The Witch of the North Arrives
It had been a full week since William Hamilcar returned.
“Truly, the door is magnificent.”
The door to the Demia Temple had finally been erected. The artisan had outdone himself—the new wood and iron still carried the scent of fresh craftsmanship, yet it blended seamlessly with the ancient structure, as if it had always belonged.
Carvings of grapevines climbed the front face, so realistic that anyone standing before it felt as though the vines continued their growth right through the frame.
On the back side, ancient verses praising Demia were etched in elegant Old Script.
“Indeed.”
Pythia, who spent most of her days rolling around in bed like a spoiled child, had caught even the smallest hint of news and insisted on dragging me to the temple today. Throughout the walk she wore that perpetual pout, but the moment she saw the door her expression brightened like the sun breaking through clouds. That was the very charm of Pythia.
Damien had cast a single-use spell on the door as a gesture of self-reflection. A combat ward meant to strike down anyone who dared force entry. Yet I had dismissed the idea as childish. And I had been right.
Damien’s thinking had always run along the lines of the Magic Tower, while the temple’s was entirely different. The moment Anselm, the senior priest, heard Damien’s explanation, he nearly choked on his own foam.
“What if someone enters without permission and dies? How will you explain that?!” he shrieked, face purple.
And then, “The temple has a spell on the door?! This is madness!” He actually bounced on his heels.
I had never seen the usually solemn Anselm so flustered. In the end Damien canceled the spell with a sheepish expression.
When the celebration banquet was held in the Demia Temple, every senior priest from across the continent gathered in the vast hall of the Grand Cathedral.
The hall was so enormous that even with the entire assembly present it felt strangely empty. Once it must have been packed with temple priests during the temple’s golden age.
The tables were sparse. The most striking dish was a single small portion of trout per person.
Herbs simmered in honey, rye bread, lentil soup thickened with onions, garlic, carrots and goat’s milk, and for dessert a simple dish of boiled and dried turnips, carrots, and apples poached in grape juice.
The moment we—the three of us who had grown up eating at our temple—saw the food, our shoulders drooped. Yet both the Holy Saint Pythia and the future Count Damien were masters of controlling their faces, so they showed nothing.
Only David, who had no talent for hiding his emotions, looked faintly disappointed when he first saw the spread. But the instant he put the food in his mouth he declared it delicious and shoveled it down with desperate hunger.
I took a small bite and was genuinely surprised. The ingredients were ordinary, the cooking mediocre.
Yet the cooking skill overwhelmed everything. These were, after all, priests of Abundance and the Earth.
Midway through the meal Anselm came around to speak with us. To outsiders he appeared to be addressing Pythia, but the words were meant for me alone.
“Everyone is watching with great interest. The banquet has only strengthened their conviction.”
Only I, Pythia, Damien, and a few other Demia priests showed no interest in the food. The rest of the guests ate happily, savoring every bite.
Of course. Even the priests of Demia had to make do with black bread and dried apples. Other temples surely faced worse shortages. This soft, chewy bread baked over seasoned honey was a luxury. The honey itself was priceless. Lentil soup… well, that too was a delicacy.
I had planned to let the success of the temple fall entirely on Pythia’s shoulders.
But events conspired against that simple plan. Too many witnesses. And the priests’ mouths were far more talkative than I had expected.
For most of their lives they had been trapped in the back country, forced to endure endless isolation. To them the Serpine adventure was the greatest event of their lives, and they had forgotten how to close their lips.
They had spread their tales everywhere. Naturally, my own story had followed. There was not a single person in the Grand Cathedral who did not know who I was.
Anselm’s pretense of speaking to Pythia was, of course, purely for appearances. I spoke freely with him.
“We are still far from enough. They would have to give up their entire lives just to walk here. At the very least we should gather enough to discuss the matter with the Gerka Temple first.”
“That is exactly why temple priests are so dark on worldly affairs and so proud…”
Anselm tried to defend his fellow priests, but I laughed softly.
“Where in the world is there a priest without pride? Pride is something even serfs possess.”
They had all learned to suppress and endure their pride. The simple fact that they had not yet extended a hand was nothing but childishness.
“Childishness is something to be corrected by a nanny.”
I had no intention of accepting the childishness of a contracting partner.
Anselm stared at me for a long moment, then suddenly smiled.
