The world around them ceased to be a labyrinth of monochromatic lines and returned to being terrifyingly real.
The transition from the Mist to the physical world occurred as quickly as a puff of air exhaled on a freezing morning. As soon as they crossed the invisible threshold separating the dark bowels of the cave from the mountainside, the snow hit their faces like thousands of ice needles.
The storm roared with relentless ferocity, the wind howling through the rocky peaks like an angry lament from nature itself.
Nightingale deactivated her magic.
The drain of the newly restored power and the tension of the last few minutes made her knees buckle for a fraction of a second.
The biting cold hit her, replacing the scorching heat of the brazier that, moments before, threatened to be her funeral pyre. She let out a long sigh, watching the mist of her own breath mingle with the blizzard, her chest rising and falling frantically.
She was free.
She turned, her amethyst eyes searching for the figure of the man who had just defied an entire camp of witches and destroyed a Divine Medallion with his bare hands to save her. Nightingale opened her mouth, words of gratitude already forming on her lips, ready to thank William for risking everything.
But she didn't get the chance to utter a single syllable.
Before she could speak, William took a hurried step forward and wrapped her in a tight hug.
It wasn't a polite or calculated gesture; it was a desperate embrace, laden with all the anguish he had accumulated outside the cave. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and back, pulling her against his thick coat, protecting her from the mountain wind. He buried his face in her shoulder and let out a long, trembling, and deeply relieved sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for a lifetime.
— "Thank goodness the worst didn't happen..." — he murmured, his voice muffled by the fabric of her clothes, trembling slightly from the sudden release of built-up tension.
Nightingale widened her eyes for a moment, surprised by the intensity and vulnerability of that physical contact. However, the surprise quickly gave way to a comforting warmth that spread through her chest, warming her more than any campfire ever could. She relaxed her shoulders, closed her eyes, and hugged him back, matching the strength of his grip.
For a few seconds that felt like an eternity suspended in time, amidst the white hell of the mountain, the two found refuge in each other, anchored only by the accelerated beating of their hearts.
But time was not a luxury they possessed.
After those precious seconds of comfort, adrenaline coursed through William's veins again, sharp as a razor blade. He pulled air in forcefully, filling his freezing lungs, and pulled back slightly, keeping his hands on Nightingale's shoulders to face her.
His eyes were serious and focused again.
— "We need to go, the chaos inside won't last forever. Once Cara recovers, they might come hunting for us," — he said, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind. — "But, before we head down, we need to wait a few minutes out here. Just a few minutes; Lightning might come with us." —
Nightingale blinked, confused. Snow accumulated on her eyelashes as she tried to process that name. She tilted her head, knitting her brows.
— "Who is Lightning?" — she asked, her voice denoting genuine ignorance.
William froze.
He let go of Nightingale's shoulders and took a step back, shock stamped so clearly on his features that, for a second, Nightingale thought he was in pain.
— "What do you mean, who is Lightning?" — he asked automatically, incredulous. The sound of the storm seemed to have died down in his mind, replaced by a buzz of confusion. — "You don't know who she is? She's a member of the Witch Cooperation Association, the little blonde girl who can fly! She is in there!" —
Nightingale shook her head in denial, crossing her arms to protect herself from the cold.
— "I don't know her, I have no idea who you're talking about," — she explained sincerely. — "I never spent much consecutive time in the hideout. My role was always to scour the city alleys and nobles' homes in search of new sisters and supplies. The witches I actually know and am close to are the older members, the ones who have been with Cara, Scroll, and Wendy for a long time. This Lightning must have arrived at some point when I was away, in Silver City or on other missions." —
William's mind began to spin at a breakneck speed. His thoughts plunged into a whirlpool of theories and deductions as he stared at Nightingale's confused face.
How could she not know Lightning? In the original story, in the narrative he knew from his past life, Nightingale was the connecting pillar among the witches; but, come to think of it, it made logical sense. Nightingale was the shadow, the scout, the stealthy assassin who spent months away from the mountains.
But was it just a detail he forgot from the original story, or was that a direct result of his existence and Arthur's actions in this world? The infamous butterfly effect flapping its wings again? Could their early interventions, or even just the simple existence of the two of them, have altered the dates when certain witches were recruited or the internal dynamics of the Association? He shook his head quickly, banishing those thoughts from his mind.
That doesn't matter now, he told himself. Focus! Survival first, multiverse theory later.
— "Alright, no problem," — William said, raising his voice. — "But if she shows up, we'll take her with us. She is valuable." —
It took no more than a minute after those words.
From the dense and frightening darkness of the cave entrance, two silhouettes hurriedly emerged, breaking through the veil of shadows.
