Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 1 - Chapter Pr

PROLOGUE

The Black Dragon of Worgan

In the Worgan Mountains, in the lands of Count Kerbeck, a dragon had appeared.

The report shook not only the inhabitants of Count Kerbeck’s lands but the whole of the Kingdom of Ridill, striking fear into the hearts of all.

Dragons brought disaster. They attacked both people and livestock, occasionally even leveling entire towns. Black dragons, in particular, caused calamities that were the stuff of legends—such a creature had appeared only twice in Ridill’s history.

A black dragon’s flames were the flames of the underworld itself, capable of incinerating anything and everything. Even if a group of the kingdom’s mages was to band together and erect a defensive barrier, those flames would burn up barrier and mage alike. Wherever a black dragon appeared, it was said, the earth would be scorched to ash. Each time one had come in the past, several towns had been wiped off the map, bringing the very kingdom to its knees.

“Lady Isabelle, this mansion is no longer safe. Let us evacuate to the countess’s family home.”

Isabelle Norton, daughter of Count Kerbeck, shook her head at her maid Agatha’s suggestion, a severe expression on her face. “No,” she said. “No matter what happens, I shall not leave this place.”

Isabelle had only recently turned fifteen. Her bearing and unwavering gaze, however, held the pride and dignity of their noble house, which had protected these lands from dragons for generations.

Dragonraids were the worst here in the eastern reaches of the kingdom, and her family—House Kerbeck—had stood in opposition to the creatures for many years. The history of House Kerbeck was a history of fighting dragons.

In years past, Isabelle had witnessed several disasters borne on their wings. She’d experienced tragedies firsthand. Her family’s adoring subjects had seen their crops ravaged and their buildings demolished. Sometimes they lost livestock or even people. She had seen it all—over, and over, and over, and over.

“The knights are fighting on the front lines, and Father is leading them personally. As his daughter, I cannot abandon my own people to flee. It would be dishonorable,” declared Isabelle decisively, a slightly sad smile coming over her pretty features as she looked at her maid. “Agatha, thank you for all your long years of service. You are hereby discharged.”

“No! No, my lady… I will accompany you to the bitter end.”

Isabelle’s family weren’t the only ones fighting against the dragonraids. Every single person who lived in these lands fought right at the Kerbecks’ side. While this girl in her employ was still young herself, she was very brave. Isabelle thanked her maid, nearly crying at the determination she heard in her voice.

If the black dragon was to break through the knights, the lands of House Kerbeck would be reduced to smoldering ashes. But even then, Isabelle planned to remain within the mansion and defend it to her dying breath.

In the absence of her father, the protection of their home fell to her.

“Lady Isabelle! Aggie, you need to hear this!”

Agatha’s younger brother, a stable boy named Alan, threw open the door without knocking and burst into the room.

As Isabelle and Agatha prepared for the worst, Alan, cheeks flushed, said, “A mage from the royal capital has slain the black dragon!”

Isabelle couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

She was aware that the capital’s Dragon Knights, a unit of dragon-slaying experts, had traveled here as reinforcements. She also knew that a single mage had accompanied them—one of the Seven Sages, Ridill’s most powerful mages. Her name was…

“It’s the Silent Witch!” exclaimed Alan, unable to contain his excitement. “They say the Silent Witch has slain the black dragon all on her own!”

His older sister, Agatha, frowned and reprimanded him. “Alan, you’re exaggerating. No mage, no matter how powerful, could ever defeat a black dragon on their own.”

“But it’s true! The Silent Witch went without the Dragon Knights into the Worgan Mountains and slew the dragon by herself!”

A dragon’s scales were extremely hard, and they were highly resistant to mana. They were said to repel average magecraft with ease. To defeat a dragon, one needed to either aim for the spot where its scales were thinnest in the middle of its forehead or go for its eyes. Seeing as dragons could fly, this task was much easier said than done.

Isabelle had heard that even for the Dragon Knights—as skilled and experienced as they were—killing a dragon was far from easy.

And she, thought Isabelle, did it alone? Unable to believe this sudden turn of events, Isabelle asked Alan, “…How many casualties?”

“Zero dead, my lady!”

The people Isabelle so loved—every last one of them—had avoided a historic catastrophe and survived. If that wasn’t a miracle, what was?

Isabelle let out a cry of relief, overcome with emotion. Just then, Agatha gasped, lifting her head and staring out the window.

