Chapter 188: An apology from Mother Supreme

“Mother Supreme,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

“This is unexpected.”

“I’m sure it is,” Wendelina replied. Her voice carried the same authority it always had, but there was weariness beneath it.

“And I’m sure your first instinct is to prepare for attack. I don’t blame you for that.”

She made a deliberate gesture—hands held out to her sides, palms up, showing she held no weapons and wasn’t gathering power.

“But I’m not here to fight. I’m here to talk. To request something that will sound absurd, given our last encounter. But I need you to listen.”

“Why should I?” Jaenor asked bluntly.

“You tried to execute me. Called me a threat that needed to be eliminated. Now you appear in my home asking me to listen?”

“Because I was wrong,” Wendelina said, and the admission clearly cost her.

“About you, about the threat you represent, about many things. And because the realm is burning while I stand here defending my pride rather than accepting reality.”

She gestured to her companions, who pulled back their own hoods.

Jaenor recognized one, Synnove, Wendelina’s second-in-command, looking even more exhausted than her superior. The other was younger, with distinctive silver-streaked hair and eyes that glowed faintly with internal power.

“This is Synnove, whom you may remember,” Wendelina said.

“And Inga, our… our prodigy. The one we thought could match your power.”

The way she said it—past tense, with clear disappointment—told a story before words did.

“She couldn’t,” Jaenor observed.

“She’s powerful,” Wendelina said carefully.

“More powerful than most witches will ever be. But you’re right—she can’t match what you’ve become. And the forces we’re facing require power beyond what any single witch, even our prodigy, can provide.”

Wendelina looked at Jaenor, like really looked at him since the moment she came in. She could just tell with just her gaze on him. He had grown stronger, far stronger than the realm or any witch could bear.

A silent understanding passed on her face.

They were right.

Morgana stepped forward slightly, her voice sharp.

“What forces? What’s happened?”

Wendelina’s expression grew grimmer.

“The northern invasion has begun. Demon legions poured through the Trenches five days ago—thousands of them, led by Black Orcs with actual military discipline. We knew it was coming and had prepared as best we could. But the scale…”

She shook her head.

“It’s worse than our worst projections.”

She pulled something from her cloak, a map, which she unrolled on a nearby table. It showed the northern territories, marked with symbols indicating troop movements and battle sites.

“They hit us in three places simultaneously,” Wendelina continued, pointing to marked locations. “Here, here, and here. Coordinated assaults designed to stretch our forces thin. We responded with everything we had—Battle Witches and Coven reserves and even called in Inga and others we’d been holding back.”

Her finger traced lines showing demon advancement.

“We’ve held them at two of the three breach points.

Barely.

With tremendous casualties on both sides. But the third…”

She tapped a location deep in human territory.

“They broke through completely. Overran our defensive positions, scattered the local militias, and are now advancing toward populated areas.”

“Especially towards the western lands.”

The room was silent, everyone absorbing the implications.

“How many?” Baren asked, his past experience making him focus on practical details.

“At that breach point? Perhaps three thousand demons. Not all of them are powerful individually, but they’re organized. They have supply lines, tactical coordination, and clear objectives.

This isn’t a raid—it’s a conquest.”

“They are going all out this time.”

“And your chosen defenders?” Jaenor asked.

“The ones you sent to stop them?”

Wendelina’s expression showed genuine pain.

“Severely injured. We had fifteen hundred Battle Witches and three of our most powerful specialists at that position. Now we have four who can still fight, and all of them are exhausted. The others…”

She didn’t finish, but the implication was clear.

“Dead or crippled,” Taeryn said bluntly.

“Yes.”

Wendelina looked directly at Jaenor.

“We’re losing. Not everywhere, not yet. But at this critical breach, we’re losing. And if those three thousand demons reach the cities behind our lines, if they start hitting civilian populations—”

“Panic,” Emmanuelle said quietly.

“Refugees flooding south. The entire northern defense is collapsing as troops abandon positions to protect their homes.”

“Exactly,” Wendelina confirmed.

“Which is why I’m here. Why I’ve set aside pride and past conflicts to ask for help from someone I recently tried to kill.”

