The city of Eggrio has no walls. Like many cities in the East of the Empire, it is located on the great plain of the Duchy of Delphine between the Pial Mountains and the lowland sea. The railways cross immense expanses of cultivated fields, pristine moors, marshes, and woodland lakes and maintain local trade alive.

Some old forts remain abandoned for centuries, but the natural lines' defenses are more entrusted. The ten rivers of the valley, for example.

The suburbs and the city dissolve into each other without clear breaks. The houses become sparser, the factories of the industrial district become closer, and people change in clothing and manners.

Clea observes. She stopped running for a while, now far from the clash areas. The surrounding environment is desert, and the windows are closed.

Did they evacuate or run away?

A few dogs and a few cats are all that the suburb has to offer at that moment. The temptation to stop in some structure for food entices the Witch, who spots an inn with a duck-shaped sign. Its colors are peeling, and the moldy door has a broken board.

It's till better than nothing.

Clea starts to head towards her destination, stopping after a few steps. In the background, she notices the riverbank. Behind it, the remains of a charred mill.

Regret closes in on her. The day was a success but at a high cost.

“I was hoping to bluff.”

“Going down, we should also come across two or three other mills. If I remember correctly, there is a bridge over the river ahead.”

Clea does not turn around. She does not want to argue with Archdevil, not now that she is tired and they have a long road ahead. And then what does he understand? He who serves a rich Witch will not even understand the value of a mill. Sixteen, then?

Clea clenches her fist, annoyed. It had to be a bluff. Priscilla had to surrender, grant freedom of the press in the city, and free access to the resources of the city lords. Are farmers worth less?

Instead, she has to show that she is not bluffing. Her brother and sister had a tough time. One: arrested in the printing house. And the other?

The plan continued.

They manage jointly to capture that monster with horns, surprise and kill two witches, and capture Priscilla.

No, it went well. I have to be optimistic. It happened.

“Uhm. Without mills, farmers will have to carry grain to the nearby city. A notable advantage for the lady, less so for them.”

This time, Clea turns around. That 'thing' is sticking his finger in the wound on purpose.

“It just so happens that Priscilla was the one who got to this point.”

“I just point out that your action has worsened local living conditions.”

“It's the Witch's fault.”

Archdevil starts chuckling.

“Indeed, that is what you are.”

Clea takes a deep breath and feels the veins in her neck throbbing. Archdevil is walking away, following the road that leads into the carriage road and further into the fields. Ever since they ran away, he has done nothing but annoy her like an annoying mosquito.

But then, why did we flee? I could kill the entire police force, right?

A final look at the remains of the mill. After, Clea follows her traveling companion.

As expected, they find a low wooden bridge that crosses the river. It is neither long nor wide. The road is little more than a cart track in the fields, used only by farmers.

Once past the last two mills, a green expanse of moorland extends for kilometers and kilometers. A lone tree casts her shadow, and Clea asks Archdevil for a moment's break.

“The heat is scorching. I don't know how you do it all dressed up. The other one, too.”

“Just rest for a moment. I'm in no hurry, and I like the sun.”

“You don't sweat.”

Clea lets herself go onto the tree trunk. She unbuttons her shirt, revealing the aegis, and removes her boots. The grass is dry. In the shade, the ground is dry, dusty, and hard. Cicadas sing, and some birds chirp on the branches.

Closing her eyes, the Witch tries to put her ideas in order and her next moves. Priscilla, the stolen treasures... she has no ideas. Everything went differently, and two witches died. She hoped they had no heirs ready to take their place. If there were more witches of the people, everything would be easier.

Or Archdevils.

Clea thinks about the two examples of Archdevil known to her. Both are fresh with knowledge. She had never seen anything like it. There were rumors among the peasants about monsters in the palace, but what rumors were not circulating among the peasants?

The first, Archdevil Priscilla and the two witches have drained the common fund. They need to raise more money and other willing people to call to the cause. And this?

Clea opens her eyes. It takes her a few moments to find Archdevil Shield. He is lying in the sun. He stares at his belly up, taking it all in.

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It's so hot. It could melt asphalt. How he does?

But other questions are swirling in the Witch's mind. That guy is strong. He smashed a hammer without flinching.

Furthermore, he is not hostile. He does not even have the manners of a noble. He seems more like a presumptuous maverick. He helped to escape, even though there was no need. They made a deal. Why? What does he gain from it? Is it perhaps a scheme of the Witch he serves? Why does he call her the owner or the lady instead of, like the other, referring to her surname?

Clea touches her bib pocket. There is still the folded poster, delivered to them in a moment of great jubilation.

Maybe, it is a worth try.

The Witch stands up. She picks up her dirty boots and walks towards Archdevil. Her shadow is projected onto him, so small compared to her.

“Between you and the Sun, guess who I prefer?”

“I need to talk to you.” Clea tries not to be authoritarian. She knows well that imposing oneself leads to negative outcomes. She must be persuasive.

Archdevil stares at her, pushes the tuft off his forehead, and stands up. Clea looks at the large gun on his belt. She had already glimpsed it, but only now did she notice the pearly barrel.

Expensive, like the clothes.

“Did you see anything?”

Clea does not even look at him. She takes the folded poster from her pocket and hands it to him.

“Here. It's important.”