“One moment, my lady. That’s—”

Isabelle followed Agatha’s gaze and spotted something black in the sky. At first, she thought it was a flock of birds, but it quickly grew larger.

When its silhouette came into focus, Isabelle practically heard the blood drain from her whole body. She opened the windows and burst out onto the balcony. Ignoring Agatha’s pleas to stop, she grabbed the handrail, leaned out, and looked toward the sky.

“It’s… It’s a horde of pterodragons…”

Pterodragons were at the bottom of the draconic hierarchy, with low intelligence and no ability to breathe fire. Their mobility and sharp claws, however, still made them a significant threat to humans.

Dragons of this type did not generally form flocks once they reached a certain size, but when a larger and higher-ranking dragon was present nearby, they tended to gather around it and treat it as their leader.

The horde she could see in the sky had probably come to join the black dragon in the Worgan Mountains. And now that it was gone, their coherence had dissolved, and they had bared their fangs, angry with those who had slain their leader.

Isabelle, still leaning over the railing, began counting the pterodragons on her fingers. Once she got to twenty, she took a step back from the railing and stopped.

A dragon’s weak points were the middle of its forehead and its eyes. Thus, to get rid of a pterodragon, one first needed to pull it down to the ground. One would then fire a rope from a very large bow, then have cattle drag the rope—and the entrapped dragon—to the ground in order to deliver the finishing blow. Explained like that, it was a simple matter—but eliminating even one required much toil. Often there were casualties.

A horde of more than twenty pterodragons was unprecedented even in House Kerbeck’s long history of dragonraids.

Their shrill, deafening cries grew louder as the flock continued to blot out the ashen skies.

“Please come back inside, my lady!”

As Agatha tugged on Isabelle’s hand, they felt a strong wind pummel their bodies. It had come from a pterodragon that was nearing the mansion. Isabelle held fast to the balcony’s handrail, lest she be blown away.

She had seen it—that dragon’s huge eye swiveling to look at her.

She let out a soft wail of despair.

And then a gate swung open in the sky.

A gate of white light had formed in the firmament—bigger than the castle gates, bigger even than the pterodragons. Several glowing magic circles had appeared around it. The doors of the gate had opened silently, letting out a rush of wind from within. That wind carried with it shining white particles that glittered in much the same way as the gate.

It was the sigh of the Springherald, the Shining White Wind—both names for Sheffield, King of the Wind Spirits. Summoning a spirit king was an advanced magecraft technique; only a few in the kingdom could manage it.

Following its caster’s command, the spirit king’s sigh transformed into sharp spears that pierced through the cloud cover and struck the pterodragons between the eyes.

The dragons had no time to cry out as they were hit. They died without even understanding what had happened. One by one, they fell from the sky.

“This is… They’re…”

The giant body of a falling pterodragon was a threat by itself, as it might crush any people or buildings below it. However, once the spears had pierced their foreheads, these pterodragons were enveloped in a glittering wind. They drifted to the ground and piled atop one another like falling leaves.

The spell was hauntingly silent and precise. And standing in front of the pterodragons’ remains was the petite figure of the mage who had cast it.

She wore a robe embroidered with gold and a hood pulled far down over her eyes, gripping a staff that was taller than she was. At her feet was a black cat, likely a familiar, nuzzling the hem of her robe.

In the Kingdom of Ridill, the length of a mage’s staff indicated their rank. Only seven were permitted to carry a staff longer than they were tall—the Seven Sages. The petite figure who had defeated the pterodragons stood right at the top of Ridill’s hierarchy of mages.

She was one of the Seven Sages: the Silent Witch.

“Oh… Wow…”

All the magecraft that Isabelle knew consisted of launching something directly at a target, whether it be flames or wind. It was a wonderful thing, but no more than that.

Never before had she seen a spell as subtle and as beautiful as this one…firing spears so precisely into the pterodragons’ foreheads mid-flight before gently, soundlessly setting them down upon the ground.

Isabelle remained on the balcony, her cheeks flushed crimson, and continued to gaze at the miracle their savior had produced.

Meanwhile, a man was watching the same scene from a little ways away.

His blue eyes reflected the figure of the witch who had just cast that quiet, beautiful spell.

He breathed a sigh of admiration and muttered to himself.

“I’ve finally found it…something that excites me.”

His voice was heated, as though he had just fallen in love.