The cave was plunged into a silence that buzzed in the ears.
The air still carried the acrid smell of smoke from the brazier, mixed now with the stone dust kicked up by the brutal impact.
Red Pepper stood paralyzed a few meters from the wooden stake, her eyes wide to the point where her sockets hurt. Her breath had caught in her throat, and her mind operated in a chaotic stupor, desperately trying to process the sequence of events that had lasted less than a second.
What... What was that? Her inner voice screamed, choked by shock.
She looked at the rough stone floor; there, scattered like dirty shards of ice, were the shattered remains of the Divine Medallion of Retaliation.
The object that represented every witch's worst nightmare, reduced to harmless dust and fragments. Then, her eyes wandered to the stake. Empty.
The thick ropes that had previously bound Nightingale now hung loose, swaying slightly, as if mocking her sanity.
Red Pepper couldn't understand.
A blur.
It had been just a dark blur that crossed the cave with the fury of embodied lightning. It had no definite shape to her untrained eyes, it made no sound of footsteps, it conjured no sparkling spells; it simply tore through the air, obliterated the invincible defense of their leader, shattered the anti-magic stone, and disappeared into nothingness, taking Nightingale with it.
Could it have been a demon? A branching ability of some other sister to save her? A spirit summoned by the despair of her sister about to be burned? Fear squeezed Red Pepper's stomach, making her take a faltering step back, her mind spinning in the void of absolute incomprehension.
A few meters away, away from the center of the chaos, Cecilia Selda's eyes observed the same scene, but with a clarity and coldness that violently contrasted with Red Pepper's terror.
Born in the grandiose City of Valencia and the legitimate daughter of the influential Count Henry Selda, Cecilia carried in her posture the aristocracy and discipline that the life of a fugitive could never erase.
Being the second oldest witch in the entire Witch Cooperation Association—behind only Scroll—she possessed not only maturity but a logical and analytical reasoning vastly superior to that of the younger girls. Life at court had taught her to observe the details, to read between the lines of violence and power.
While most witches saw a ghost or a magical anomaly, Cecilia, with her innate wisdom and disciplined mind, dissected what had happened. It wasn't a spell and it wasn't a demon either, she concluded, her narrow eyes fixed on the mark of swept dust on the floor, which indicated the exact trajectory of the invasion.
It was a person; a man. Flesh, bone, and physical strength that defies comprehension.
Cecilia crossed her arms under her furry cloak, her brain working at breakneck speed. She went over the words Nightingale had spat out before the blueprint with the "steam engine" invention was burned.
Nightingale had spoken about a Prince. She had spoken about Border Town, about a place where things operated under new rules, about iron constructions that moved with a life of their own, and, most importantly, Nightingale had implied that she was not alone on her journey to convince them.
That man... The lethal blur that subdued Cara as if she were a rag doll... It's her ally. The man she claimed defeated demonic beasts with a single blow.
Cecilia's heart skipped a beat.
The implication of that thought was overwhelming and destroyed the foundations of Cara's paranoia. If that young man existed, if he possessed the raw power to crush a Divine Medallion with the strength of his bare hands and the audacity to invade a witches' hideout to rescue a single emissary, then Nightingale wasn't hallucinating.
The safe haven, the promise of a life without the constant fear of starvation and the pyre, Border Town... It was almost certainly all true.
A shiver ran down Cecilia's spine. She finally understood the magnitude of the mistake the Witch Cooperation Association was about to make. They almost murdered the only sister who had returned with the key to everyone's salvation, and Cara, the mentor everyone trusted, was the one wielding the glowing iron.
Cecilia's sharp thought was abruptly crushed by the eruption of panic that finally broke the dam of silence in the cave.
— "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! THE CHURCH! THE CHURCH FOUND US! THEIR SOLDIERS WILL ATTACK US AGAIN!" — Selena bellowed, her high-pitched voice echoing off the walls as she activated her magic eye in pure panic, ready to fight an enemy that was no longer there.
— "It wasn't magic! I didn't see any magic flow! How did the stone break?!" — Scarlett said desperately, agonized by what she had just seen, holding her head with both hands, her eyes darting from side to side.
— "We're going to die! They have ghost assassins! They came to get us!" — Lydia sobbed, clinging to Soraya Zoen arm, who was as pale as a corpse, trembling uncontrollably as she stared at the pieces of the God's Stone of Retaliation on the floor.