“I knew sending a letter wouldn’t justify the means or the things I have done, so I have come myself to ask for your help. As the chosen ones,” she looked at Rena, Taeryn, and Baren.

“The other chosen are fighting really hard, and they need your help.”

She took a breath, and what came next clearly required tremendous effort.

She turned to Jaenor.

“I was wrong. About you, about the threat you represent. That you weren’t the danger I thought you were. And recent events have proven that correct.”

She stepped closer to Jaenor, close enough that her guards tensed, ready to intervene if this was some elaborate feint.

“I apologize. For attacking you at Ki’thara village.

For trying to execute you based on prejudice and fear rather than actual threat assessment.

You didn’t deserve that treatment, and I let ancient conflicts cloud my judgment.”

The apology hung in the air, shocking in its sincerity from someone who rarely admitted error.

“And now you want my help,” Jaenor said.

“To fight the demons that are overwhelming your forces.”

“Yes,” Wendelina said without hesitation.

“You and your divine beast. Your merged power. Everything you’ve become. We need it. The realm needs it.”

She pulled out another document—an official-looking scroll with multiple seals.

“In exchange, I’m prepared to offer full pardons for everything the Covens have accused you of. Recognition of your Arkwright claim and restoration of your house’s status. You would be treated as a war hero, given honors and positions appropriate to someone who saved the realm.

The Arkwright name would no longer be cursed—it would be celebrated.”

Morgana and Emma looked at each other, clearly taken aback by what Wendelina had said.

It seems like she had come prepared and knew exactly what Jaenor wanted.

Jaenor looked at her, his eyes narrowing at her. He could tell that she was using this to her advantage, but he was getting what he wanted.

“Making me acceptable to society,” Jaenor said slowly.

“Giving me everything I’ve been denied my entire life.”

“Yes,” Wendelina confirmed.

“Everything. Status, safety, recognition. No more running, no more hiding. You’d be one of the realm’s heroes rather than one of its outcasts.”

It was a generous offer.

More than generous, it was everything someone in his position might dream of.

Recognition, acceptance, the curse finally lifted.

Jaenor looked at Morgana.

“Is what she’s saying true? About the invasion, the losses, the severity?”

Morgana’s expression was troubled. She’d clearly been using her own networks, gathering intelligence independently. But she didn’t know the war had escalated to such heights.

“I’ve heard similar reports,” she admitted.

“Fragmented, unclear in details, but the general picture matches. Major demon incursion in the north, significant casualties, defensive lines under severe pressure. I didn’t realize it was this bad, but nothing she’s said contradicts what I know.”

Raelana nodded in agreement.

“My coven has been receiving emergency calls for reinforcements. Everyone capable is being pulled north to shore up defenses. It’s… it’s bad, Lord Jaenor. As bad as she’s describing.”

Wendelina seized on this confirmation.

“Morgana, please. You understand what he’s capable of. Convince him that this is necessary. That personal grudges matter less than preventing civilian massacres.”

“Lots of innocents are dying; villages, towns, and cities are being burned down.”

Morgana looked at her nephew, and complex emotions showed on her face, protectiveness warring with pragmatism, personal loyalty against broader responsibility.

“She’s right,” Morgana said quietly.

“About the severity if nothing else. If those demons reach populated areas, if they start targeting civilians, the death toll will be catastrophic. Tens of thousands, possibly more.”

“And we were already planning to move north,” Rena added.

“To engage the demon forces before they advanced further. This doesn’t change our plans; it just gives them official backing.”

Jaenor considered everything carefully.

The desperation seemed genuine.

The fear was real.

She wasn’t lying about the severity or manipulating details to exaggerate—if anything, she was probably understating how bad things had become. Pride made her want to minimize her failures, even now when asking for help.

And the apology… that was honest too. Forced out by necessity rather than spontaneous remorse, but sincere nonetheless. She’d genuinely reassessed her position on him and genuinely recognized her mistake.

But there were other factors to consider.

“Mother Supreme,” Jaenor said carefully.

“I appreciate the apology, and I believe you’re sincere about the threat. But accepting your offer puts me under Coven authority. Makes me part of your command structure. That’s problematic for several reasons.”

“Such as?” Wendelina asked.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep