The Primordial Witch Takes a Stroll Through the Royal Capital
A continent ruled by swords and magic. The human royal capital, Artemis, is protected from external threats by a guardian contract with witches. Witches cannot be killed by humans or other races—only by fellow witches. But the First Witch, Theresia, is the exception: no witch she created can harm her.
Sierra, the White Witch, is twenty years old. She chose to side with humanity, a stubborn and unyielding guardian. One night, sensing an unfathomable presence approaching the capital, Sierra goes
The Primordial Witch Takes a Stroll Through the Royal Capital - The Unreachable Back
The autumn sun cast a pale white glow across the highway.
The dirt road was dry, and with every step, a faint wisp of dust rose into the air. On either side stretched fields already stripped of their harvest, and in the distance, a line of trees swayed in the wind, rustling softly.
Shiera walked.
Her long silver hair was gathered into a single tail at her back, and her white coat fell straight from her shoulders. Slung across her back was the holy sword Luminous. On the ring finger of her left hand sat a silver ring, passed down through generations of White Witches. On the back of her hand, faint old scars from battles past rose to the surface in the autumn light.
The village exit was already far behind her.
She would not look back.
She must not look back.
(There is no place for me there anymore.)
(There is only a mother and daughter's time there.)
(There was never a gap for me to slip into. Not from the beginning.)
Deep in her chest, Shiera felt something cold slowly hardening.
It was not sorrow. It was not anger.
Just a sensation, as if something inside her was slipping away, soundlessly.
---
Theresia stood on a small rise.
Her shoulder-length brown hair swayed gently in the autumn breeze. Her large brown eyes quietly, but steadily, followed the white back growing more distant.
Beside her stood Lorde.
A human man with neatly trimmed black hair. His jet-black eyes were deep, as if drinking in the light, and he carried an air about him that was somehow not quite human. His footsteps made no sound when he walked. His shadow was darker than his body, and at times, it seemed as though only the shadow moved.
"...She's gone, hasn't she."
Theresia's voice was soft and innocent, melting into the autumn air.
"Yes. Was it truly all right to see her off like this?"
Lorde asked quietly, standing half a step behind and to the side of Theresia.
"Mm. That girl won't look back. Chasing after her would be pointless."
Theresia said this and gave a small laugh.
She seemed to laugh.
But her expression was somehow unfathomable. Whether it was innocence, indifference, or something else entirely — even Lorde, standing beside her, could not gauge her inner thoughts.
Beside Theresia, Arke was gripping her mother's sleeve tightly.
A thin woman with dull flaxen hair tied back in a single tail, wearing a faded, unbleached dress. She stared fixedly at the end of the highway where Shiera had walked.
Her eyes were dry, and yet, somewhere within them, something trembled.
"...That child, someday—"
Arke murmured softly.
The words cut off there.
There was no continuation.
It felt as though she must not say the rest.
Theresia heard Arke's murmur but said nothing.
She simply gazed quietly at the white dot growing smaller in the distance.
---
The highway crossed a gentle hill and continued on toward the dry earth beyond.
Shiera walked on at a steady pace.
The weight of the sword on her back pressed slowly into her body.
(I will not draw the sword.)
(I cannot draw it.)
(And even if I did, what would it change?)
(It will not reach that woman.)
(I know it will not reach her.)
(Even so, I will keep carrying this sword.)
(Carrying it is all I can do.)
Shiera looked at her own hand.
A hand meant to grip a sword.
A hand marked with old scars.
A hand with a silver ring glinting on it.
(This hand cannot set down the sword.)
(This hand will keep fighting.)
(For what?)
(For whom?)
(...I don't know.)
(Not knowing, and yet, I walk on.)
The wind tousled Shiera's silver hair roughly.
The autumn sunlight beat down hard on her white coat.
---
How long had she walked?
The sun had begun to tilt slightly west from its high point in the sky.
Shiera spotted a small stone by the roadside.
A flat stone, about knee-high.
She sat down on it.
A short rest.
Her body was not tired.
A witch's body is sturdier than a human's. Even walking all day, she never grew short of breath.
But her heart was heavy.
Like she had swallowed lead, a weight sat deep and immovable in her chest.
Shiera placed the small leather bag she had been carrying onto her lap.
Inside were several days' worth of dried meat, hard bread, and a water skin. And also bandages and salve that the innkeeper had pressed on her.
She took out the water skin and brought it to her lips.
The water was cold and soothed her throat.
(How many more days until the royal capital?)
(How much farther can I walk on these legs?)
(Will I stand on those ramparts again?)
(And again, will I raise my sword?)
(Waiting for an enemy who never comes.)
Shiera moved to put the water skin back into the leather bag.
That was when her fingertips brushed against something hard at the bottom of the bag.
Something small and hard, wrapped in cloth.
(...What is this?)
She pulled it out.
Dull-colored cloth.
Carefully folded and tied with string.
She slowly undid the knot.
The cloth opened.
What emerged was—
A potsherd.
A fragment of a broken teacup.
---
Shiera's fingers stopped.
Three fragments.
One large, two small.
Each was wrapped in cloth, carefully layered so they would not strike against one another.
(This is)
(That teacup.)
(The one I broke.)
(One half of the pair that Arke's mother gave me.)
Shiera picked up a fragment.
The broken edge of the ceramic was sharp, sending a faint pain through her fingertip.
But she gripped it.
Tightly, hard.
(Why?)
(Why is something like this in my bag?)
(Did Arke put it there?)
(Did that woman give this to me?)
The fragment bit into her palm.
It hurt.
But that pain, if anything, thrust reality before her.
(This is something that should never have been returned to me.)
