Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 428

**428 Bounteous**
In a remote quadrant of the Conqueror Sea, far from commercial maritime routes, sat the central island of the Summertree Archipelago.

The Summertree Archipelago comprised more than a dozen islands, varying in size, huddled close within the same body of water. The central island was impressively large—spanning nearly half the area of a Prithti county. Nestled deep within its thick greenery were ancient towns still occupied by the enduring Summertree people.

The most striking feature of this island was an immense tree, rising nearly a hundred meters. Towering above the surrounding flat-canopied forests, it resembled a sentinel rather than part of the wilderness—its immense frame challenging the sky more than any constructed lighthouse. Tucked beneath this arboreal colossus, buried in the forest’s heart, was the island’s most prominent village.

This hidden settlement, shaded by layers of foliage, featured winding roads made of uneven slate that ran between the trees like capillaries. Modest homes, mostly two or three stories high and framed from timber, were partially swallowed by wandering vines and leaves. Scattered among them stood squat, stony structures crafted from crudely shaped rocks, their damp, moss-covered exteriors broken only by plain wooden totems by the paths. These statues, mostly portraying stylized, full-bodied female figures, stood in silent reverence. Wooden beams throughout the town bore carved representations of the bounteous tree motif.

An air of rustic serenity blanketed the place—something that could have brought comfort, if not for the oppressive tension lingering beneath it. Grass stubbornly pushed through the worn stone roads, and villagers—clad in modest, traditional robes—moved through the settlement with subdued urgency. Some carried baskets brimming with tropical fruit; others hauled nets filled with fish. Their faces were drawn tight with apprehension. Clusters of townsfolk whispered nervously at intersections, while a few stopped before the goddess’s likeness, offering silent, uncertain prayers.

Inside one of the larger communal halls, a group of young warriors sat near a crackling fire, sharing their evening meal. Platters loaded with flame-grilled fish, fresh fruit, roasted meats, odd pastries, and strong, fermented beverages filled the long table. These fighters were among those who had recently seized the Church’s ships. At Bahoda’s lead, they lifted their cups and dug into the banquet with eagerness.

Merriment and lively exchanges filled the firelit space, but beneath the outward celebration simmered a quiet, unspoken dread. Behind every hearty laugh flickered doubt. Eventually, as daylight vanished entirely beyond the distant ocean, dusk gave way to full night. As the feast dwindled, a lone man who had stayed largely silent finally broke his brooding stillness. Setting down his drink, he addressed Bahoda directly.

“Bahoda… can we trust the Brass Light Church to meet our terms? Do you believe they’ll honor our beliefs?”

His words immediately silenced the room. Every head turned toward Bahoda. After a moment’s pause, he responded, somber and steady, “I can’t say. Whatever stance the Brass Light takes remains shrouded from me. But this I do know: Summertree cannot endure without the Bounteous Lady’s mercy. For a thousand years, she’s cradled us. Our fate is entwined with hers.

“What we’ve done—we did it out of despair, clinging to the narrowest sliver of salvation. What comes next, brothers, you must brace yourselves for.”

He rose, his statement casting a solemn hush over the gathering, and strode out into the night. The others followed shortly after, murmuring nothing, exchanging only tight glances before parting ways.

As the night deepened, those who had feasted dispersed along the forested paths back to their small dwellings. Exhausted by the recent efforts of transporting their prisoners, most collapsed into slumber the instant their heads hit the bedding. But as sleep settled over them, a strange force reached across the sea from the mainland. In seconds, three warriors stirred abruptly, eyes flying open. They rose stiffly and stumbled toward their windows, gazes glassy and unseeing.

“They rest at last… Their bodies belong to me now.”

Lying comfortably in her Tivian inn chamber, Dorothea whispered to herself. From afar, she activated dormant puppet sigils embedded deep in these men’s souls during their prior encounter. And just like that, she seized control over them—transforming them into puppets animated solely by her will.

Now wielding control of three bodies on-site, Dorothea began using them to reconnoiter the tree-shrouded village. With Valeria imprisoned far away, this trio were her only viable agents to acquire critical intelligence for a rescue attempt. Although she expected the Church to organize its own response, she couldn’t afford to rely entirely on them. Above all else, Valeria had to survive.

Ensuring Valeria’s survival was non-negotiable—her highest imperative. All other considerations—like aiding the islanders or liberating other pilgrims—only held meaning after that goal was secured. She felt some sorrow for the Summertree people, whose plea for religious autonomy perhaps deserved consideration. She even entertained thoughts of shielding them from inevitable Church retribution. But the distance between faiths, the sheer ideological chasm, was too great to bridge. She lacked the might to avert that scale of devastation.

Put simply: Valeria’s escape was everything. That objective alone consumed Dorothea. The broader tragedy unfolding was beyond her reach. Using her puppets with precision, she steered them through fog-veiled lanes, carefully committing terrain details to memory. The data they gathered spelled trouble.

The hostages taken from the Church had been dispersed across multiple heavily guarded encampments on the island. They were intentionally isolated to prevent any unified rescue. Each cluster was under tight watch. Any breach in one area risked immediate execution of those in another. A coordinated extraction under such circumstances would cost dearly in lives.

