CH1007 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 1007: The Sigil of Recording

After everyone had withdrawn, Nightingale said, “Half a month? You made this decision a few days ago.”

“The detail doesn’t matter.” Roland settled back in his chair. “If I’d told her the truth, would she have agreed? Joan would be the alternative, and Joan can barely communicate with anyone outside of Lightning and Maggie. Even with May coaching her, the result would be limited. I needed Lorgar. The solemnity was a negotiation technique.”

Nightingale muttered something, lips pressed sideways.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, with a small innocent whistle. Then: “The Southernmost Region — are you really just leaving it?”

“By now, the people who were going to see Port of Clearwater as an opportunity have already moved. The conservatives who stayed behind missed the window. The chief of the Wildflame Clan writing to Lorgar means he’s already declared himself — he’s with us. The clans in Iron Sand City can’t win a fight against that coalition without becoming enemies of their own people.” Roland shrugged. “If they press it into open conflict, it becomes a problem for Brian to handle. I just need to send him a note.”

He was done with persuasion for the moment. He turned back to what actually interested him.

The Sigil of Recording sat on the corner of the desk, striped with its deep blue lines. He’d seen one used once, at Reflection Church in the old holy city — and even prepared as he’d been, the effect had been startling. Not photography, not painting: a complete reconstruction of the recorded scene, three-dimensional and sensory, the kind of immersion that would have felt like magic even in his original world.

The Months of Demons had been running for half a month already. In any previous winter, that would have meant a city in constant defensive posture — people volunteering for watches, workshops shifting to weapon production, children drilling evacuation routes. But this winter, nothing had come. Not a single demonic beast reported from any direction.

Lightning had flown as far as Hermes Plateau. No demonic beasts anywhere. She’d seen the Wimbledon flag on the new holy city’s walls, nuns carrying bricks for the blockhouses, a defensive line being set at Coldwind Ridge. The Fertile Plains under snow: silent.

After extended discussion, the ancient witches had reached a consensus: the demons had deliberately stopped the demonic beast invasions.

It made sense. The Taquila Ruins, however small, had served as the demons’ logistics anchor — supply transport, sentinel positions. They’d long since cleared those demonic beasts from the surrounding area. The absence wasn’t mysterious; it was strategic.

What it produced, unfortunately, was a city full of people with nothing left to be afraid of and nothing left to prepare for — an emptiness that moved quickly toward restlessness. The witches in the castle were the visible symptom: card games, Chaos Drinks, parties that ran past midnight, a general collapse of self-discipline. Lorgar was an example, but not an isolated one.

The movie was the remedy. Occupation and pride and shared effort — and all of it producing something they’d be able to show afterward.

Roland thought of the Sigil’s properties: twelve-hour charge cycle, automatic recording upon activation, no pause, no cut, no revision. The recording would stop at interruption and could only be overwritten by a full new charge. Once the playback stone was inserted, the Sigil switched modes permanently — it would play, never record again, and removing the stone by force would destroy the device. An excellent design for archival preservation. A nightmare for filmmaking.

Unless you had Summer.

Summer could reconstruct historical scenes — not reality, but a convincing reproduction of events that had already occurred. Actors could rehearse in Summer’s reconstruction until every moment was correct. Only at the final stage would the Sigil be activated and the actual recording made. One perfect take. One charge.

She couldn’t reproduce sound, but Echo’s dubbing filled that gap exactly.

Roland had laid everything out for May: camera language, viewing angles, framing, shot composition. He’d drawn sketches — poor ones, he knew — while May had watched with an intensity that unsettled him slightly. She was absorbing not just the technique but the logic underneath it. The grammar of how a camera moves and why.

In the modern world, film had replaced theater entirely as the primary form of popular entertainment. He hadn’t told May that. She’d find out on her own, in time.

A very capable woman, he thought. More capable than she knows.


After her bath, Lorgar wrapped herself in a towel, padded back to her room, and collapsed onto the bed before her tail had fully dried.

Every muscle ached. A good ache. The kind that meant the afternoon’s training had gone somewhere useful.

She lay still, listening to her own breathing, and let the tiredness pool through her.

Then she saw the yellow book on the nightstand.

Right. The script.

May Lannis had told her to read it first — get the story clear before worrying about anything else. Questions welcome.

Lorgar wasn’t interested in it for May’s reasons.

She wanted to know what the chief thought of her. If he’d written this story specifically for her, there would be something in it — some angle of perception, some judgment rendered in character and plot. She wanted to find it.

She sat up, pulled off the towel, got under the covers, and opened to the first page.

The title:

The Wolf Princess

Discussion

Suggest a change