A delivery boy, sixteen years old at most, distributes the freshly printed propaganda leaflets. Clea takes one, turns it over, smells the scent of fresh ink it gives off, and smiles. The boy reciprocates and begins to distribute the flyers with more enthusiasm.

People cheer and clatter with their tools. Clea looks around. She raises her fist, clutching the flyer. The crowd cheers louder before dispersing throughout the mill.

The large mill of Eggrio. Food heart of the second inland regional city. The Duchy of Delphine depends on mills like this.

I still struggle to believe it.

Clea sits on a flour sack. The room is full of bags of flour piled up all around.

There are also a lot of farmers dressed in their simple and dirty clothes, brown and grey, with wide-brimmed straw hats or veils to cover their hair and protect themselves from the heat.

They are happy. They make noise while they drink some grape marc and eat some bread.

Clea scratches under her leather bib as she studies the flyer. No writing: only the rich can read. The sheet depicts random characters, printed as best as possible.

Clea smiles. The double siege worked. The millers' strike transformed into a peasant occupation to distract the police forces, while a small platoon led by his brother took over the city press.

No resistance comes from the millers. The courier distributing the flyers screams: even the newspaper scribblers have surrendered and begged. No use of force was necessary.

Clea stops scratching. She checks that the leather bib covers the shirt collar and places the flyer in the large front pocket.

The fact that the first stages of the operation were successful does not mean that the conclusion will be a victory.

The Guild of Millers and Bakers, an old institution to squeeze the countryside, will soon send someone. Perhaps the Witch who presides over the local police will show up, or maybe the one who runs the corporation.

Yeah, a high-ranking Witch would be a good opportunity. After all, there have never been peaceful revolutions in Ialtia, nor does Clea feel the need to pursue them.

It is to hope that no Witch attacks the local press office. This eventuality would ruin the entire operation.

No, it will not happen.

The fact is that the press matters less than bread. The fact is that the millers are formally hostages of a horde of angry farmers. They need to take enough time, which is happening very well.

“Clea, Clea!”

Clea looks up at a familiar voice.

Her sister Marzia emerges from the crowd. She waves with the flyer in her hand.

“Clea, do you see?”

“Yep. If they can get journalists to cooperate now, tomorrow, we will have newspapers supporting our cause. The city will read, and everyone will know about our conditions!”

“And they will take up arms with us! We will take Eggrio. We will drive the 12,176th Witch out of the city!”

“Marzia, do you know her rank by heart!?”

The sister giggles. Clea is not good with details; learning such a complex title is beyond her capabilities.

“I am confident that this will be the case. The witches have oppressed us too much.”

“But the millers…” Marzia has a moment of gloom.

“The millers were fools. They hoped to exploit us with a strike of convenience. Make us do the dirty work to make more money. They are part of the State. They just turned out to be the enemies we suspected.”

“Sure. After all, the important thing is that we have control of all eighteen mills on the river. The Corporation will have to bow to our requests. Otherwise—”

“We will burn everything, Marzia. I want to see their noble asses in winter without flour supplies.”

Clea laughs and winks at her sister.

“Hopefully, Milo is doing well.” Having said those words, Marzia walks away, called back by some friends near the large wooden wheel.

The enormous stone mill is still, and the river water flows and fills the air with a pleasant wet smell.

Clea starts to get up. After all, there are some preparations to complete. A little mouse crosses her path. Having reached the wall staircase that leads to the upper floor, Clea goes up and finds herself in a room full of bundles of wheat tied together.

There are few people up there. And a cool breeze comes in through the window. Clea reaches it and, from there, observes the valley below.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

An expanse of tidy, brown and yellow fields. In the middle harvest, interrupted by the disturbing actions of the ‘corrupted’ farmers by the ‘Witch of the wheat fields.’

At the mere thought of that title, a sense of satisfaction fills Clea.

No one except her family knows that she was lucky. A ‘Statistical Inheritance.’ She was fortunate that her parents, ignorant like many, did not know the laws.

They knew that the mark on Clea's chest was a magical emblem. They know that everyone hates witches, including them. But they did not know the law. Those witches are the property of the city orphanage.

Out of grim greed, they thought about how rich they could become if they had a Witch daughter to help them in the fields. So, they kept her secret. They educated her in their culture. She got muscular arms from working in the fields, calloused hands, skin mottled by the Sun, and the evil star.

Clea hated her parents for many years. She hated her brothers and sisters, and she hated the other farmers.

It must be something from the blood. Who knows? After all, she is a Witch. But she does not live in a world of illusions. She is grateful to her parents, now old and sick. And she is grateful to her relatives, friends, and companions.

They made me see reality as it really is.

She is not the one who has to change estates. It is the estates that must disappear.

