Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 265: The Last Enemy

Timothy entered the Lord’s chamber at the top of the Port of Clear Water’s tower.

It was unlike most castle towers — taller, narrower, built for observation rather than council. There would not have been room to gather even a small cabinet here. The furnishings had not been disturbed; the room held still, as if the owner had simply stepped out and expected to return. A reddish-brown square table stood facing the entrance, books arranged neatly across its surface. At the center lay several unfinished manuscripts and a quill inserted into an ink bottle — waiting, apparently, for someone to complete them.

Timothy crossed the room one step at a time and sat in the large chair. A cooling mat of woven bamboo covered the seat, suitable for the sizzling heat of late summer’s final weeks. A bucket sat beside the chair — it had held ice, he judged from its placement, meant to lower the room’s temperature. Today the sky over the sea had turned overcast, dark clouds pressing in from the horizon, and the room was already cool without it.

He leaned forward, brought his face close to the table’s surface, and breathed in. A faint, sweet fragrance — the bluish-green sunflower scent, grown at the Cold Wind Mountain Ridge. More distinctive than rugosa rose or rosemary: something cleaner, like a trace of northern ice preserved in it.

Garcia’s favorite. No question. Only long use left that kind of mark.

There was no doubt that his third sister had sat in this chair, rested her hands on this table, listened to reports and written decrees and built something here. Something that had lasted until he took it from her.

Thinking of it, Timothy couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“Ha… haha… hahahaha —” He leaned back in the chair, raised his head, and laughed until the sound filled the tower.

He had won.

Garcia had abandoned the Port of Clear Water. Had abandoned the entire Southern Territory. In doing so, she had abandoned the throne.

The moment news arrived that the Black Sail Fleet was sailing north, he had mobilized immediately — assembling the forces under his command and driving more than five thousand slaves, criminals, and condemned men toward the southern border to strike at Garcia’s base. The only resistance he had encountered came from the Sandpeople of the extreme south. He did not know what promise Garcia had made them, but they attacked relentlessly, without fear of dying, and they possessed the Berserker Pills. The battle had ground on for nearly half a month. By exploiting his superior numbers and repeatedly disrupting their counterattacks, Timothy had slowly worn down the Sandpeople’s defense line. Nearly three thousand of his own men had died in the attrition. Without the pills, his mob of conscripts would not have dared set foot on that field at all — let alone fight the fierce Sandpeople who had defended it to the last.

He had crossed a layer of corpses to enter this tower.

The title of Queen of Clear Water was history. The South had returned to him.

“Your Majesty?” A knight on guard outside must have heard the laughter; he pushed open the door and stepped in. “Are you—”

“Fine,” Timothy said, and stood. He gestured — follow me — and went through a side door to the balcony.

The sea breeze hit him at once, carrying salt, making his gown flutter. Dark clouds towered over the water, growing thicker and closer. A storm was building.

Unfortunate. He had hoped to watch Garcia’s port, her docks, her Lord’s Tower, all consumed by fire. Rain would prevent that.

He had spent the past six months almost entirely in the field alongside his soldiers, barely a month in King’s City. The government’s affairs he had left to his Imperial Prime Minister — Marquis Wyke was loyal, or appeared to be, but loyalty was not the same as resistance to temptation, and Gerald Wimbledon had been the best possible proof of that lesson. He needed to return to the capital. Quickly. The political undercurrents there did not stay still when no one was holding them.

“I will leave for King’s City early tomorrow morning,” Timothy said. “Except for my personal guards and the Knights from King’s City, all remaining Knights and mercenaries are transferred to your command. Sir Ed Hawse — hold the Southern Border for me. Do not allow the Sandpeople a single foothold in Graycastle.”

“You… want me to stay?” The young northern knight looked genuinely surprised. “I would rather continue at your side, Your Majesty. I —”

“By defending this borderland, you fight for me.” Timothy cut in. “There is still much that needs doing here, and I must leave the Southern Territory in capable hands.”

“But…” Ed hesitated.

“I know what you’re worried about.” Timothy smiled — understanding, not condescending — and placed a hand briefly on the young man’s shoulder. “You won’t stay here forever. When the situation at Port of Clear Water is resolved, I will recall you to King’s City immediately. Graycastle is not yet unified. There is still the Western Territory to recover, and for that I will need knights who can break through an enemy line. I cannot afford to waste you here.”

The young man looked up with bright eyes, then sank to one knee. “As you bid, Your Majesty!”

“Rise.” Timothy nodded. “Three things. First — take all remaining inhabitants of Port of Clear Water into custody and escort them to King’s City.”

“Don’t you want to execute them as traitors?”

“No.” They could not be considered real traitors. Real traitors had left on the Black Sail Fleet. Killing the ones who stayed would only serve Garcia’s narrative. Besides — of the more than ten thousand inhabitants of Port of Clear Water, together with the captive slaves from Eagle City, barely four hundred had refused to leave with her. If not for the Sandpeople, this would have been a ghost city. Garcia’s hold over her people was more formidable than he had expected.

“Your Majesty is benevolent.”

“Second — burn the docks, the shipyard, and the Lord’s Tower. I want every man in the South to see that Garcia Wimbledon, Queen of Clear Water, no longer exists. If she returns, she returns to ruins.”

“Yes.”

“Third —” Timothy turned back toward the sea. The horizon was entirely dark now, clouds eating the light. “Gather refugees for me. Any homeless person, criminal, deserter — even Sandpeople, if they’ll come. From Eagle City to today, the Southern Territory has never been fully quiet. There are thousands living in the surrounding villages and towns with nowhere to go. By whatever means you find appropriate, I need at least five thousand men before the campaign against the West begins.”

Garcia’s retreat had confirmed the correctness of his strategy. As master of more than half of Graycastle’s population, he should use sheer numbers as his weapon. A company of a hundred Knights commanding thousands of commoners — in practice, the Knights would rarely need to fight themselves. Their role was the distribution of the pills and the direction of the battle. Against an enemy who could not absorb an endless tide of attackers, the strategy was almost mechanical. If Garcia had chosen to defend Port of Clear Water rather than run, she would have been swallowed.

Now only one enemy remained. Roland Wimbledon in the west.

“Go and see to your affairs. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can return to King’s City.”

“As you bid, Your Majesty.”

Ed turned to go, then stopped. “One more thing — I nearly forgot. What would you have me do with the men who swallowed the pills and survived the battlefield? They’ve already taken a third dose.”

“Burn them with Port of Clear Water,” Timothy said, expressionless.

The Knight bowed and left.

Standing alone on the balcony, Timothy felt something cold touch the tip of his nose. He looked up. A raindrop, then another. First scattered, then more dense, spreading ripples across the grey surface of the sea.

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