Among Witches

I slammed back into my body, enlightenment shattering like a delicate vase hitting the hard floor. The ethereal memories of the higher realm, so vivid moments ago, now dissolved like the morning dew under the harsh glare of reality, leaving doubt whether the experience was real or just a bad trip.

Lounging in a tongue-shaped chair, I could see Archer's nearly nude body retreat to the ceiling, as I descended back to the floor of the Entrance Hall. The taste of him lingered, mixing with the soreness in my muscles.

As it was said, it was not the fall, but the stop at the end that was painful. However, being hit by a flaming sword, even a metaphysical one, did not help.

But I was used to pain. One may even say I cherished it. No power came without sacrifice, and the pain was a cheap one.

"Temporal insertion successful, we are receiving audio from the Main Entrance Point," the ever-calm voice of Cid, the intelligence governing the Otherworld, reported.

After the initial trans-temporal trip to the jungle of the Vietnam War, I had added a few minor improvements to the device that was the default way to extrude the main entrance to the Otherworld.

Even after all this time, I did not know for certain why it looked like a police box, but I suspected my subconscious mind. Or a sense of humour or either my alternate or future self.

"Play it, Cid," I said, as Jay, acting as my attend, helped me up from the quite confutable piece of furniture that looked like a blue tongue. And then began to carefully, reverently divest of my ritual vestments.

"Meister! Meister! Meister!" the multitude of voices reverently chanted in the old German tongue, their words echoing through the air like a hymn from another time — or perhaps the opening of a rock concert, where ancient rhythms meet modern fervour.

Jay, ever attentive, began to use a wet sponge to cleanse the sweat from my skin. The fragrance of herbs mixed with the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol, creating a soothing aroma that contrasted starkly with the electric energy of the chanting crowd. The sponge's gentle caress brought much-needed warmth to my aching muscles, a small but grounding reminder of the physical world.

"It seems we've arrived at the right time and place," I commented, half to myself, as I luxuriated in the sensation of being tended to after the rigours of our journey.

Before this confirmation, I harboured a minor doubt about it. In our previous trip through time, we had found our next destination – a witches' sabbat.

But it was details that were tricky, like the exact date and coordinates.

It took considerable time to decipher the images captured from that ancient mural in the underground chamber. In the end, it was Five who unearthed the pivotal clue – a half-charred page from what appeared to be the Book of Shadows. That singular find was instrumental in cracking the code, meticulously concealed within the mural's decorative flourish.

The temporal coordinates pinned us to the fifteenth century, a tad earlier than my initial estimates, yet well within the anticipated range. The location, however, held fewer surprises: Schwartzwald, the Black Forest. An area imbued with a rich tapestry of folklore and legends, its narratives woven from tales of ethereal spirits, clandestine witches' gatherings, and even chilling myths of savage werewolves and the elusive Nix.

"You have fans," Archer remarked with a teasing smirk, joining me. He had rebounded more swiftly from the ritual's aftermath, his role having exacted a less strenuous toll.

With vestments removed, he boldly strode nude, his red hair trailing like a blood-soaked banner behind him.

"Do we have visuals?" I queried, directing my question to Cid. Several cameras were among the added improvements. Enough to cover all sides of the box.

"There's some interference," Cid's voice responded, "But I'll manage to clarify the feed in a few moments."

In the air between twin tongue-like seats, a hologram-like screen appeared showing what was waiting for us outside.

"At least we don't have to worry about picking proper clothes to fit in," Archer quipped, his gaze fixed on the screen. It displayed a throng of people, naked and unashamed, caught in the fervour of their chanting and genuflection.

All save two. A very old woman and a middle-aged man were standing instead, reverently waiting to greet us. They too were skyclad.

The woman, her hair as white as the moonlight, bore the weight of age, her skin etched with scars and pockmarks. The man, by contrast, exuded a meticulous aura; his black hair and beard were neatly groomed and oiled.

"Curious," Archer mused, his eyes narrowing. "Observe their stance. The way they position themselves—it's as if they're accommodating a third, unseen presence."

"Not the most important detail. Zoom in on the woman's right hand, Cid," I ordered and was obeyed almost immediately. The glint of ruby confirmed my suspicion. "She had the ring. This is not the end of our journey, just another stop. Still, we have learned interesting things at the previous destination."