Yes, Clea will change this nation. There will be no Witch who will not tremble at her name.

Turning to the other side of the window, Clea sees the city, the industrial suburbs, the river that passes by it, and the buildings. Listen carefully, the breeze brings some noises, although covered by the shouts of the farmers below.

It takes her a few moments to realize that that series of spots is approaching from a carriage road, just after the bridge south of the city.

One motorized carriage escorted by twenty knights.

Clea goes back inside. She runs up to the ladder. Coming down, she screams.

“They arrive! They arrive! Be ready! The police are coming!”

Panic breaks out in the mill. This is the front line; the farmers in this mill are the bravest of the whole operation.

If this mill falls, all sixteen will fall.

But Clea has no intention of letting it fall.

From the room, she runs towards the exit. The people around are holding pitchforks and scythes. A couple of sturdy farmers bring the tied miller to Clea.

“Not yet. Maybe it won't be necessary to discuss hostages.”

Marzia runs up, emerging from the mass.

“Clea, a Witch—”

“Probably. There is a motorized carriage. It can only be a high-ranking Witch.”

Fearful murmurs spread throughout the room. The chaos has stopped, but Clea feels the tension in the air.

“Don't worry,” she says, passing the miller and reaching the exit. “Just be ready to set fire and run. While they are busy putting out the fire here, our comrades in the other mills will see us. They will set the fire themselves. Witches are wicked but not stupid.”

Without waiting for a response, the Witch of the wheat fields leaves the mill.

Some farmers have followed Clea and are waiting for the police to arrive. The Witch observes them as they wander between the meadow and the river. They are nervous, and one comes back inside, mocked by an older farmer.

The sound of hooves on the dirt road and the clang of the carriage engine are close. Turning, Clea notices they stop about a hundred meters from the mill.

The riders arrange themselves in four rows of five. They hold simple muskets, which stand out on their dark green jackets. Their horned horses stamp as the carriage door opens.

Clea is surprised to see no Witch.

Getting out of the vehicle is a man with long twisted horns, similar to spikes, overweight to the point of making the vehicle tilt, dressed in a heavy fur coat. Bearded and wearing a monocle, the man approaches, swaying his belly and the sword on his belt.

And who the hell is this?

The monstrous type opens his arms as he approaches. Smiling, he holds out his hand to Clea.

“Hello, you are the leader of this rebellion, aren't you?”

Without answering, Clea looks around. She notices two other farmers have returned, and only three are waiting outside with pitchforks and sickles.

Her gaze returns to his plump hand, to his horned face.

It looks like a man. Yet those long horns instead of ears, the carriage from which he got off…

“There are no leaders here, only guides. I'm Clea.”

“I am Archdevil Priscilla, Blessed Marquis of Eggrio. Consort of the Witch Gertrude-Ali Priscilla.”

“Didn't the Witch come?”

“Sadly, there are many who request her presence. She is of very high rank and sits in Parliament.”

Clea looks at the arm still outstretched, waiting for a handshake. She is confused. Obviously, like everyone, witches also have families.

“Disappear, freak of nature. We deal only with Priscilla.”

Annoyed, Archdevil retracts his arm.

“Well, I will be brief and diplomatic. Diplomatic because I will pretend to have heard a ‘Your Holiness was more than magnanimous.’ Short because the offer is simple. We have arrested your messenger. We will also arrest the leaders of this sedition. The others go back to work immediately and all will be forgiven.”

Clea raises her eyebrows.

“I'll be even shorter. If you do not accept our conditions, we'll burn all the mills in the city.”

The man grimaces, showing sharp, inhuman teeth.

“Do not be silly, Lea. My family already has sufficient grain supplies. Only the poor people will lose out, citizens who already struggle to get bread.”

“Clea. My name is Clea.”

“As if it mattered.”

“Indeed, it matters. It is the name of the person who ordered the burning of the mills.”

Clea is about to turn around, but a tug pulls her.

Very quickly, the interlocutor grabbed her wrist. He clenches forcefully, showing his teeth in an expression of anger. The family emblem, a porcupine-snail, is distorted by the folds on the coat sleeves.

“You will not give any orders. Do you want everyone to die?”

“You cannot.” Clea tries to free herself, but his grip is painfully strong. “If you kill them all, no one will work the fields.”

“We will get some from the north if needed. I am telling you this because we would prefer other solutions.”

“I would also prefer other solutions.”

That response transforms the face of man. Astonishment, Clea would say. The grip is released and the tension dissipates.

“Well, I see you are reasonable at heart. Only witches deal with witches, it is good that you understand.”

Clea starts laughing.

“How dare you mock me? Do you understand what position you are in!? I am the husband of one of the most powerful witches in the region!”

“I don't know who you are, Arch-Husband-Marquis-Servant. But you don't catch on quickly.”