Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 1091: Hopeless Love

The man tied to the chair did not look away.

Most prisoners did — eyes to the floor, eyes to the wall, eyes anywhere but the face of the man deciding their fate. This one held Sean’s gaze the way a stone holds still in current. Not defiance. Something older than defiance. Something that had already made its peace.

Sean had seen enough traitors in the old king’s city to know the shape of them: the avarice that bent their posture, the obsequiousness that softened their mouths, the hunger for power that made their eyes too bright. This man, Joe, had none of it. His wrists rested loose against the rope. His breathing was slow and even.

After a long silence, Sean broke it. “Name?”

“Joe.” A pause. “Are you the commander? The Graycastle commander — not the lord of Thorn Town, not some random lordling.”

“Does it matter?”

“If you aren’t, I won’t say a word. There’s no point.”

Sean leaned forward — a gesture he’d borrowed from Roland, that particular angle of attention that suggested he was deciding whether something deserved to be interesting. “Chief Guard of King Roland Wimbledon. Captain of the Graycastle exploration team. You can call me Sean.” He let the words settle. “Now. The treasure.”

“The Magic Ceremony Cube in the Temple of the Cursed at Cage Mountain.” Joe said it the way one states the weather. “The Earl of Archduke Island. Lorenzo. He has it.”

Sean had expected negotiation, the slow bargaining of a man rationing his secrets. He got none. “You’ve seen it?”

“No. But it wasn’t much of a secret in the church.” Joe then described the war between the church and the Kingdom of Wolfheart in a few measured sentences — how Lorenzo had bragged about his discovery in a report, how the Holy City of Hermes had found the whole matter unworthy of serious attention.

“So the treasure passed from Wolfheart into church hands.” Sean stroked his chin. “But why come to me? You could sell this to any lord willing to pay.”

Joe drew a slow breath. “Sir. Have you heard of the God’s Punishment Army?”

“The church’s pride.” Sean let the derision sit where it landed. “Wiped out at Coldwind Ridge.”

“Good.” Joe’s expression didn’t shift. “Then I’ll be direct. Lorenzo kept some. Five, perhaps — maybe fewer. Nobody challenges his authority over the Archduke Island, because nobody else has an army like that. Except the King of Graycastle.”

“And what do you want for this?”

The words came quiet and carefully placed, like a man navigating a floor he expects to give way. “Only to stay alive. Lorenzo’s men have already entered Thorn Town. The church has nothing left to fight Graycastle with, but Lorenzo still plans to make his revenge. I don’t want to be part of it. If this information is useful to you — ” He stopped. Rebuilt the sentence from another direction. “I want the King of Graycastle to acquit me.”

Sean studied him. The request had the form of self-interest, but the eyes told a different story. There was no fear there. No flicker of the survival instinct that makes a man negotiate, bluster, perform. What he saw instead was a man who had already decided to die, and who was doing this anyway.

He rested his chin on his hand. Not because he needed to think. Because something was wrong.

“Just that one request?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then I’ll have someone escort you to Neverwinter.”

Joe blinked. “Why Neverwinter?”

Sean rose. “Because I can’t acquit you — that’s not in my authority. But I won’t throw away a man trying to get back to the right side of things.” He kept his voice level, businesslike. “The Witch Union can verify your testimony. If you told the truth, you’ll be treated fairly. You might even be rewarded.” He turned toward the door. “Send him back to his cell.”

“No — wait — ”

The rope caught Joe as he lurched to his feet. He threw himself sideways, landed hard on the tent floor, and the composure — all that careful, maintained composure — dissolved. Not into anger, not into bargaining, but into something rawer than either.

“Please. Please save her. Save Farrina. She doesn’t have much time — she doesn’t have much time left —”

His voice broke apart at the end and became something else entirely.

Sean stopped.

He turned back around. The man on the floor was shaking, his face pressed against the packed dirt, his words dissolving into wordless sounds that the tent canvas soaked up without ceremony.

There it is, Sean thought. That’s the real thing.

He crossed back to Joe, crouched, and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Who is Farrina? Why doesn’t she have much time? Tell me from the beginning. Take as long as you need.”

It was, in the end, a story about love — which meant it was also a story about a particular kind of desperation.

Joe had been among the last true church members. His former bishop had become his enemy. With nowhere else to turn, he had gone to the institution that the church had spent decades trying to destroy. He had walked into the First Army’s camp knowing they would see through whatever cover story he offered, and knowing what happened to spies who got caught.

He’d done it anyway. Because Lorenzo was torturing Farrina for the location of the Holy Book, and Lorenzo would not stop. Not soon enough.

Joe had calculated: if he waited for Graycastle to move on their own timeline, six months might pass. A body has limits. Farrina might hold out against the first month of it, the second — but a body has limits, and Lorenzo was patient in the particular way that men are patient when they hold all the power and the person suffering holds none.

So Joe had chosen to gamble everything on the First Army. If they hanged him, at least he wouldn’t have to wait.

Sean sat with this for a moment. He’d had no intention of inserting himself into the church’s internal politics. He’d been ready to treat Joe’s information as one uncertain piece among many.

Then he’d heard the story, and something had shifted.

He believed him. Not because of any particular magic, not because he possessed Nightingale’s gift for pulling truth from the texture of a lie. He believed him because a man willing to trade his life for a chance — not a guarantee, just a chance — that someone else’s suffering might end was not the shape of a man lying.

“I see,” Sean said at last. “Once I confirm Lorenzo’s men are here, I’ll contact His Majesty.” He kept his voice flat, practical. “Carrier pigeon. We’ll move quickly.”

Joe, still on the floor, said nothing. But the shaking had stopped.

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