The first was a young, small girl with short blonde hair flapping wildly under the strong mountain wind. And on her back, clinging as if her life depended on it, was a grown woman with light brown hair, her hair neatly styled in a bun at the nape of her neck, soft side bangs framing her face down to her shoulders, and delicate features that contrasted with the worn clothes she wore.
They were Lightning and Diana Argus.
The young aviator landed her feet in the deep snow with a muffled thud, her breath forming large white clouds, her blue eyes scanning the surroundings until they focused on Nightingale and William.
She didn't waste time with formalities or exaggerated caution.
— "Hey! Wait!" — Lightning shouted, advancing a few steps in the snow, adjusting the woman's weight on her back. — "Please, let us go with you!" —
Nightingale, whose survival instinct and assassin training were sharpened to the limit, immediately went on high alert.
Tension hardened her muscles, and her hand instinctively moved down to the side of her thigh, where she used to keep her daggers. She leaned slightly toward William and whispered, her eyes fixed on the two newly arrived figures.
— "Is that her? This Lightning?" —
— "Yes, it's her," — William confirmed in a whisper, his eyes narrowed as he analyzed the situation. He relaxed his posture a bit upon identifying the young girl, but then frowned as he observed the passenger. — "But I have no idea who the woman on her back is. At least I don't think I know her." —
Nightingale squinted to see better through the curtain of snow interposing between them. When the features of the woman's face became clear, Nightingale's defensive tension yielded slightly, replaced by surprise.
— "That is Diana Argus," — Nightingale whispered back, her voice laden with curiosity and moderate relief. — "She is one of the oldest members, I know her well. She is not a combat witch. Her magic is the support type... And quite harmless, to be honest. She can only change the color of any object to blue." —
Shock hit William once again. He processed the information quickly.
Diana Argus.
Magic to dye things blue. He searched his memory of the original plot and found absolutely nothing about her.
The logical and grim conclusion hit him like a punch to the stomach: She is not part of the main story because she didn't survive to tell it. She was certainly one of the witches Cara led to their deaths and who ended up being massacred by the two demons days later.
That meant, inadvertently, he had saved a life destined to end in the bloodstained snow. But, in this real world, there was no guarantee of intentions. The paranoia and fear of betrayal were palpable.
William took a step forward, placing himself protectively between Nightingale and the two newcomers.
— "You want to come with us?" — William asked, his voice projected firmly to cover the howl of the wind. He stared intensely at Diana. — "How can I be sure you have no ill intentions? That you aren't following us to mark our trail or trying to delay us so Cara can catch up?" —
Upon uttering the question, William cast a significant sidelong glance at Nightingale.
The assassin, immediately understanding the silent command, nodded slightly. She knew what he wanted: to enter the Mist to check if there was any lie in those words. It was the ultimate advantage they possessed.
Diana, panting and shivering from the cold, raised her chin. Her eyes, molded by noble upbringing, did not avert from William's sharp gaze.
— "I have no ill intentions towards you," — Diana replied, her voice clear and firm, despite her chattering teeth. — "I saw the lines of that blueprint twice before Cara destroyed it. I understand a bit of basic engineering. That drawing... The complexity of the gears and pumps... It wasn't the invention of a delirious mind; that was a real project from a brilliant mind. I want to live; I'm tired of blindly following a fanatic into the middle of the abyss. I truly, from the bottom of my heart, want to know Border Town and see this machine with my own eyes." —
Lightning, still holding Diana's legs, gave a daring smile that contrasted with the near-death situation they were in.
— "And I say the same!" — the girl exclaimed. — "Cara has completely lost her mind! That place has become a prison, and as a future great adventurer, I won't miss the chance to see the absurd inventions she said this Prince has over there. You can bet on it!" —
Nightingale, still suspicious of Cara's machinations, stepped forward and intervened.
— "Weren't you sent by Cara as a trap? Didn't she order you to track us?" —
— "Obviously not!" — Lightning almost spat, indignant at the insinuation. — "She was bleeding on the floor when we sneaked away. If she knew we were here, she would have shoved that iron into my head!" —
Nightingale didn't make a sound. She merely activated her magic.
In the blink of an eye, the world of the Mist swallowed her. In the black-and-white dimensions where truth revealed itself in flows of pure magic and unaltered intention, Nightingale observed the two; the energy around Lightning and Diana flowed clear, without the dark distortions that marked lies and deception.
They were being absolutely sincere.
Nightingale deactivated the Mist, reappearing in the physical world with an affirmative nod to William.
— "They are telling the truth. They are clean," — she confirmed.
A long, audible sigh of relief escaped William's lips.
The plan had worked, at least in part. They had allies, and Lightning, crucial for future plans, was safe.
The worst had passed.
But as soon as this superficial thought of relief formed, the brutal reality of the situation crashed onto his shoulders with the force of an avalanche.
William looked again at the silhouettes of Lightning and Diana. There were just the two of them.