“You are correct. Pride is something even serfs possess.”
And with eyes that had turned icy in the space of a heartbeat, he looked toward the other temple priests who had come as guests.
“Perhaps it would be best to let them starve a little longer. After all, only when the belly is full does the voice of the gods become hard to hear.”
I glanced behind him. Every one of them was pretending to eat while stealing sideways glances.
In their eyes I read both greed and guilt. They wanted to use me to lift their own temples, but they were troubled by the idea of exploiting a young girl who had merely come down from the mountains.
Honestly, it was ridiculous. How did they imagine they could devour me with such a soft, gentle face?
They had not even tried to exploit me yet, yet they were already preparing to feel guilty.
Anselm had said we should let them starve longer, but I knew they had already been starved enough.
And these people would endure black bread for the rest of their lives rather than sell even one temple possession. That rule I would keep. It was something to be passed to the next generation.
Those who would rather die than touch temple property had decided to use a child to eat, yet they were already fretting about guilt before they had even begun.
“Convey to all who seek a transaction with me: show kindness first.”
I really was weak against this kind of person.
When I turned, the pinnacle of that breed—Pythia—sat quietly. The moment our eyes met she smiled faintly.
A twelve-year-old child who had been treated like a cushion for the rice sack sat there, calmly discussing business with the other temple priests while showing not a trace of anger, not even the slightest shadow on her face.
I smiled back.
“Today I will serve you a new dessert.”
There were many desserts I could make if I had Muri Cheese. Today I would try something like crème brûlée.
At my words Pythia’s face lit up. Damien, already having developed a taste for sweets, set down his spoon without a second thought. Only David
“Make a lot. Make a lot.”
kept muttering while stuffing his face with the food before him.
* * *
“It is ridiculous.”
Isabel Confino was nearly seventy. Despite her age she was still hale and hearty—no stooped back, no raspy voice. If anything, she was more demanding and far more powerful than in her prime.
She read the letter carried by the messenger several times and clicked her tongue in irritation.
**Isabel Confino.**
Your letter arrived on the southern winds, and I accepted each word with care, weighing their weight.
Regarding the matter entangled with my blood kin and the future successor, and the loss of two lives after that night, I, as father and bearer of the southern burden, express profound regret.
Yet magic is a path that always moves faster than words, and truth leaves traces but rarely reveals its face.
Whether someone struck first, or whether trust was broken first—
I believe that the full circumstances of that night remain unknown even to the gods.
The child is currently resting at the foot of the Mount of Light, beneath the Grand Cathedral.
Her body bears deep wounds; her spirit has not yet bloomed.
The full situation of that day he has not yet been able to convey even to his father.
The one who met the child first was Pythia, the Holy Saint of Gerka.
After several days of silence she received divine revelation and declared:
“The root of this matter lies in the ‘Seat of Suffering,’ and the true answer will open when the guardian of the tower himself comes to this mountain.”
She also stated that if you come here, you intend to offer the fragment of the relic given to her by the gods.
I am not qualified to interpret the will of the gods, but I am certain that no matter whether those words are true or false, this matter cannot be resolved by a single letter.
Most of all, I wish to hear directly from you the extent of the wounds suffered by my successor.
On that day, what occurred in your tower—
What resolve and what hand pushed that child into blood and darkness—
Please speak those words with your own mouth.
The Holy Saint said the key lies solely in your footsteps.
I too believe that the door to truth between silence and severance is one you alone can open.
In places where order has collapsed, words must arrive first, and where words reach, action must follow—
This is the ancient law of this land, unbreakable by gods or men.
Therefore I await in silence alongside the ancestors of this land that your footsteps will be the first to break that silence.
At the boundary where heaven and blade meet,
William Hamilcar
The southern beast had dared speak openly to the guardian of the tower, declaring his suspicions and demanding he come himself.
Isabel’s hand trembled so violently she nearly burned the letter on the spot, then snatched it back and read it again.
The more she read, the more ridiculous it seemed. Her eyes fixed on the signature “At the boundary where heaven and blade meet” as she finally clutched the letter to her chest.
From her palm a flame roared up—fire that would never extinguish without her permission.
“Heaven and blade meet? The young beast dares make demands without knowing who he faces. Fine. Come.”
Isabel ground her teeth.