The darkness inside the cave seemed to have become denser, almost palpable, since the invasion that had shattered the fragile sense of security of the Witch Cooperation Association.
The sound of the wind howling outside echoed through the stone tunnels like a ceaseless, mournful lament.
In the center of the main camp, around a campfire whose flames flickered weakly, four female figures sat in a tense circle.
Wendy, Scroll, Windseeker, and Beatrice kept their voices to whispers, fearing that any louder noise might break the fragile peace they had managed to establish.
— "It's been almost four days," — Beatrice murmured, rubbing her pale hands near the fire. Her eyes showed profound exhaustion. — "Four days since that thing... That blur... Destroyed the God's Stone of Retaliation, took Nightingale, and the mentor still hasn't shown any sign of waking up."
Wendy let out a soft sigh, poking the embers with a dry branch.
— "Herb is doing everything she can; the impact Cara suffered was very strong. The strength of that invader was unnatural, and her head hit the stone violently. We can only wait for Herb' magic to finish healing the internal injuries before it's too late."
— "The question isn't just when she will wake up, but what we will do until then, and what will happen afterwards," — Scroll pointed out. Being the oldest witch and the guardian of the group's knowledge and memory, her voice always carried a weight of authority and reason. — "Provisions are dwindling, and fear is taking root in the hearts of the younger ones. The sudden disappearance of Lightning and Diana Argus in the midst of that confusion did not go unnoticed; some think they were captured and subsequently killed by the invader; others, that they fled with Nightingale to this Border Town. Doubt is a faster poison than hunger."
Windseeker tightened her grip on the hunting knife resting on her lap; her face was hardened by scars and the responsibility of being a combat witch.
— "I'm keeping the patrols and resource foraging active, but the snow outside is getting thicker, and the smell of Demonic Beasts is getting stronger every night. Without Cara to dictate direction and with morale shaken, the camp is on the verge of a collapse. We need you to stay strong, Wendy; you are the voice they listen to right now."
Wendy forced her lips to curve into a gentle smile; a smile she had used as a shield for years.
— "I will not let our sisters lose hope. We will survive this winter until Cara awakens. Just as we always have."
Despite the sweetness in her voice and the smile she offered her companions, Wendy's interior was a sea of turmoil and sadness.
As soon as the small gathering dispersed so they could return to their chores, Wendy walked slowly through the cave's corridors, feeling the invisible weight of leadership crushing her shoulders.
In Cara's absence, the burden of commanding the group, settling disputes, rationing food, and drying the tears of frightened girls had fallen entirely on her. Wendy never wanted to be a leader; she was the welcoming embrace, the surrogate mother, the generous counselor. Having to make life-or-death decisions was something that terrified her.
But what consumed her most was the sharp and persistent pain in her chest from Veronica's departure.
The girl she had rescued from the clutches of the aristocracy and whom she loved like a daughter.
Wendy replayed the fateful conflict in her mind a thousand times a day. She could still feel the heat of the glowing iron Cara held. That was the moment Wendy's world crumbled.
To see the mentor, the woman who had led them out of hell, willing to pierce and burn one of her own sisters over a divergence of ideas.
If that formidable thing hadn't invaded the camp like a divine thunderbolt and shattered the Church's protection, what would have happened? Wendy knew, deep in her heart, that if Cara had tried to strike Nightingale, she herself would have used her magic or thrown herself in front of the glowing iron. She would have died so that Nightingale could live.
The invasion saved both their lives, but at the cost of Wendy's broken heart. Nightingale was gone. Lightning and Diana Argus, driven by a trust that Wendy herself did not have, had followed the trail of hope to Border Town.
Wendy felt a complex mixture of relief knowing her girl was safe and free, and a deep sadness at being left behind. She had only stayed because, upon seeing Cara thrown to the ground and bleeding, her instinct of maternal loyalty cried out louder, and she couldn't abandon the woman who had once saved them, nor could she leave the younger sisters at the mercy of chaos. That was why she swallowed her tears, wore her mask of sweetness, and smiled at everyone, enduring hell in silence so the others wouldn't collapse.
While Wendy fought against the currents of her own feelings, outside the cave, the physical reality of survival was exacting its toll.
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Windseeker led a single file line through snow that reached their knees.
The cold was excruciating, penetrating through the gaps in their animal skins and tattered cloaks. As a combat witch, she had taken the frontline of the resource gathering team.
Right behind her, marching with difficulty, came Bryana, Echo, Selena, and Firefly.
The camp had adopted the system of going out in groups of five. It was the ideal number to spread the foraging load without forming a group large enough to attract unnecessary attention from demons afar.
Windseeker stopped for a moment, raising a gloved hand.