I suspected as much ever since I was greeted with worship. If these witches revered me, then logically, they knew of me, suggesting I had ventured into an even earlier time. That was the problem with experiencing events outside their proper sequence. The consequence may have preceded the cause, but both were needed. It was akin to buying something on credit. You receive the benefits immediately but still have to settle the bill eventually. Reaching a decisive conclusion, I added, "It would be impolite to make them wait any longer. We should greet them now."

Archer asked, "And what of Andrew? You dispatched him beyond the Anchor Gate."

"It should be safe now. Bring him back in, Cid," I instructed, smoothly glossing over the fact that I had momentarily forgotten about our new companion. But in my defence, the prospect of meeting actual witches from the 15th century was, to say the least, quite enthralling.

Originally, I had intended to send Five on a straightforward mission to gather objects steeped in occult history, the kind that could serve as material for crafting Mystic Codes. But, as it often happens with the best-laid plans, Five unearthed something far more intriguing – traces of this world's hidden history.

Regrettably, almost every record we had come across was tainted by the biases of those who had hunted the witches. The accounts were heavily coloured by their fears, prejudices, and, I would hazard to guess, no small measure of sexual frustration. One only needs to skim through the endless pages they devoted to lurid fantasies about witches' congresses with demons, animals, or even other witches to sense the underlying obsessions.

The sound of swearing jolted me from my thoughts. I turned to see Andrew, his arrival marked by a less-than-graceful tumble through a patch of folded space. Clad in light shorts and a loose t-shirt, he looked as if he had just come from a beach, especially with the goggles fitted snugly over his eyes.

"Dammit, these things…" Andrew grumbled, fumbling with his eyewear in frustration.

"Careful with those," I cautioned, although it was not strictly necessary. Removing those goggles, by design, was not a simple process. They were the latest iteration of my Censor series Mystic Codes. "You don't want to see this place unfiltered."

He shot me a glare, still tugging at the goggles. "If you wanted me to trust you, why don't you show me the truth."

Archer crossed his hands, a smirk playing on his lips. "Because you literary can't handle the truth."

I sighed, looking at Andrew's mulish expression. "There are sensations that could only described in allegory: the white of ephemeral sorrow, the ticking of time that never was, the pull of conformity. No word exists for them in any human language, for any human who experiences them would be driven star-raving mad. The previous model just blocked hazardous sensations, but I had been informed that was unpleasant."

"So instead, I get to stumble around in a fabricated world?" Andrew shot back, finally stopping his futile attempts to remove the goggles. "Everything I see is a lie."

"It's not about lies," I explained patiently. "It replaces harmful perceptions with ones more suitable for human minds. The downside is that the simulation isn't always completely accurate. Some... minor glitches are inevitable."

"Minor," Andrew echoed sceptically.

"Do make a note of them for future improvements." Changing the subject, I issued a direct command. "Strip."

His eyes widened. "What?"

Archer interjected with a smirk, "The witches' gathering has a dress code. It's skyclad."

"I did wonder why you two were in the buff," Andrew admitted, pulling his shirt over his head. "But it seemed impolite to ask."

With a nonchalant shrug, he then dropped his shorts, revealing he had gone commando.

Seeing this, I gave Jay a nod. "Do it."

Jay, always poised and efficient, retrieved an intricately carved amulet on a beautifully crafted chain. Offering it to Andrew, they said, "You'll need this."

Andrew took the amulet from Jay, his eyebrows arching as he held it away from his body, examining it as if it might sprout legs and scuttle away. The amulet dangled from his fingers, swinging slightly, an unspoken question in the space between them.

"Not really my style," he remarked, his tone laced with a hint of irony.

I couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "Unless you're secretly fluent in fifteenth-century German, you're going to need it," I pointed out.

Language wasn't an issue for me, given my extensive study of Jewel Magecraft, heavily influenced by Medieval Alchemy. As for Archer, he only required an object from that time and place – preferably a sword – and his psychometry would handle the rest.

"Why do I need to speak German? Don't witches speak English?"

"Not these," Archer said.

"Some may speak Middle English," I added, "But I would not rely on it for communication."

Andrew's brow furrowed. "Middle English? Fifteenth-century German? They are really committed to this witch thing, huh?"

