Cara would attack her own sisters out of wounded pride, Nightingale would have slapped them on the spot.
Yet as she looked up into William's steady, unblinking dark eyes, she remembered that every single warning this man had given her—from the traitors in the granary culvert to the exact secret names of her sisters and the painless evolution of Anna's emerald fire last night—had come true down to the letter. He had never once lied to her.
Letting out a long, quiet breath through her nose, Nightingale gave his hand a single, firm squeeze as the soft warmth in her blue eyes hardened into the cold, razor-sharp vigilance of an elite operative.
— "I understand, William," — Nightingale said, giving him a solemn nod. — "I love my sisters, and I owe Cara a debt for the past, yet I am not blind to how stubborn she has become over that book of hers. If she puts her own pride above the lives of forty girls freezing in the snow... I will not let my guard down. We will bring my sisters home to safety, whatever it takes."
— "That's my girl," — William smiled, feeling a wave of relief as he gave her shoulder a light tap. — "Come on. Roland and Arthur are already waiting for us down by the courtyard stables to sign off on the departure."
Thirty minutes later, down in the snow-covered inner courtyard beside the castle stables, the final preparations for the northern expedition were complete.
Although the heaviest of the morning squall had passed, a bitter, whistling wind still swept down from the North Slope, making the breath of the two massive, broad-chested northern draft horses standing by the trough billow into thick clouds of white steam. Both mounts were already saddled with heavy winter furs and loaded down with bulky leather saddlebags packed with dried meat rations, waterskins, flintlocks, and spare wool blankets.
Standing beside the wooden paddock fence in his fur-lined royal cloak was Prince Roland, accompanied by Count Arthur, who stood half a pace behind the Prince in his immaculate knee-length black wool overcoat with both gloved hands tucked warmly inside his pockets.
As William and Nightingale walked across the crunched snow toward the horses—both of them dressed in heavy, dark-lined winter traveling cloaks—Roland stepped forward to meet them.
— "Watch your footing in the upper passes, both of you," — Roland said earnestly, his gray eyes moving between his Commander-in-Chief and his unseen bodyguard. — "Since this expedition cannot wait for the snow to let up, I will have Deputy Commander Iron Axe and Sir Carter assume joint command of the southern wall rotations until you return. And Nightingale..."
The Prince turned directly toward the blonde witch, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of a ruler's promise:
— "When you reach the Witch Cooperation Association's camp, tell your mentor and every single one of your sisters that the gates of Border Town are open to them," — Roland declared. — "I don't view them as tools or curiosities; we need their abilities to build a new era, and in return, I swear on my name that this valley will be the warm, permanent sanctuary you have all been searching for. Bring them all home."
Touched by the complete absence of noble arrogance in the young prince's words, Nightingale placed her gloved right hand over her chest and bowed her head in genuine respect:
— "We will bring them back to your walls, Your Highness. You have my word," — she replied.
Beside Roland, Arthur didn't bow or offer sentimental speeches; stepping up to the wooden fence rail, the twenty-four-year-old strategist looked over the two saddled horses with his usual clinical pragmatism, cutting straight through the emotion of the send-off:
— "Take the horses all the way up to the base of the Concealing Forest ridge before switching to the Mist," — Arthur instructed, his smooth baritone calm and businesslike. — "I am well aware that moving on foot inside Miss Nightingale's planar dimension is faster than riding through deep drifts. However, you are not going up there on an assassination run; you are going to extract forty malnourished, frostbitten women from an unmapped mountain range. You will need pack animals waiting at the lower trailhead to carry extra winter rations up and haul the weakest girls back down through the snow. Let logistics do the heavy lifting so you don't exhaust your stamina before a fight even starts."
William walked over to the larger of the two black stallions, gripping the leather pommel and swinging himself effortlessly up into the saddle in a single fluid motion before adjusting the heavy wool reins in his gloved hands.
— "Always thinking about the baggage train, aren't you, Mr. Strategist?" — William smirked down from horseback, though there was no trace of last night's anger left in his voice as he checked the saddlebags. — "Don't worry, we'll tether the horses at the treeline shelter and use them for the haul back. Oh, and by the way, Art—that dark-gray suit looks sharp against the snow, as usual."
Down by the fence, Arthur stood still in the freezing wind, looking up at his lifelong friend sitting tall in the saddle and the lethal blonde assassin mounting the second horse beside him.
For a fraction of a second, the cold, impenetrable corporate mask that Arthur wore like a second skin seemed to shift by a millimeter.
Even though Arthur had already made his own secret preparations to fly north into those exact same peaks alone later that day—using a parallel ridge route so he could intercept the Demon vanguard from the shadows, claim his [Magical Evolution], and secure the forest witch Leaf on his own terms without William's interference—he knew better than anyone that the Impassable Mountain Range was a lethal meat grinder where a single mistake meant death.
