Stepping out of the tent, Charles found the morning light just right. By the time he was done washing up, the nuns had already gathered, set up a big pot, and cooked breakfast for everyone.
Anno was with them too. She seemed to have completely regained her composure—her cheeks didn't show the faintest flush, and her face was set and serious, as if she was weighed down by worry. When Charles walked over, she didn't even look his way.
Still, from the way the nuns kept sneaking glances at Anno—suppressing their giggles—it was obvious everyone already knew exactly what had happened last night. They could hardly keep from cracking up.
Charles could only sigh inwardly. Quietly, he signaled a couple of the nuns to rein in the teasing, so as not to push the shy girl over the edge. After all, Anno really would explode if pushed too far.
He sat down beside Anno like nothing had happened, spooned himself some vegetable and beef stew, broke up a chunk of bread and tossed it in, then began eating as he casually asked, "So, what's next?"
The stiff mask on Anno's face finally softened. Her tone, though, was a little uncertain. "Should we… maybe head back? Montport is dead—it's a huge deal. Someone needs to hurry back to Blackstaff Tower and give the archmages a full report."
"With the company commander dead, that job falls to me… What about you, Charles? What are you planning?"
Charles let out a long breath. "I… should probably head back to the monastery? Most of the nuns are pretty banged up too—I need to take them back so they can rest and heal."
Honestly, he hadn't figured it out yet. Too many things, too much chaos—his head was still a mess.
Anno nodded gently. She knew Charles had already taken on more than his fair share of burdens.
She had plenty she wanted to ask of him herself, but didn't have the heart to pile any more on him.
While chatting with Anno, Charles was sorting out his priorities. A day had gone by since Montport's death—word must have already reached Liberl Port, at least among the better-informed powers.
Since Anno needed to report to the archmages at Blackstaff Tower, on the way back he should also meet with the blue dragons, grab a meal, and discuss how to spin this event to maximize the good publicity…
As he was thinking, a familiar silhouette came into view. Charles looked up and recognized the visitor: Willo, the Satyr Matriarch.
She clearly hadn't slept much—her face looked tired. She hesitated at the edge of their group, "Oh, you're all still eating… Sorry, I'll come back later."
She hurried off before Charles could even ask her to stay.
Watching her go—and remembering Theresa's advice—Charles put aside the idea of heading straight to Liberl Port. He glanced at Anno. "What do you think she wanted?"
Anno's face was immediately full of sympathy. "Not sure… maybe more trouble again, something she needs help with but doesn't want to ask outright… Sigh."
Anno had always rather liked Willo. She'd learned along the way that the Matriarch was genuinely committed to fighting fiends—she'd personally built the Alliance by running herself ragged, working like a dog to pull it all together.
That Willo's hard work had been stolen and corrupted into some terrorist organization… For Anno, it was impossible not to feel for her.
On the other hand, Anno thought, as a leader, Willo could never quite control her own people.
So sometimes, it was hard not to feel a little let down by her. She worried if she listened to Willo's problems, she'd get guilt-tripped into helping—and before she knew it, those greedy, shortsighted types would just steal the results again…
"I'm going back to my room to take a quick nap."
As she spoke, Anno finished her breakfast, set down her bowl and ladle, stood, and turned to go. "Let's rest up. This afternoon, we'll head for Liberl Port—let's not delay."
Charles nodded and told the nuns to take it easy for now, to lie low. He quickly packed up, then, following the direction Willo had gone, set out to find her.
The sudden series of events had disrupted all his careful plans. His head was a swirl of competing priorities, and although his heart said to just walk away, his instincts said he still had unfinished business.
He figured it best to listen to Willo, see what she actually wanted from him, and clear his own head in the process.
He found Willo using magic to heal a lame minotaur warrior. The minotaur looked up at Charles with barely contained hatred—like all this misery was somehow his fault.
Charles ignored the glare, walked up to Willo, and spoke softly: "You were looking for me, Matriarch?"
Willo finished her spell, stood up, and tried to muster a polite smile through her fatigue. "I was, Priest. Could we… walk a bit, outside?"
Charles nodded, and the two of them left the mines, winding along the mountain trail.
Truth be told, there was nothing pretty about the mountains in winter. The snow had only just melted—no lush foliage, no silvery blanket—just cold wind sweeping bare ground. Not exactly prime sightseeing weather.
Of course, they weren't here for the view—just to find somewhere private to talk.
Once they were sure they were alone, Charles finally broke the silence: "So, Matriarch, what brings you to me so early?"
Willo bit her lip, looking embarrassed. "Well… Priest, I was hoping for your advice."
After everything that had happened, she'd looked back and realized that, time after time, Charles's advice had always been spot-on.
It wasn't that he was smarter, really. He just seemed to know the right information sooner than most—things she herself never had.
So now, when trouble hit, the first thing she thought of was: ask Charles.
"The Mountain People have to make it through the winter," she said quietly. "We need someplace warm. But where do we go from here?"
Charles scratched his head. "Why leave? Can't you just tough it out here in the mines till spring?"
Willo managed a wan smile. "We can't stay as guests forever."
Charles shrugged. "And why not? This is an abandoned mine—you're not in the dwarves' way. Odds are nobody's gonna kick you out…"
Willo looked reluctant. "Is there really no other option?"
She had more to say, but didn't know how to put it: this mine was a poor place to live, really—the dwarves had built it for themselves.
Saying that out loud would just make her sound fussy or pampered, so she held her tongue.
Charles studied her face for a moment, then sighed.
"Matriarch Willo," he said, "you really do have too thin a skin for leadership."
Willo looked up in shock. "But… I only want my people to be self-sufficient…"
Charles shook his head. "I'm not saying you're a bad leader for your own people. But in the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers… you really aren't cut out for that kind of position."
"Don't argue—just think about it. You wore yourself out pulling together every race, building this alliance to fight the Demon Lords. And what happened?"
"Did anyone listen to you? No. They just stole power out of your hands."
"And after that, did they follow your ideals? Hell no. They started a war with Rockseeker's Outpost for their own selfish reasons and ruined everything."
Charles spread his hands. "See? In the Alliance, you bent over backwards—and everything turned out the opposite of what you wanted."
Willo buried her face in her hands, mortified. "I know… Please, don't go on—I know I'm a terrible leader…"
Charles sighed. "Look, just focus on your own people and let the rest sort themselves out. Pour your energy into the satyrs—help them live well. Isn't that enough?"
Willo looked up at him, face full of sadness. "But, even the satyrs can't go it alone."
"We have to build new homes—new camps—if we're going to make it through next year. We can't do it without help from other tribes…"
She really did sound desperate, her voice small as she stared at the ground.
Charles decided that was his cue. "Well, you've still got me, don't you?"
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