"They're not pretending," I corrected, my frown deepening as I tried to recall exactly how much I had explained to Andrew about our destination. "We're in fifteenth-century Germany. Speaking fifteenth-century German here is... well, it's just speaking the local language."

Andrew's expression morphed into what could only be described as a perfect imitation of a fish. He stood there, mouth opening and closing silently, clearly struggling to process the information.

"Did you forget to tell him we're time-traveling?" Archer asked an amused glint in his eyes.

"You could have mentioned it as well," I retorted, slightly defensive yet finding it hard not to share in Archer's amusement.

"But you so love to explain things," Archer quipped, his tone light but pointed.

"So, your spaceship is not only bigger on the inside but also can time travel," Andrew said, recovering quickly. "It's like a sci-fi show!"

"You need to watch some British television," Archer said. "Doesn't he, Master?"

"Funny," I said, sarcasm evident in my voice. "Andrew, everything you said in that sentence is incorrect. But we don't have time for this now. Put on the amulet. Or use charades, I don't care. We've delayed enough."

Andrew reluctantly put the amulet on. "So this is like a Universal Translator?" he asked.

"It operates on the principle of osanwe-kenta," I replied, deliberately using the Sindarin term. Archer and I had discovered the trinket in the Dunedain ruins under Amon Sul, and this was a subtle test to see if it worked for Andrew.

"Thought transmission?" Andrew questioned, a hint of unease in his voice. "I'm not too keen on others getting into my head."

"It functions based on implied consent," I explained. "It facilitates sharing what you wish to express and what others are willing to share with you. However, it tends to reduce language to basic concepts, stripping away nuances. Also, it doesn't handle falsehoods well. You need to genuinely mean what you say and say what you genuinely mean."

"Isn't that the same thing?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"No," Archer cut in, forestalling the lecture he knew I was gearing up for. He understood my tendencies all too well; we were already behind schedule, and I had a habit of getting sidetracked by details. "It's not."

Without further ado, I strode towards the main entrance door. Its appearance always mirrored the door it connected to, and at this moment, it had taken on the guise of a blue wooden door, uncannily resembling that of a British Police Box.

As I pushed the door open, my first real view of the witches unfolded before me. Archer had been correct about the third witch among their leaders – she was there, yet not physically. An ethereal figure hovered in their midst, astrally projecting while simultaneously using illusions for visibility.

A sudden hush fell over the nude assembly.

From their perspective, they couldn't yet see me; only a diffuse white light emanated from the doorway. I had installed a Bounded Field that acted as a one-way light curtain – I could see out, but those outside couldn't see in.

This feature was more for their protection than concealment. Even a fleeting glimpse into the Otherworld could shatter the human mind, a truth I knew all too well.

Stepping through the threshold, I wasn't alone. Archer was immediately to my right, his presence reassuringly solid, while Andrew, a mix of curiosity and apprehension etched on his face, flanked my left.

"Ave Magister, heredes Neronis te salutant," the old woman greeted me in Latin, her voice trembling with what seemed like religious ecstasy. The scars on her face seemed to deepen as she spoke, lit by the fervent glow in her eyes.

The black-haired man echoed her words, though his demeanour was markedly different. He had the look of a lapsed Catholic suddenly mugged by the Pope about his last confession.

It was harder to determine the truth of the third witch, the one who was only present in essence. Yet, even in the illusion she crafted to represent herself, there lingered a measure of truth. Within the ethereal facade of her projection, the dual essences of despair and hope were intertwined—a curious combination.

Translated, their greeting meant "Hail Master, the heirs of Nero greet you." Those words were a clear marker, directing me towards the next phase of our journey: Rome, during the reign of Emperor Nero. The mention of Nero wasn't entirely unexpected; the reptilian creature masquerading as Colonel Sullivan had dropped his name before.

Granted, Nero's reign spanned a significant period, but I was confident in my ability to pinpoint the precise moment we needed to visit.

"Ave Sagittari, heredes Neronis te salutant," she greeted Archer next, her words echoing with the same reverence. The others in the assembly repeated the greeting, their voices a chorus in the open air.

But what followed was unexpected.

Turning to Andrew, she proclaimed, "Ave Praetoriane, heredes Neronis te salutant."

