The war that stated at dawn ended at dusk with the few remaining church's army running away.
Harrow himself had to hold sword in his hand as the Elite soldiers crossed all is soldiers and even Nightingale was just able to hold them off. However in the novel he read Nightingale was very powerful but upon further thinking he understood his mistake.
In the novel Nightingale became strong that strong after five years and even had a revolver. This cemented her position as the top power under Roland but now she did not have any of those, neither experience nor equipment.
Harrow leaned back in his chair, his mind racing as he considered his options. He lacked the engineering prowess that Roland had used to create guns and cannons, but he had something else—knowledge of chemistry and medicine. He was a pharmacist by training, and in this world, that made him something akin to an alchemist. If he couldn't fight with advanced technology, then he would fight with something just as deadly, something more accessible.
He needed a weapon, a poison that could be crafted with the materials available in this medieval world. Something quick, silent, and deadly.
And then it hit him.
"Aconite," he whispered to himself.
Known as "wolf's bane," aconite was a deadly poison that could be extracted from the roots of a common plant. It had been used for centuries in his world as a tool of assassins and hunters alike. In small doses, it could numb the body, but in larger amounts, it caused paralysis, followed by death as the victim's heart and lungs gave out.
It was perfect.
Harrow sat up straight, his mind working through the details. He could start small, creating batches of the poison and experimenting with delivery methods. Perhaps he could coat the tips of arrows or lace the food supplies of enemy forces. The Church relied on brute strength and divine authority, but even their elite soldiers couldn't fight against something they couldn't see or feel until it was too late.
"Aconite," he repeated, a grim smile forming on his lips. "That will be my first answer to the Church."
With renewed determination, Harrow began sketching out his plans, the first step in his strategy to fight back against the overwhelming odds that faced him. He would use every tool at his disposal, every bit of knowledge from his past life. He would make the Church regret ever sending their army to Harrow's Reach.
As Harrow sat in his lab, surrounded by the tools and herbs he had used for aconite, a new idea began to form in his mind. Aconite was effective, but it was risky, unpredictable in large quantities, and slow to act. He needed something faster, something more efficient—something that could turn the tide of battle in a matter of seconds.
Cyanide.
He remembered learning about it in his old world—one of the deadliest poisons, quick and merciless. It worked by interfering with the body's ability to use oxygen, leading to almost instant death. In the right form, cyanide could be dispersed into the air, or used in water, food, or even weapons, making it a versatile and terrifying tool. The very thought of harnessing such power gave Harrow a dark sense of satisfaction.
But cyanide wasn't something that could be extracted from a single plant like aconite. It required a chemical reaction. He needed the right materials and the right process, but the knowledge was still buried in his mind. With no modern laboratory equipment, it would be tricky to recreate it here. However, he remembered that cyanide could be produced from simple ingredients that were common in the world: bitter almonds, peach pits, or apricot seeds—all of which contained amygdalin, a compound that, when broken down, released hydrogen cyanide gas.
He decided to start with apricot seeds, which were more readily available in the forests near Harrow's Reach. He immediately sent a few of his men out to gather as many as they could find.
Once the seeds were collected, Harrow set to work, crushing them in the mortar. The key was to isolate the amygdalin from the seed's flesh, but the process was delicate. He mashed the seeds into a paste and mixed it with water, allowing the amygdalin to dissolve. From here, the challenge was extracting the hydrogen cyanide gas.
Harrow knew he needed an acid to break down the amygdalin. Vinegar, though weak, would work. He poured the vinegar into the paste and began heating the mixture gently over a low flame. Slowly, as the heat broke down the chemical bonds, the reaction took place, and a faint, bitter scent filled the air—the smell of cyanide.
This was the tricky part. Hydrogen cyanide was a gas, and if he wasn't careful, he could poison himself. Harrow fashioned a makeshift distillation system using clay pots and copper tubing, similar to what he used for the aconite. The gas passed through the tubing and was trapped in a solution of water, creating a potent cyanide liquid.
The process wasn't perfect, but it worked. Just for his experiment.
He carefully tested the solution on a captured rat. Within seconds of ingesting the liquid, the rat convulsed and died—its body limp, its life extinguished in an instant. Harrow nodded to himself, satisfied. Cyanide would be far more effective than aconite, especially in quick ambushes or covert operations.
He began to consider the possibilities. He could lace food supplies with the poison or coat arrows and blades for his soldiers. But even more intriguing was the idea of creating gas traps, where the church soldiers could be funneled into confined spaces and exposed to deadly cyanide vapors. The possibilities were endless.
But just as quickly as the excitement came, Harrow felt a pang of guilt. Cyanide wasn't just a weapon; it was a horror. It didn't simply kill—it erased life in an instant. The moral implications weighed on him, but he pushed them aside. This world wasn't one that allowed for hesitation. If he was going to survive and achieve his dream of dominion, he couldn't afford to be held back by sentimentality.
No, this was war. And in war, there were no rules.
He was ready.
As he walked back toward his office, he wondered how Nightingale would react if she knew what he was truly capable of. Would she continue to follow him? Or would she see him as no better than the Church they were fighting against?
Nightingale lay in her room, staring blankly at the ceiling, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. The battle against the Church had left her physically and mentally drained. She had been married away to Harrow just a few days ago, and now, instead of settling into her new life, she had to fight for survival. The thought of it all was maddening. She had killed people before, but this time it felt different. The weight of her actions sat heavier in her chest.
What was she even doing here?
She didn't fully understand Harrow's plans, despite his promises of safety and protection for witches. She wanted to believe him, especially after using her abilities to verify his words. But still, uncertainty gnawed at her. All these days, Harrow had kept his distance from her. They were newly wed, yet he never visited her at night. Not that she expected much, given the tense circumstances, but it would have been nice to feel that he cared, to know that she mattered beyond being another tool in his plans.
And then there was her injury. She had been hurt during the battle—God's Stone of Retaliation had interfered with her powers, leaving her vulnerable. She hadn't told Harrow about it. Part of her wanted him to notice on his own, to come to her and ask if she was all right. But he hadn't. After the battle, he locked himself away in his office, only emerging to retreat into some secret room for more work.
Nightingale felt an overwhelming mix of emotions—anger, depression, sorrow, regret. She had fought for him, bled for him, yet he seemed too absorbed in his own plans to even notice. Was she just another pawn to him? Another witch to use for his ambitions? A part of her felt useless, discarded.
But then, amidst her swirling thoughts, a letter came.
It was from Harrow, short and to the point, placing her in charge of the recovery efforts for the town while he handled his "work." Nightingale read the words over and over, her suspicion growing. Was this his way of avoiding the burdensome responsibility of rebuilding? Or did he trust her that much? Either way, the weight of responsibility was now on her shoulders. She was in charge until he returned.
With a sigh, Nightingale stood up, her side aching from the injury she still hid from the others. There was no time to wallow in her feelings. The town needed her, and she wouldn't let it fall into chaos. If Harrow wasn't going to take charge, she would. But she wouldn't forget. When he emerged from whatever secretive work he was doing, she would make sure he faced her, and she'd have her revenge for the neglect, even if it was just a verbal lashing.
She left her room, determination settling in her heart. If she was going to be Harrow's wife, she would prove that she was more than just a pretty face or a witch to be used. She would prove her worth, not just to him, but to herself. And when he returned, she would make him answer for every moment of doubt he had made her feel.
For now, though, Harrow's Reach needed her leadership, and she would rise to the challenge.