— "Shh! Be quiet, let me listen!" — Ellen desperately knelt down, pressing her ear to the cold stone floor, trying to catch the vibrations of the invader's footsteps through the rocks, but finding only the echo of the storm outside. — "There's nothing! They disappeared!"
— "The mentor! Look at the mentor!" — Shino pointed, her voice shrill with panic. — "He killed her! That monster killed her!"
The chaos threatened to turn into a suicidal stampede into the blizzard.
— "Silence! All of you, calm down immediately!" — Scroll voice echoed with the authority of thunder, imposing itself over the mass hysteria. She positioned herself in the center of the cave, raising her arms. Her face was tense, but her posture was firm. — "Panic will not save us! No one is running anywhere!"
— "Listen to Scroll!" — Wendy stepped forward, her maternal tone mixed with a desperate urgency. Her hands still trembled slightly from having defied Cara minutes earlier, but she needed to maintain order. — "The invader is gone. If he wanted to kill us, he would have done it by now. He only came to get Nightingale, and we are safe for now, but we need to stick together! Stay calm while we deal with the situation."
Wendy and Scroll words began to take effect, lowering the volume of the screams to terrified sobs and murmurs. However, the relief was ephemeral, torn apart the next second by a piercing scream coming from the back of the cave.
— "HERB! ARE YOU SLEEPING?! CAN'T YOU SEE THE SITUATION?? COME HERE RIGHT NOW!" — Catherine screamed, kneeling on the stone floor, holding Cara inert body.
The leader of the witches was in a deplorable state.
The impact of William's shoulder had not only stolen her breath but had hurled her with such violence against the wall that she had bounced onto the rocky floor.
Blood oozed from a deep cut on her forehead, dyeing her green hair a dark red. Her chest rose and fell in irregular, sickly spasms, and a red puddle was beginning to form under her body due to abrasions and possible internal bleeding.
From behind the stunned crowd, the slender figure of Herb ran forward, stumbling over her own feet.
Normally, Herb was the personification of calm. She was the healer, the gentle soul who tended to the night fevers and accidental cuts of the younger girls. Her magical ability was unique and invaluable; she could manipulate and multiply the effectiveness of any plant or organic root. With her power, a simple handful of common hemostatic herbs, used to stem minor bleeding, had its effects multiplied hundreds of times, transforming the green paste into a miracle drug capable of not only coagulating severe wounds but replenishing lost blood and regenerating tissues.
But now, seeing the state her leader was in, despair took over the healer. Herb face lost its color, and her hands trembled violently as she pulled a small leather pouch from her waist.
— "H-Hold her head, Catherine. Don't let her choke!" — Herb ordered, her voice cracking. She poured the dry leaves into the palm of her hand and closed her eyes.
A soft green glow emanated from her fingers.
The magic flowed, unstable due to her emotional state, but powerful. She crushed the leaves, which instantly transformed into a thick, shiny sap, exuding a strong scent of mint and wet earth.
Crying in despair, Herb began to rub the magic paste directly onto Cara bloody forehead and force a few drops between the leader's parted lips, praying for the magic to take effect before the hemorrhage proved fatal.
The sound of Cara gurgling breaths filled the room, making the atmosphere of the cave even more suffocating.
In the farthest shadows of that circle of despair, leaning against a damp stalagmite, Lightning watched everything with wide eyes, but her heart wasn't beating out of fear of the Church, nor out of compassion for the fallen mentor.
Her heart beat to the fast rhythm of a terrifying revelation.
What Lightning had witnessed in those last ten minutes had shattered her world. The cave, which until then she had tolerated as a necessary refuge against the harsh winter, suddenly revealed itself for what it truly was: a prison under the rule of a mad tyrant.
Lightning's young and agile mind replayed the scene over and over. Cara walking with that boiling iron skewer, the red and cruel glow at the tip of the metal. The voice devoid of any empathy threatening to pierce Nightingale's heart and burn her alive in front of all her "sisters." That wasn't discipline; that wasn't the strictness of a leader trying to keep her group safe. That was pure cruelty, the despotic tyranny of someone who had lost the last shred of sanity and love for her own kind.
An immediate and irreparable psychological rupture occurred inside the young witch.
Lightning lived for the skies; her power was flight, absolute freedom, movement without borders. The idea of being confined under tons of rock was already a daily test of endurance for her free soul, but to see glowing iron being used against one of her own? To see that the person they trusted with their lives was willing to torture them for dissenting ideas? It sickened her. The place of refuge had transformed, in the blink of an eye, into a chamber of terror and oppression.