— "William. Miss Nightingale," — Arthur said quietly, his dark eyes locking onto the two of them as his voice lost a fraction of its metallic monotony. — "Do try to return in one piece."
Up in the saddle, William grinned, raising two gloved fingers to the edge of his forehead in a relaxed, modern salute:
— "Count on it, bro. Hold down the fort while I'm gone, and make sure the kitchen keeps some roast meat warm for when we bring the guests back!" —
With a sharp flick of the leather reins and a spray of white powder beneath eight iron-shod hooves, William and Nightingale turned their mounts away from the stables, trotted swiftly through the open southern portcullis of the castle yard, and galloped side by side out into the swirling white vastness leading toward the northern peaks.
Standing by the wooden paddock fence, Prince Roland watched the two dark silhouettes shrink against the snowfield until the falling flakes swallowed them completely.
Letting out a long, deep breath that rose in a thick column of white steam into the freezing air, the young prince rubbed his gloved hands briskly together for warmth and turned to walk back toward the main keep, with Arthur falling smoothly into step half a pace to his right.
— "If this expedition succeeds, Arthur, it changes the entire scale of our winter and spring projections," — Roland remarked, his engineer's mind already jumping ahead to the housing and resource math as their boots crunched across the courtyard snow. — "Nightingale said there are over forty witches marching in that caravan. If William and she actually convince forty women to walk into Border Town next week, the guest wing of this castle won't have nearly enough rooms to hold a quarter of them. The moment the ground thaws a fraction—or even before—I will need to pull Karl's masons off the town wall to build a dedicated, heated multi-story witch dormitory in the southern courtyard."
Climbing the first stone step of the castle entrance, Roland glanced sideways at his black-coated advisor and flashed a dry, playful smile:
— "Which means, my dear Count Arthur, that I am afraid that luxury private manor I promised to build for you after the wall was finished just got bumped down the construction priority list once again."
Walking beside the Prince with his hands tucked inside his overcoat pockets and his posture immaculate, Arthur kept his dark eyes fixed straight ahead on the open oak doors of the hall.
— "Perhaps it will be delayed, Your Highness... and perhaps it won't," — Arthur replied softly, his baritone smooth, enigmatic, and offering neither confirmation nor denial.
Right on the middle stone step, Roland stopped walking.
Turning his head, the Prince frowned slightly, fixing a sharp, perceptive gaze onto the profile of the twenty-four-year-old strategist beside him.
As a fellow soul from Earth—and having worked across the desk from Arthur every single day for a month—Cheng Yan had begun to learn the subtle rhythms of the younger man's speech. Whenever Arthur answered a straightforward logistical statement with a vague "Perhaps, perhaps not," it meant the strategist was holding a variable on his mental spreadsheet that he hadn't shared with the room.
— "Why do you phrase it like that, Arthur?" — Roland asked quietly, his gray eyes narrowing. — "Does that comment have something to do with what is waiting for William and Nightingale up in those mountains? Did those 'records' you two brought from the future say something specific about this rescue?"
Standing one step below the Prince in the falling snow, Arthur didn't flinch.
Behind his calm, unblinking dark eyes, his Intelligence: 14 brain was looking at a cold labyrinth of statistical probabilities that he had no intention of laying out on Roland's desk before lunch:
Cara's fanatical refusal to abandon the Holy Mountain myth; the inevitable schism inside the camp when Nightingale reveals the truth about the Demonic Bite; the brutal sub-zero blizzards already sweeping the upper passes; and the fact that an armed vanguard of intelligent Demons is currently setting up an ambush along their exact route.
Even with William's monstrous physical stats and Arthur's own secret intervention with Level 14 Telekinesis later today, Arthur knew the cold math of war: you do not extract forty starving refugees out of a mountain ambush in the middle of a blizzard without friction. Between Cara's stubbornness and the freezing terrain, the actual headcount of witches who would ultimately walk through the gates of Border Town was still a highly volatile number.
Yet burdening Cheng Yan with grim casualty projections right after his bodyguard rode out the gate would only distract the Prince from finishing the new artillery blueprints.
— "It is nothing for Your Highness to lose sleep over," — Arthur said smoothly, his voice returning to its polite, unreadable cadence as he gestured toward the warm interior of the entrance hall. — "In any mid-winter mountain operation, weather and human stubbornness introduce statistical fluctuations into the final headcount. Let us wait to see how many guests actually walk through the gate before we redraw Master Karl's brick budgets. For now, we have Duke Ryan's spring offensive and the new cannon castings to finalize."
Recognizing the impenetrable wall of a strategist who had decided the subject was closed, Roland let out a quiet sigh, shook his head, and stepped inside the heated hall—while Arthur walked calmly behind him, keeping the cold blueprint of the northern mountains locked strictly inside his own shadow.