Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 1231: Hope

“The reason is fairly simple,” Edith said, before anyone could raise a question. “Cage Mountain is not only the horizontal extension of the Impassable Mountain Range — it’s the highest point of the Kingdom of Dawn. Artillery firing from that elevation commands a broader field. And the demons will find their mobility restricted up there, since Devilbeasts are scarcer than the common Mad Demon infantry.”

“Second: the Red Mist drifts toward lowlands and thins as it spreads. The witches should hold the high ground. I understand the front has already begun doing so.”

“Third: His Majesty’s Radiation Project.” She let her gaze travel the room. “We know it depends on ores mined at Cage Mountain. Until we find another source, that position cannot be surrendered.”

Nobody questioned her.

Nobody had seen the Radiation Project’s final product, could not imagine the energy those small spheres contained, yet every person in that room treated the project as one of their foremost obligations — simply because Roland had said it mattered. A warmth of pride moved through him. For an engineering student, this was probably as high as achievement could reach.

“But we can’t abandon Everwinter or Wolfheart entirely,” Roland said, glancing toward Edith. “We need people to win this war.”

“Yes. So while the Red Mist is still spreading, the First Army should concentrate on bringing in immigrants and preventing the demons from consolidating forward positions. I don’t believe the demons will wait to build outposts after the Mist expands — they’ll do it now, exactly as they did four hundred years ago.”

Edith paused. “Frankly, the sudden appearance of the Bloody Moon may work in our favor. When the people of Everwinter and Wolfheart understand what they’re facing, they’ll come to us of their own accord. Even if Iron Axe wanted to turn them away, they’d beg Graycastle for help by then.”

The corners of Edith’s mouth curved. Inscrutable, slow.

A great many people would die before that happened.

Roland exhaled.

He understood why she calculated it that way. Back in his old world, he had read about a town that resisted a cell tower and then spent years without reception — self-inflicted, absurd. But this was a war for the survival of the human race, and he could not watch people perish through no fault nobler than ignorance.

“We harvested enormous stores of Golden Twos this year,” he said, turning to Barov. “Draft a proposal. Send food to the Kingdom of Dawn — enough to keep the refugees who’ve already fled their homes from starving.”

Barov’s expression creased. “Your Majesty, once we confirm the Red Mist’s advance, the First Army marches for Cage Mountain immediately. The strain on our logistics will be severe. I cannot guarantee we can feed refugees while simultaneously supplying the army. We wouldn’t have enough ships even if we requisitioned every vessel in the Fjords’ merchant fleet.”

A real constraint. Even the largest Fjords sailing ship fell short of wartime demand — every hold already packed with immigrants.

“Unless…” Barov said, and seemed to be wrestling with his own reluctance, “we build a railway leading directly to the neighboring kingdom.” His heart visibly ached as the words left him.

“We probably don’t have the time,” Roland said, shaking his head. “The railway across the Fertile Plains has already consumed too many resources. Another one would choke everything else.”

The line stretching from the Misty Forest to the ruins of Taquila had taken a year and a half, and that was on flat ground, with Leaf reinforcing the first section. The terrain between Neverwinter and Cage Mountain was nothing like the Fertile Plains. No one could say how long it would take.

“I quite agree, Your Majesty…” Barov said, relief plain on his face.

“Then plan from what we have. Don’t economize on spending — spend wisely,” Roland said. “On logistics, I’ll find another way.” He turned to Edith. “The General Staff should draft a full operational proposal assuming the Red Mist advances as far as Cage Mountain. We’ll discuss the details afterward.”

She understood without prompting. She always did.

“Leave it to me,” Edith said, and placed one hand against her chest.

Roland stood and looked around the room. “I told you before that the third Battle of Divine Will will decide the fate of the human race. It is now arriving.” He let that land. “The Taquila campaign proved we can prevail, despite the ruin of four centuries ago. I ask only that every one of us gives everything. I am certain that what begins today will be remembered.”

He raised his voice. “No matter who the enemy is — we must win.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty!” The shout came from every throat at once.

It was going to be a long night.

After the room had emptied, Roland held Tilly back.

“I want a private word with you.”

Back in his office, Roland dismissed Nightingale and closed the door.

Tilly raised an eyebrow. “Something even Nightingale shouldn’t hear? You’re not here to ask about the Aerial Knights’ training.”

He didn’t answer. Instead he poured two glasses of minty Chaos Drink — not especially good, but it settled the nerves. He set one in front of her.

Tilly did not press. She sipped and waited, watching him over the rim of her glass.

Roland carried a complicated feeling toward his “sister.” She was not his Tilly — not the real princess who had once curled up beside Anna in winter with her feet poking out from under the blanket, dreaming up impossible questions to ambush the other witches with. The Tilly Wimbledon across from him now had become a leader in every bone. He had watched her transform in the days following Ashes’ death, watched something irretrievable take root behind her eyes. She rarely showed it, but the hatred was there — not hot and impulsive, but cold, patient, load-bearing. Her “only request” had disturbed him deeply.

She had made up her mind.

The world had stopped meaning anything beyond the one purpose she had assigned it.

Roland had learned from Lan that Ashes might be brought back. He should have confirmed it before saying a word — offering a false hope in this war was a cruelty of its own. But as he weighed the risks, he came back to the same thought: if the despair Tilly was carrying didn’t lift, she might not survive the battle at all, and if she died without ever knowing, he would never forgive himself for the silence.

So he had kept quiet for a long time.

He had no more excuses.

The moment he stopped Tilly in the corridor, he already knew what he was going to say.

He would rather stake everything on a dim possibility than carry the alternative to his grave.

“Brother?” Tilly’s voice was quiet, a little puzzled. Her gaze slid slightly to one side, away from his.

Roland took a slow breath. “What I’m about to say may seem impossible. But I want to say it.”

A beat.

“Ashes may still be alive.”

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