(I was the one who broke it.)
(That time, I slammed it to the floor in a fit of emotion.)
(And Arke picked up the pieces.)
(And put them in my bag.)
(Why?)
(Why would she do such a thing?)
Something stirred deep in Shiera's chest.
Was it anger, sorrow, or something else entirely — a feeling without a name?
Even she did not know.
Only, the hand gripping the fragment tightened.
(I should throw it away.)
(There's no meaning in carrying something like this.)
(It has nothing to do with me — I who have no memory of my mother.)
(Throw it away.)
(Toss it into the weeds by the road.)
Shiera stood, still gripping the fragment.
She drew back her arm.
To hurl it into the dry grass by the roadside.
—That was the plan.
But her arm did not swing down.
Her clenched fist was trembling.
Her fingers would not open.
She could not let go of the fragment.
(...I can't throw it away.)
(I can't throw it away, can I.)
(Something like this — a broken, worthless piece of ceramic.)
Shiera slowly lowered her arm.
Then she wrapped the fragments in the cloth once more.
Carefully.
As if handling something fragile.
She retied the knot, tight.
And pushed it down to the very bottom of the leather bag.
(I can't throw this away.)
(I can neither throw it away nor carry it properly.)
(Half-hearted. Just like me.)
Shiera shouldered the leather bag again.
The mark of the fragment remained on her palm, red.
---
The sun tilted further.
The color of the sky shifted slowly from blue to a pale orange.
Shiera began walking again.
That was when she saw dust rising ahead.
A single horse came galloping toward her.
(...A horse?)
(On this remote highway, on horseback?)
Shiera stopped.
The horse closed the distance rapidly.
The rider was a lightly equipped messenger bearing the royal capital's crest.
A young man.
Drenched in sweat, and the horse was breathing hard.
"Lady Shiera! The White Witch, Lady Shiera, correct?"
The messenger pulled his horse to a stop before Shiera and dropped to one knee on the ground.
"What do you want?"
Shiera's voice was hard and cold.
"An urgent message from the royal capital! By royal decree of King Ordis, Lady Shiera is requested to return to the capital and report on the current situation!"
The messenger, still short of breath, delivered it all in one go.
"...The King. To me?"
"Yes, my lady! Word has reached the capital that the Primordial Theresia is staying in this border region. His Majesty has not yet decided whether to show an attitude of submission, or... whether to take a different approach. Therefore, he wishes to hear above all else the report of Lady Shiera, who knows the situation best."
Shiera listened to the messenger's words in silence.
(Submission, or elimination.)
(The King is still weighing such things.)
(Does he not yet understand that neither submission nor elimination means anything against that woman?)
(No — even if he understands, he must do something.)
(That is what it means to be king.)
Shiera let out a small breath.
"I'll give my report here. Listen well."
She looked the messenger straight in the eye.
Her gray eyes glinted in the setting sun.
"Against the Primordial Theresia, a sword is useless. Even at my full strength, I could not inflict a single wound. A means to kill her does not exist. Or if it does, I could not find it. That is all."
Shiera's voice was flat.
No anger, no sorrow, nothing.
She had simply put the facts into words.
The messenger's face went pale at the report.
"Th-that can't be... Then what is the royal capital to do...?"
"I don't know. My duty is to protect the capital. The King can make the King's decisions."
Having said only that, Shiera turned to leave.
"W-wait, please! There is one more thing I must tell you!"
The messenger raised his voice in a hurry.
"What."
Shiera asked shortly, without turning around.
"...There are rumors that the Apostles of the Gray Crown have begun to move."
At those words, Shiera's feet stopped.
"The Apostles of the Gray Crown?"
"Yes. After the incident beneath the royal castle, they were thought destroyed, but information has reached the Loren Knights that remnants are plotting something outside the capital. Details are unclear, but the atmosphere in the capital has become quite unsettled."
Shiera was silent for a while.
The Apostles of the Gray Crown.
A secret society of human forces that held no love for witches.
Beneath the royal castle, they had activated a grand ritual to kill a witch — and failed.
That time, Theresia had reduced their dearest wish to nothing with a single fingertip.
(Remnants still existed.)
(And now, what are they planning?)
(Knowing the Primordial is here, what will they do?)
Deep in Shiera's chest, caution slowly raised its head.
"...Understood. I'm returning to the capital."
She said it quietly.
"Yes, my lady! Then I shall return ahead and report Lady Shiera's return to the King!"
The messenger bowed deeply.
Then he leaped onto his horse and galloped back the way he had come at full speed.
Dust rose golden in the setting sun.
---
Shiera stood in place until the messenger was out of sight.
(The Apostles of the Gray Crown.)
(Those people harbor an abnormal obsession with killing witches.)
(If they learn of Theresia's existence, they will surely set something in motion.)
(But human schemes cannot possibly work against that woman.)
(Even so, the capital will fall into chaos.)
(The King will waver endlessly between submission and elimination.)
(And within all of that, I will raise my sword again.)
Shiera lifted her face.
The setting sun dyed her silver hair red.
Then, the wind blew.
From the direction of the royal capital.
A dry autumn wind.
—But within that wind, Shiera sensed a faint wrongness.
(...What is this?)
(This smell.)
The smell of magical power.
But a faint murkiness she had never felt before.
Like a drop of ink falling into clear water.
(This murk in the magical power, coming from the direction of the capital.)
(The Apostles of the Gray Crown are trying to set something in motion.)
(No — they haven't yet.)
(But they have begun to prepare.)
Shiera gripped Luminous on her back anew.
Strength filled her fingers.
(My duty is to protect the royal capital.)
(Separate from m
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