This caught me off guard. It confirmed, at least, that Archer's and my decision to bring Andrew along was the correct one, or more precisely, it was essential for preserving the time loop. But why address him as 'Praetorian'? It struck me then; a Praetorian was indeed a role one might find in the Roman Empire.

Noticing that some of the witches merely echoed the Latin words without full understanding, I decided to respond in a period-appropriate dialect of German. "A star shines upon the hour of our meeting."

The response came from the black-haired male witch, his expression shifting into a frown as he replied in the same language, "If it is the same star that shone upon your meeting with Agrippina, it is not a kind one."

"Augustus!" the old crone reprimanded him sharply, then turned to me with a more respectful tone. "Master, please forgive his impertinence."

"There is nothing to forgive," I replied, offering a gentle smile to ease the tension. Internally, I was pleased by this exchange; it provided another valuable clue. Meeting Agrippina meant that my travels would likely take me to the first five years of Nero's reign. "Heaven is not kind, nor is it cruel. It simply exists. You have named me; now, might I have the honour of your names?"

"Grimhilde, the eldest of the Grand Witches, at your service, Master," the crone intoned, her posture nearly bowing in deference.

The name resonated with familiarity. In legendary tales, Grimhilde was known as Siegfried's wife in the epic poem "Nibelungenlied," and as Sigurd's mother-in-law in the "Völsunga saga." Being familiar with both, I recognized the significance of her namesake. Such knowledge of prominent legends was prudent for a Master in the Holy Grail War.

However, it seemed more likely that she was named after the legend rather than being the actual figure from it. Considering that these stories originated around the 13th century, it was improbable, even for a witch, to have lived for over two centuries.

"I am Grand Witch Augustus Creel," declared the male witch, his voice imbued with a sense of pride. Even in his nakedness, he exuded an air of authority and wealth. It wasn't just in his posture; it was there in the meticulous grooming of his hair, the careful trimming and oiling of his beard — every bit of him spoke of a man accustomed to power and influence.

The name 'Creel' was not unfamiliar to me. For a moment, I wondered if he could be an ancestor of Henry Creel, but quickly dismissed the thought. After half a millennium, such a connection, if it existed at all, was of little consequence.

"Grand Witch Mireille Dubois, at your service, Master," came the ethereal voice of the floating witch. She appeared nude, her form as if suspended underwater, her hair undulating upwards in a ghostly dance. Her skin and body were inhumanly flawless, but then, this was merely an illusion based on her self-image. It suggested vanity, a deep consciousness of her body, or perhaps a mastery in the art of illusion-crafting.

As Mireille finished her introduction, a floodgate seemed to open, and the other witches began to introduce themselves one by one. Through this procession, I gleaned not only their names but also their ranks. Only the first three, including Mireille, held the esteemed rank of Grand. This was followed by Masters, then Adepts, and finally Journeymen. I sensed there were lower ranks still, but they likely did not possess the privilege to attend such elite gatherings.

The title of Grand, the highest in their order, mirrored that used by the Magus Association. A part of me suspected that this similarity was, or would be, my doing.

I yearned to learn more, but I knew I had to tread carefully. Any display of ignorance could betray me; I was supposed to be familiar with all this. Moreover, I had to navigate the delicate balance of the Information Paradox.

Every piece of information had its origin, a point in space-time from which it emerged. Gleaning knowledge without disrupting the flow of time was a delicate art. In all, I was finding time travel to be more trouble than it was worth.

The last of Journeymen introduced himself. I noticed that he only had scars where his scrotum would be. It was too early for him to be castrati, which would become prominent in about two centuries. I suppressed my curiosity, because it would be very impolite to ask, and it would not matter soon.

"As a welcome visitor, I bring guest gifts," I announced, clapping my hands to signal Cid, who was observing through the cameras on the Police Box.

At my signal, the door of the Police Box opened, a bright white light veiling its interior. From it emerged a procession of slender, beautiful androids, clothed only in necessary collars. These collars were essential; ever since the Otherworld had absorbed the androids, they had invoked a blend of fascination and dread. The collars helped to contain this effect.