Valeria’s situation was even more dire. She had been confined separately, in a secluded hut perched on a lake in the island’s center—accessible only by boat. No approach existed on land. The surrounding outposts were so thoroughly defended that any breakout attempt was tantamount to suicide.

She lacked access to her vital runes and sacred tools—the very items that amplified her battle capabilities. Though still formidable thanks to her innate skill and Nephrite-grade strength, she remained dangerously vulnerable. Her captors, skilled Wavemasters, held every terrain advantage. Escaping without combat seemed impossible, but fighting through open water would be madness.

‘This complicates everything… They’ve split the captives too deliberately. Whether it’s Valeria alone or with others, escape is nearly impossible. Even the Church’s best-laid contingencies are fraught with failure points…’ Dorothea’s expression tightened. Without her boots anchoring her physically to this plane, her options were severely constrained. The Church couldn’t spare high-tier assets like Ochre or Scarlet enforcers; pulling them from cities would endanger their entire defense matrix.

As the clock ticked and Valeria’s odds shrank by the minute, Dorothea clenched her teeth. New tactics were needed—urgently. She repurposed her puppet agents, expanding their search beyond immediate hostage zones.

‘First step—map everything. Only by charting every hidden path through these roots can I find a way forward.’

Grasping this new directive with resolve, she redirected her puppet shells to search more widely—toward prominent terrain marked by the towering banyan’s shadow in the moonlight.

The vast settlement below the roots stretched like a subterranean sprawl. Dodging surveillance paths, one puppet finally zeroed in on the intended area—sections beneath the titanic tree. As it drew closer, Dorothea’s vision, filtered through the puppet’s eyes, captured a strange revelation. The giant roots formed a circular basin, warping space in subtle, mystical ways beneath the night sky.

Soon, more secrets unfolded: the roots hugged the edges of wide plazas, where colossal wooden effigies stood in solemn clusters. At four cardinal points, altars shifted shape depending on the viewing angle—clearly ceremonial constructs.

The discovery jolted her. Observing through hidden viewpoints, the puppet cautiously approached the core zone, where intricate designs matched known religious symbols from earlier studies. Recognition sparked instantly—these carvings and layouts mirrored entries catalogued in her memory banks.

Among the abstract goddess figures spiraling skyward, fragments of half-remembered texts clicked into place. Connections formed.

“So it’s true… These warriors trace their spiritual lineage directly to the Lady Bounteous. Those old manuscripts from my dance mentor weren’t fantasy—they chronicled genuine worship passed down through generations in these parts. And the celestial arrangements here… they correspond exactly.”

Still murmuring from her velvet-shrouded bed, Dorothea scanned the intel stream and matched it against her archival knowledge. Dalena’s homeland in distant Siberia had carried similar traditions. Shrines described in surviving texts from that region mirrored the configuration she now saw through her puppet’s eyes.

Everything lined up—the sacred zones, the layered meanings, the familiar symbols. Dorothea now knew without doubt.

‘Dalena once described ancestral rites meant to balance nature itself. These must be physical remnants of that same spiritual intent… It’s no coincidence. And perhaps—perhaps there’s a biological reason behind the peculiar Wave Rider phenomena observed in these people…’

A flicker of intellectual excitement lit her face. Something profound was unfolding here. These Spirit Sovereigns weren’t just lore—they channeled real forces, perhaps even unknown blessings through the paths of Thunderous-Roads.

With that realization, new strategies bloomed.

‘A different approach becomes possible now… one that doesn’t rely on brute force. If I use the ceremonial architecture properly… perhaps there’s a path—however narrow—toward infiltration. Even if risky, it’s better than sitting idly while Valeria awaits a miracle that may never come…’

Spurred by inspiration, Dorothea began sketching out complex ritual designs. Drawing on her portable dimensional device, she unspooled holy parchment onto her bed. The Scribe Pen danced across the fabric as she began channeling hundreds of celestial calculations in parallel, inscribing lines of incantation into the cosmic script.

—

**Tivian East District. Golden Sparrow Grand Theatre.**

It was performance season in imperial Tivian, and the theatres were alight with acclaim, cheers echoing behind heavy velvet curtains. Deep within the theatre’s inner halls, behind softly lit corridors, was Andele’s private suite.

In front of a gilded mirror, Andele applied the final touches to her makeup—each stroke refining her lethal beauty. Mid-motion, her hand paused. She felt something—an invisible shift, a distant signal just beyond her awareness. A faint smile formed as she met her own gaze in the mirror.

“A message at last, carried across storms and timelines…”

Setting aside her brushes, she narrowed her focus. “That sharp energy I sensed behind the questions… yes, something troublesome is unfolding nearby.”

She whispered to the mirror as though conversing with an unseen presence. From a drawer bursting with cosmetics, she retrieved a slender journal. Flipping through it, she stopped on clippings covered in ornate script.

Her eyes traced the words—reflections on ancient practices and mentor tales steeped in ritual. A slow smile grew as the deeper meanings emerged.

“So… hidden rites long buried by custom resurface again? Strange permissions weaving themselves together… Curious. I wonder what paths this little constable plans to tread…”