Archdevil raises an eyebrow. He studies the piece of paper, turning it over in his claws.

“Open it, I want you to see.”

He obeys and observes the contents. The silence transformed into a laugh. The giggle becomes a mocking laugh.

Clea does not understand, and with a sharp gesture, she takes the paper back, snatching it from Archdevil's hands.

“Why are you teasing? Did you even understand!?”

“Ho, of course.” Archdevil tears up laughing. “How many have you printed? One, a thousand, a million!?”

“Well…”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Thanks for showing me that farmers can't write. I had never gotten there. Surely, many will understand it now. This is an extraordinary revelation. There is no—”

“Stop that. You are as stupid as you seem!”

Archdevil falls silent. He holds Clea's gaze. He bursts out laughing again. He gets up, shaking his coat.

“Sorry, sorry. Wait, I get it. I understand. Your claims are more than reason-reason…”

Laughter interrupts the sentence.

Clea feels outraged and humiliated. A vein throbs in her neck. How did she get to be so stupid? She is still with the toy of a Witch who is talking. There can be no dialogue.

“For Holiness, for Holiness. Uh, and to think that fifteen years ago, they had writers and actors on their side.” Archdevil stops laughing.

What he means?

Clea would like to ask, but anger and pride hold her back. She will not ask him anything at all. They will finish what they started, bound by the agreement. Then that is it. They are separate streets.

Maybe I'll capture him too.

The idea is stupid, and Clea discards it immediately. She puts her boots back on and sets off. Go to hell. He together his damn antidote.

For the rest of the journey, Clea leads the group. The evening falls, and she ignores the restless shadow that follows her. She keeps her pace brisk, hoping to tire him. Useless, in terms of stamina, that thing is indefatigable.

Archdevil never speaks unless disturbed. Clea noticed it after a long silence. As long as she talked to him, he responded unbearably. Yet, since Clea has been sulking, he has not opened his mouth again.

Now and then, she looks back to check. Archdevil is always there, just a few steps away.

Clea regrets losing her temper. She wanted to recruit him. It seemed like a reasonable goal, and instead, Clea ruined everything. She would like to ask him why he responds badly to her. Is it because he finds her ugly? Is it because she is a peasant? Maybe because she is a rebellious Witch, independent of social conventions?

In short, why? He didn't even fight me.

The other Archdevil begged for forgiveness when he found out. I am a Witch. Socially, he should understand that he is a step below me.

Even if I come from the people, even if I am a Witch of the lowest category, I am a Witch.

“Hey, is that the village?”

Clea looks up at the handful of farmhouses ahead. They are red brick, with large spaces for stables and granaries. The wooden obelisk and the small stone church of the cult are also visible from there.

Alcle. Her hometown.

Clea stops and stretches her shoulders.

“Yes, we have arrived.”

Archdevil reaches her.

“You know, don't you, that you won't find anyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you. In the city, you told me. You had kidnapped the Witch Gertrude-Ali Priscilla, didn't you tell me?”

Clea narrows her gaze, fearing some joke.

“I said so.”

“Because you kidnapped her husband, to whom she is bound.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you should know. Witches love themselves, first of all. She lied to you.”

“To get caught?” This time it's Clea who feels she has to laugh. She claps a berry on the shoulder of the idiot following her. “I have to say, that was a welcome lie.”

Archdevil shakes himself.

“To be taken to your lair, or whatever. Your strength is the Common Fund. That ridiculous Common Fund into which, I imagine, each of you has paid a share. Beautiful. Beautiful enough to make you a Witch with more resources than those granted by laws.”

Clea feels a sudden pang in her head. An effect of too much sunbathing is the adrenaline accumulated and released during the revolt. She does not know. She does not understand. Suddenly, she is worried. She is for her brother, for her sister.

“We cut out her tongue. She can no longer cast spells.”

“All right then. What can we learn from popular sayings.”

Clea catches some sarcasm. It irritates her, and it irritates her even more because it scares her.

“Let's say you're right.”

“Your rebellion is running out of water. Who organizes? Who recruits? What is your aim?”

“What does it have to do with it!?”

Archdevil shrugs.

“You see, studying is important. You don't know how to read or write, and you don't know the rebellions of the past. Revolutions are serious.”

“Not everyone is as privileged as you, gentleman.”

Archdevil grimaces. Clea interprets it as a successful attack.

“I'll tell you something I learned with privileges.”

“I cannot wait to hear it.”

“Revolutions always start from envious, ambitious witches, or whatever you want. These traits you share as a species, but some of you can't control yourself, just as people are sometimes criminals, sometimes not.”

Clea rolls her eyes, red from the twilight.

“Thanks for the lesson. Shall we go?”

“The ending is always the same. As soon as your social position improves, the revolution ceases. But I know it will be different with you.”

“Oh, thank you, flattered. Of course, it will be different with me.”

Clea walks with a heavy step, her sickle jingling as it hits her belt buckle.

“Sure, Priscilla will kill you.”

Clea stops. She seemed to hear that unpleasant wish. A sigh lost in the sea of singing cicadas. Turning around, she notices that Archdevil is approaching her. He passes her, heading towards the houses immersed in the dark meadow.

She wants to say something, but she is not sure. She is not sure. Does he really say that?