The androids were laden with food, all prepared with the vril-laced chocolate produced by the Stone Grail. Archer had meticulously prepared a variety of delicacies: a cauldron filled with spiced hot chocolate, plates of chocolate chip cakes, and a refreshing fruit salad adorned with crumbled chocolate pieces.

Two androids carried a collapsible table between them. Once set up, the feast, richly infused with restorative vril, was presented to the witches.

Most witches eyed the feast with a mix of fear and wonder, but Grimhilde stepped forward resolutely, reverently pouring herself a cup of hot chocolate. The first sip transformed her expression into one of pure joy – a common effect of Archer's culinary creations.

She dived into the delicacies like a pack of starving wolves, gulping cup after cup, as if quenching a desperate thirst in a desert.

I wasn't concerned about the quantity; Archer had prepared more than enough.

Catching a glimpse of Archer, I noticed a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He always took pleasure in seeing others relish his culinary efforts, and it was nice to see him happy.

However, my attention soon returned to Grimhilde. Watching the effects of Vril unfold was always a mesmerizing experience.

It began with a soft, golden glow emanating from her abdomen, radiating beneath her skin. Gradually, her leathery, scarred complexion began to smooth out, the scars fading first, followed by the signs of aging, leaving her skin soft and youthful. Her silver hair underwent a transformation into lustrous golden strands, full of life and vitality. Even her thin, withered limbs seemed to rejuvenate, gaining strength, and her previously claw-like hands now appeared delicate and youthful.

The assembly watched in hushed awe as the old crone transformed before their eyes into a beautiful young woman, her face joyously smeared with chocolate.

After indulging in the feast, Grimhilde let out a loud belch and exclaimed, "Ahh, I feel six hundred years younger."

Mireille Dubois floated closer, her eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded Grimhilde. There was a subtle shift in her tone, a barely perceptible edge as she spoke, "But is this transformation real, or merely an illusion?"

"It's real. I can actually feel my thread of life lengthening, as if I were back in my twenties. And it's perfect – no scars from lengthening spells. The Master's craft is well beyond my own," the now youthfully transformed witch replied.

Creel stepped forward, his arms folding across his chest in a gesture that seemed to challenge the truth of the matter. "Are you certain?" he asked, his eyebrows arching ever so slightly, an unspoken doubt lingering in his gaze.

"Of course, I am sure. Was it not I who discovered the threads of life and devised spells to extend them? Wasn't that my achievement that earned me the title of Grand?" the golden-haired witch retorted. "Do not doubt the Master's gift. Come, let us all partake in this blessing." She then pointed at four Journeymen. "You, and you, and you, and you – go first, so you can replace the watchers, allowing them to partake as well."

Spurred by Grimhilde's words, the chosen four hurried to comply. Among them, I noticed the young man marked by castration, a detail that didn't escape my attention as he moved toward the table.

I scanned the reactions of the other witches, curious about their response to what was about to unfold. Mireille Dubois hovered at the periphery; her expression tinged with what seemed like forlorn resignation. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy. Even with miracles wrought by Vril, the allure of Archer's culinary creations was a sensory delight I would be loath to miss.

Just watching the younger witches indulge stirred a mix of envy and gluttony within me.

Grimhilde approached me, her renewed youth evident in the sway of her hips. "It is so strange to feel young again," she mused. "I am grateful, of course, but I must confess, my loins burn with a lust I haven't felt in centuries. I thought those days were long behind me."

"If that's a proposition, I respectfully decline," I responded, my gaze flicking briefly to Archer. The fidelity inherent in my elven form restricted me; my desires were bound solely to him.

"I wouldn't presume, Master," Grimhilde replied with a lightness in her voice. "I have my eyes on one of the younger witches for tonight's celebration. Now that I'm young again, the thought of having another child, perhaps a daughter, is quite appealing. Hopefully, this one will have more luck in her love life."

"Are you saying you were part of the 'Völsunga Saga'?" I inquired, picking up on her subtle hint.

She blushed slightly, a youthful glow in her cheeks. "It's embarrassing, really. The saga got it wrong. Yes, my daughter did fall for a boy raised by one of the snakes, an exile who sought to use a human to kill his brother. There was even a sword forged by this exile, although it was not called Gram."

"What was its name?" I asked, intrigued by her story.

"Just a sword," she answered with a laugh that rang clear and bright. "Swords are named in songs, not in real life."