Where was Wendy?
The blood froze in his veins, a chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the mountain.
His heart, previously racing from the adrenaline of the escape, suddenly began to beat in a painful, dull, and heavy rhythm.
He began to process the events with the cutting clarity of logic.
He had panicked.
He couldn't bear the uncertainty outside the cave and had invaded the sanctuary.
He had thrown the witches' leader against the wall, destroyed the Church's sacred artifact in front of them, and pulled Nightingale into nothingness. It was an action of brute force, terrifying and irrational to the dozens of girls who already lived in terror.
Wendy is not here, the voice in his mind whispered, laden with dread.
And that was his responsibility.
William's legs began to tremble.
If he hadn't intervened so early... What if he had waited just one more minute? Would Nightingale have managed to convince her, after Wendy was attacked by Cara? Would the imminent sacrifice have broken Wendy's loyalty to Cara organically? But he hadn't waited.
He went in, created chaos, and fled.
And now, what would happen? Cara would wake up bloody and with her honor stained. Her fury would fall upon whoever was left behind. What if Wendy were punished for trying to defend Nightingale moments before? What if the other witches, who in the original story were meant to be saved and welcomed in Border Town, ended up killed—whether by Cara, by starvation, or by the demons—solely and exclusively because he ruined the timeline with his cowardly impulsiveness?
What if he went back there right now? If he turned around, re-entered the dark cave, and fetched Wendy by force, dragging her through the snow? He knew, deep down in his guilt-torn soul, that this would be the greatest of mistakes.
Wendy wasn't a package to be rescued. If he forced her, she would hate them, and he had full conviction that not even Nightingale, who loved Wendy deeply, would agree to kidnap her and force her to live obligatorily in Border Town.
Guilt was a hungry monster devouring his oxygen.
William felt his breath fail.
The white landscape of the storm began to lose focus, darkening at the edges of his vision. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, bizarrely contrasting with the icy wind. An unbearable anguish and a repulsive self-loathing overcame him.
He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms inside his gloves, feeling an immeasurable urge to scream and cry like a frightened child, realizing that the responsibility of playing god with the lives of those people had a price too high for his soul to bear.
— "William?" — a soft voice called. He didn't hear it. The sound of his own heart beating in his ears was deafening.
— "William!" — the voice sounded louder, clearer, cutting through the veil of panic that threatened to drag him into the darkness.
— "WILLIAM!" — Nightingale raised her voice, calling him by his name in a mixture of command and despair. She had already called him twice before realizing that his eyes were glazed and empty, focused on a blind spot in the snowy ground.
Without hesitating, she dropped her defensive posture, took a quick step towards him, and removed her own glove.
Nightingale raised her hand, pressing it firmly against his face, her fingers resting on the side of his cheek. The contact of her warm skin seemed to shock his nervous system.
He blinked, his breath coming out in short, shallow gasps.
Nightingale stared at him with wide eyes, worry carving wrinkles of tension into her forehead. She immediately noticed the signs. Despite the freezing cold of the mountain, the skin of his face under her hand was hot, boiling with the temperature of extreme anxiety. His chest rose and fell violently as he hyperventilated, struggling to pull in air that didn't seem to be enough.
— "Hey... Look at me," — Nightingale said, her voice suddenly soft but firm, like an anchor in the middle of the storm. She squeezed his cheek lightly, forcing eye contact. — "Is everything okay? What happened to you? We are safe." —
William opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to say that nothing was okay; he wanted to say that Wendy had been left behind, that he had ruined everything, that he had ruined the future, but the words got stuck in his throat, choked by the lump of restrained tears. He just closed his eyes tightly, swallowing hard, and gave a wavering shake of his head.
Nightingale, with the keen intuition that made her who she was, understood that it wasn't the time for interrogations or therapy.
The hostile environment around them did not allow for prolonged weaknesses. She lowered her hand from his face but didn't pull away; instead, she turned slightly toward the other two.
— "Lightning, Diana, hurry up. Hover close by and follow our footsteps exactly where we tread, so the snow covers the trail faster," — Nightingale ordered in a firm tone, accepting no objections.
She then turned back to William.
In a gesture of pure partnership and strength, Nightingale draped his right arm over her own shoulders and wrapped her arm around his waist. She, the woman he had saved minutes ago from being cut by a boiling blade, was now the pillar of physical and emotional support keeping him from collapsing right there.
— "Let's go back home, William," — she whispered near his ear, the promise of Border Town sounding like the only safe haven in an ocean of despair.
Supported by Nightingale, with the blizzard whipping their backs and the two fugitives following closely, William allowed himself to be guided.
The four of them left the dark entrance of the cave behind, merging into the white and furious veil of the storm, walking slowly toward hope and the irreversible consequences of their actions in Border Town.