The small squad froze immediately. She closed her eyes, reading the air currents, catching the damp smell and the distant sound of heavy hooves breaking the ice crust.
— "Demonic Boars. They're close," — Windseeker whispered, opening her eyes and turning to the tall girl right behind her. — "Echo... We need sound cover."
Echo nodded with profound serenity. Slender, with dark skin, blue-gray hair, and the exotic, striking features typical of the Sand People, she carried the silent dignity of someone who had endured and survived the chains of slavery. Her magic lay in the ability to perfectly mimic any sound.
Tilting her head slightly, Echo's eyes took on a glassy sheen as she focused her magic. She didn't just mimic the sound; she projected it strategically.
Echo perfectly reproduced the biting howl of the mountain blizzard and the natural noise of dry branches clashing together, creating an imperceptible acoustic barrier around the five witches. This sonic illusion completely masked the sound of the group's rapid breathing, heartbeats, and rustling clothes, ensuring the demonic beasts continued on their way through the dead forest without ever noticing their presence.
Windseeker opened her eyes and let out a sigh that formed a white cloud in the air.
— "Great. Bryana, keep your eyes on the treetops. Selena, Firefly, stay close to me and start digging near those larger rocks; we need edible roots, thick moss, and any dry firewood you find under the snow."
The younger girls obeyed without question.
Firefly, whose power allowed her to emit a warm, golden light, used her magic in a contained manner to melt the ice crust over the dirt, making the digging easier.
Windseeker watched her sisters working with a sharp, wary look. She was a born survivor. Her heart was calloused by distrust; unlike Wendy, who believed in the good in everyone, or Nightingale, who trusted the tales of a Prince, Windseeker didn't believe in miracles. She trusted only her own knife and the directions of the wind. The invasion by that powerful thing only made her more paranoid; if that alone could come in and ruin Cara, what would stop an army from finding the camp in the spring?
Despite her harsh and doubtful temperament, always expecting the worst from the world and people, the moment she looked at girls like Selena and Firefly, her features relaxed.
She would be ruthless with anyone who approached, she would tear out an inquisitor's throat without hesitation, just to ensure those little girls didn't have to cry, because she was the sword guarding the group's back.
— "Let's go back," — ordered Windseeker, after they had filled three rough sacks with damp wood and bitter roots. — "The temperature is dropping, and I don't want to be here when those beasts change direction. Watch your step."
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Inside the safe but depressing interior of the camp, the routine continued under Scroll's watchful and wise eyes.
One of the widest wings of the cave had been designated as the young girls' area.
Scroll, with her photographic memory of books and scrolls, and her demeanor of a strict but fair teacher, was responsible for keeping the younger ones' minds occupied and away from panic.
— "No, Mystery Moon, you're holding the charcoal too tightly, it will break again," — Scroll warned with maternal patience, watching the clumsy little girl trying to draw on a flat piece of stone.
Mystery Moon pouted, dropping the piece of charcoal that dirtied her fingers. Beside her, Lily giggled softly with an air of superiority, while Current tried to braid Feather's disheveled hair.
Scroll walked around the room, making sure everyone was warm.
Hummingbird was sitting in a corner, using her magic to reduce the weight of large stones so they could be stacked as blockades at the wing's entrance, while Bow, Poison, and Missing sorted out the few tattered blankets they possessed.
It was exhausting work.
The physical fatigue was nothing compared to Scroll's mental exhaustion. She watched those children, many of whom had barely entered adulthood, some not even in their teens. They had been kicked out of their homes, called monsters by their own parents, hunted by bounty hunters.
The promise of the Holy Mountain was the only bedtime story that soothed their nightmares.
But Scroll was too wise to be completely blind. Ever since Cara burned the blueprint for that "steam engine" in front of everyone, Scroll's logical reasoning hadn't stopped hammering. As the thinking mind of the group, she memorized details. That parchment might not have been a child's prank; the details of the gears, the technical calligraphy... There was complex organization behind that drawing. And the formidable blur that invaded the camp proved that Nightingale wasn't lying about the allies she possessed.
We are clinging to an invisible myth, while turning our backs on real salvation, Scroll thought bitterly.
However, as a loyal second-in-command, she kept these thoughts to herself. Teaching basic math, telling ancient stories about fallen gods and past heroes was her way of fighting the war against despair. If she crumbled, those girls would collapse.
— "Pay attention, girls," — Scroll called, clapping her hands lightly to gather the group around the children's wing's small campfire. — "Today I am going to tell you the story of the construction of the first King's City and how the stones were moved by the rivers."
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In the deepest and most isolated tunnel of the cave, the atmosphere was grim, smelling of dried blood and crushed herbs.