She knew exactly what would happen next. As soon as Leaves managed to stabilize Cara, as soon as the leader regained consciousness, the cave would become a living hell.
The humiliation of having been defeated so easily, of having her precious Medallion destroyed and her prisoner rescued, would turn Cara's paranoia into an uncontrollable fury. She would interrogate, punish, and oppress every single one of those girls.
The fear of impending retaliation made the air in the cave suddenly unbearable and toxic to someone with Lightning's indomitable spirit.
I cannot stay here. If I stay, my wings will be clipped, she thought, determination crystallizing in her blue eyes.
Furthermore, there was a crucial factor: Nightingale hadn't lied.
The appearance of that formidable man, the physical and impossible destruction of a Stone of Retaliation, the coordinated and precise rescue... All of that was hard proof that Nightingale possessed truly powerful allies.
The Prince wasn't an invented fairy tale to deceive them; he was a tactical reality. There was hope on the other side of that frozen mountain, a place where, perhaps, she could fly freely in the sunlight, without the terror of ending up with hot iron driven into her chest by her own "family."
Lightning observed the widespread confusion. Wendy and Scroll still had their backs to her, too busy shouting orders to keep the other witches calm and away from the pool of blood. Leaf and Cherry cried as they hugged each other at Herb shoulders. Everyone's attention was focused on Cara broken body. It was the perfect scenario, the ideal distraction.
Silently, with light steps that made not the slightest noise on the stone, Lightning slipped out of her hiding place. She didn't use her magic so as not to generate noticeable wind ripples in the air. Sticking to the shadows cast by the uneven campfires, she began to skirt the hall, moving laterally toward the dark tunnel that led to the cave's exit. She would go after Nightingale, follow the trail in the snow, brave the blizzard, and entrust her wings to this Prince Roland, whatever it took.
She was just three steps away from diving into the absolute darkness of the exit corridor, certain she had gone completely unnoticed by all the hysterical gazes, when a pale and firm hand shot out of the dark and grabbed her arm tightly.
Lightning felt her heart leap into her throat. She was ready to summon her power and struggle, certain that a loyal Cara fanatic had discovered her, when she looked up and met the calm and indifferent gaze of Diana Argus.
Diana, like Cecilia Selda, possessed noble blood running through her veins. The daughter of barons, she had been educated not only in court etiquette but in household administration and the primary arts that her father so cherished. This distinct intelligence had allowed Diana to process the entire situation long before the first spark of chaos erupted.
When Nightingale had displayed that large sheet of parchment, most of the witches had seen only unintelligible blurs, but Diana had paid attention. She possessed a mind geared toward logic; the lines of that technical drawing were too complex, too precise, meticulously interwoven with valves, pistons, and structural gears. It wasn't the scribble of a deluded mind, nor the invention of a girl trying to fool an entire camp. That steam engine blueprint was real; the project had an undeniable internal logic.
From that exact moment, a spark of hope had ignited in Diana's chest. And after this incident, she had no more doubts regarding any remaining uncertainties; Nightingale was speaking the pure truth.
When the chaos broke out, when Cara was thrown like trash and Nightingale was taken, Diana didn't look at the bloody leader. She didn't listen to the screams; her eyes scanned the hall, analyzing the behavior of her sisters, calculating who possessed enough courage to realize the same truth she had.
She had seen Lightning back away. She had seen the change in the young aviator's eyes, and, patiently, Diana positioned herself on the only escape route.
Lightning pulled her arm instinctively, her blue eyes full of suspicion and contained rebellion, ready to ask her to let go, ready to use force if necessary.
Diana didn't loosen her grip, but her gaze held no threat; it held a feverish and desperate intensity. She leaned close to Lightning's ear and whispered in a tone inaudible over Wendy yelling and Herb crying:
— "You are going after her, aren't you? After Nightingale and that blur."
Lightning hesitated for a millisecond.
Espionage was a dangerous game, but something in the straight posture and the pleading eyes of the fallen noble told her that she wasn't going to scream for Cara. Lightning swallowed hard and, with an almost imperceptible nod of her chin, agreed.
A flash of pure relief crossed the refined features of Diana Argus. She squeezed the flying girl's arm just a little tighter, anchoring herself to her like someone clinging to the last lifeboat of a sinking ship.
— "Then..." — Diana whispered, her voice laden with a proud plea and an irrevocable decision, her eyes shining with the promise of the steam engine and the end of the winter torment. — "Take me with you, please. Get us out of this hell."