"I thought you were just named after a character from the saga," I said, puzzled. "Humans don't live for centuries."

"Yes, I am aware," Grimhilde replied, her voice tinged with a soft, melancholic note. "I have witnessed seven hundred winters. So much has changed since I first discovered the threads of life in every part of the flesh."

Her words were subtly reinforced by a telepathic sending – a fleeting image that flashed in my mind. I recognized it as telomeres, a remarkable realization.

A sense of awe washed over me at her achievement, accomplished without any knowledge of genetics or microscopes. Perhaps her psychic powers were an even more potent tool for such discoveries.

She continued, "That discovery and the method to extend them earned me the title of Grand. I have no regrets, but sometimes, I do wonder if it has caused us to drift even further from ordinary humans. Their lives seem so brief in comparison, and they are so fragile."

Archer, seizing the moment, joined our conversation. His gaze was as focused as if he were aiming at a target with his bow. "What happened to the sword?" he inquired.

Grimhilde's expression turned distant, as though she were reaching back through centuries of memory. "It was lost, along with the boy," she replied. "A real pity, because that was the only weapon capable of easily piercing the snakes' shields. Wounds inflicted by it couldn't heal. We haven't heard from the King Snake since he was wounded by that sword."

"King Snake?" I echoed, my curiosity now mirroring Archer's focused interest.

"Yes," she nodded. "In the saga, they called him Fafnir, but he was no dragon, just another snake. Whether he's truly their king or not, he's certainly a leader among them."

Those revelations were two critical pieces of information. First, the fact that the reptilians had once forged a weapon capable of effectively harming their own kind meant that such weapons were indeed possible. Second, the existence of a leader among them – this King Snake. While there was nothing I could do with this information at the moment, I filed it away for future use. Knowledge was power, a statement that held even more literal truth for a Magus.

A cry of joyous surprise erupted from the feast. The castrated witch was leaping in what seemed like a spontaneous dance of ecstasy, soft golden lights slowly fading from his groin. To everyone's astonishment, it revealed a perfectly normal set of testicles.

"That food can heal even maiming?" Dubois floated towards me, her voice a mix of wonder and disbelief. The illusion she maintained wavered, flickering like a poorly tuned TV channel.

It was hard to maintain concentration under the effect of strong emotions. I was slightly impressed, that the image did not fade altogether.

"Anything except death," I replied, my tone devoid of pride. Although I had presented the feast, the true blessing wasn't mine to claim. It came from the Stone Grail, a relic from a timeline where Earth succumbed to an alien invasion in just under seven hours.

"As expected of Master," Grimhilde was quick to praise me.

"Can I take some with me?" Dubois inquired, her voice and image quivering slightly – a reminder that she wasn't truly present and couldn't physically partake in the feast.

"Regretting that you didn't come in person?" Augustus Creel, the only male Grand Witch, remarked as he joined our group. His tone held a note of sly amusement. "And who would be able to deliver it to you? You've concealed yourself too well."

"I could guide someone," Dubois responded, undeterred.

Augustus Creel's expression shifted to one of mock-concern, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "And are we to expect that someone to return after such an errand?" he asked.

Dubois' frown deepened, her illusion momentarily flickering with her irritation. "Do you insinuate I would harm anyone sent to assist me?" she shot back, her voice tinged with offence. Her astral presence, usually so controlled, betrayed her agitation.

Augustus Creel's smirk only widened. "Well, considering your... elusive nature, one can't help but wonder about the fate of your messengers."

Before the tension could escalate further, Grimhilde intervened, her voice smooth and conciliatory. "Let's not spoil the celebration with accusations, real or imagined."

She then turned to me with a respectful nod. "Master, please excuse this unseemly display. Might you consider Mireille's request? It's a humble plea from one who couldn't be here in person."

My first instinct was to refuse.

Given what I had learned from the encounter in the underground temple, I was well aware that reptilians could detect Vril. Allowing Vril-laced food to leave this gathering posed a significant risk. If intercepted, it would not only endanger the messenger but also confirm my access to Vril, something that, in the future, remained merely an unconfirmed suspicion. Preserving causality was paramount.

Yet, as I glanced at Archer and then back at the almost desperate expression of the floating witch, I hesitated.