The makeshift tent serving as the infirmary housed the wounded heart of the Association.
Cara lay on a bed made of thick moss and wolf pelts.
Her once fearsome and authoritative face was deadly pale, her skin almost translucent. A dirty linen bandage covered her forehead, where the impact against the rock had opened a grotesque wound.
Around her, three witches kept a constant, agonizing vigil: Beatrice, Herb, and Shino.
Beatrice soaked a cloth in a clay basin with cold melted snow water, wringing it carefully before applying it to the mentor's neck to try and bring down the feverish heat consuming her.
Shino, whose hands trembled slightly, muttered disjointed prayers she had learned before discovering her powers, praying to a god the Church said hated her.
But the heaviest burden fell on Herb.
The slender woman was kneeling next to Cara, her hands extended over the leader's chest.
Herb panted, cold sweat running down her forehead and dripping onto the stone floor. Her magic, capable of multiplying the effectiveness of any plant's healing property, was being drained to the last drop. She had been processing hemostatic roots, regeneration seeds, and analgesic moss non-stop for the last four days.
Cara's ribs had suffered micro-structural fractures, and her lungs had been bruised by the brutality of an invader's blow. Had it not been for Herb' constant effort, internal bleeding could have suffocated the leader on the first day.
— "You need to rest, Herb," — Beatrice whispered, placing a hand on the healer's trembling shoulder. — "If you completely deplete your power during the Months of Demons and collapse, the Demonic Bite will kill you before the mentor wakes up. You haven't slept right since the incident."
— "I can't stop..." — Herb gasped, her voice hoarse and desperate, the faint glows of her green magic flickering at her fingertips. — "If I stop the blood root infusion, her pulse drops. I... I won't let the mentor die in my hands; I owe her my life."
Beatrice lowered her head, feeling a tear slip down. Despair was a shroud suffocating the infirmary. They were losing Cara, not just to physical injuries, but to the coma induced by head trauma.
The woman who had been invincible in their eyes, who had resisted the Church and led the march for survival, had been reduced to a fragile body with a single, casual blow from an invader.
The tunnel's silence was suddenly broken by the sound of hurried footsteps.
Wendy entered, her cloak stained with ash from the main campfire. She carried a small bowl with thin root soup, trying to maintain the semblance of leadership everyone expected from her.
— "How is she?" — Wendy asked softly, approaching the bed.
Herb pulled her hands back, leaning against the cave wall to catch her breath, her arms hanging uselessly at her sides.
— "The fever has stabilized. The internal bleeding has stopped thanks to the black mosses. But the shock to the head... I imagine I couldn't heal that, Wendy. Her mind is trapped in the dark."
Wendy knelt beside Cara. She looked at the face of her old friend and mentor. A mixture of resentment for recent cruelty and unconditional love for years of protection fought within her chest. Wendy reached out, gently stroking the greenish strands of hair escaping from Cara's bandage.
— "Come back to us, Cara..." — Wendy whispered, a tear finally escaping her mask of sweetness to fall onto the fur blanket. — "The camp needs you. I am not strong enough to carry them through this winter alone."
For a long, excruciating minute, the cave remained immersed in the agonizing silence of waiting.
The howl of the wind outside seemed to mock the witches' hopes. Beatrice wiped her eyes; Shino continued to mutter; Leaves closed her eyes to try to meditate and recover a trace of energy.
Then, a dry sound broke the silence.
It wasn't a loud groan, but a ragged gasp, like someone suddenly pulled from the bottom of a frozen lake trying to suck in air all at once.
Herb opened her eyes abruptly.
Beatrice widened hers and took a step back.
Cara's stiff fingers, resting on the wolf pelts, twitched violently in a spasm. The leader's breathing, previously shallow and almost imperceptible, became irregular and ragged.
— "Cara!!!" — Wendy exclaimed, leaning forward, hugging her, her heart leaping in her chest.
Cara's eyelids fluttered, fighting the weight of the swelling and the coma. With an effort that seemed to consume all the little energy she had left, the leader of the Witch Cooperation Association finally opened her eyes.
Her pupils, once full of a relentless ferocity and an unshakable fanatical certainty, were now cloudy and blurred, reflecting the piercing pain drilling into her skull.
Cara blinked slowly, her blurry vision capturing the figures of Wendy, Herb, and Beatrice around her, illuminated by the flickering light of the torches.
Cara tried to speak, but her dry, cracked lips emitted only a hoarse, unintelligible sound. She was awake, but the world she knew, her unquestioned authority, and the submission of her followers, had been irrevocably altered from the moment the invasion knocked her into darkness.
The witches winter was just beginning to exact its true toll.