"Tamiel," I called out to one of the androids, "bring me the lithomancy set."

"Lithomancy?" Andrew, who had been hovering near Archer using him as a human shield from the witches' intense attention, sounded puzzled.

"Crystals speak to him," Archer explained softly.

Andrew leaned in closer, curiosity piqued. "And what do they say?"

Archer's response was as dry as the iron wasteland in his soul. "Most often: buy more crystals."

My lips twitched but I managed to keep my composure. I had my dignity to preserve, and Archer hardly needed more encouragement.

"Tamiel…," Creel muttered more to himself, as the android left to fetch the tools I asked for from the Otherworld.

The young witch, having ceased his ecstatic dance, approached our group tentatively. When he was merely a handspan away, he dropped to his knees.

"Master, no words can express my gratitude. You have made me whole again," he said, his voice filled with reverence. In his hands, he held a beautiful rose made of stone, not carved, but shaped by the power of his mind alone. "This token is but a trinket, but please accept it. I pledge myself to your service, now and forever. Command, and it shall be done."

Archer's voice, solemn as though pronouncing a doom, resonated, "Even if it means travelling to the end of the world, into a place devoid of light and hope, waiting for something that will never come?"

I understood then. The stone rose was a key. Archer's words had illuminated its nature – it resonated with the aura of the underground temple. This young man was destined to be its future architect.

The young man looked up, fear flickering in his eyes, yet he gathered his courage. "Yes. Is that what you ask of me, Master?"

"You will serve me best by following your fate," I said gently, accepting the rose.

Relief washed over the young man's face as he stood. He was still too inexperienced to realize that I hadn't contradicted Archer. His fate was sealed, and it promised no kindness. But isn't that true for all of us? Life's worth lies in its entirety, not just in its conclusion – and of that, I had no certainty.

"Go," Grimhilde instructed him, "You have watchers to relieve. They too deserve to join the feast."

With a nod, he scampered away, his steps light yet uncertain.

"Poor boy," Grimhilde murmured, shaking her head. "Such a heavy Wyrd to bear."

"Harsh is the price extracted for your gifts," Creel commented, his tone laced with criticism. "Should one ask first before partaking?"

"Creel, your insolence is unbecoming," Grimhilde chided sharply.

"The boy offered it freely," I replied, my fingers tracing the contours of the gifted rose. Its surface was smooth, a stark contrast to the sharpness of its stone thorns. The attention to detail was remarkable, a testament to the young witch's craftsmanship. "It's a gift given without strings. Acceptance and reciprocation are choices that remain yours."

"Forgive him, Master," Grimhilde said, bowing yet again.

"There's nothing to forgive," I assured her, lifting the rose to my nose out of habit. Unsurprisingly, it smelled only of stone, not blooms. "Questions pave the path to knowledge. I don't mind them being asked."

"He could be more polite," Dubois chimed in, her tone playful yet pointed, like a fox teasing a poor rabbit.

"I'd rather he remain true to himself," I countered.

A chuckle escaped Andrew, drawing attention to the soldier boy.

With a flush of embarrassment colouring his cheeks, Creel turned to Andrew. "Praetorian, after a millennium and a half, you still wear youth like a well-fitted cloak. Has the price you paid for such longevity proven its worth?"

Caught off guard, Andrew resembled a deer in headlights. Naturally, he was confused; he hadn't lived for a millennium and a half. He was from the future and bound by his inability to lie.

Archer and I tensed, subtly preparing to intervene if necessary.

But Andrew's response took us by surprise. "There is no price. Just a gift of knowledge. While the invaders walk the Earth I will not rest."

His answer was cleverly phrased – the truth he spoke was not the truth Creel perceived.

"But where were you then? Both you and the Master. And Archer too. Where were you while we shed so much blood in the shadows?" Creel pressed, his tone accusatory.

"Enough," Grimhilde interjected firmly. "We all have our roles to play in this."

"But don't we deserve to know?" Dubois added. "After everything we've done."

"No," Grimhilde stated resolutely. "What we don't know, we cannot betray."

At that moment, a young witch with honey-gold hair, one of those sent to relieve the watchers, came running back in panic.

"He is dead," she cried out, her voice laden with shock and fear. "Someone has killed Hanz."