CH327 · Rewrite
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Chapter 327: The Reason

“Lady Tilly!”

She hadn’t expected Sylvie to be the first one out the door.

Nightingale had guided them to the lord’s castle, and they’d barely entered when Sylvie appeared at the end of the corridor—running, her face open with surprise—and skipped the formal greeting entirely, wrapping her arms around Tilly before either of them had spoken.

“How are you here? It’s still autumn—”

“It’s not much different from winter now,” Tilly said, laughing. “Where are the others?”

Sylvie counted on her fingers. “Lotus is building houses for the refugees. Evelyn and Candle are in the industrial area. Honey is in the back garden—she’s training messenger animals.” She brightened. “His Highness has already sent word to them.”

“You’ll see them soon, I think.”

A voice, familiar and not quite familiar, came from behind Sylvie.

Tilly looked up and found a gray-haired man watching her with a broad smile. His face had not changed much from memory—the same proportions, the same jaw—but the expression on it was entirely wrong. The Roland she remembered had worn his face like a man always ready to leave. This one was comfortable in it.

“Welcome to Border Town, dear sister.”


She followed him into a room that looked like a study—bookshelves, a writing desk, a window giving onto the snow—and sat down at the mahogany table while he poured black tea and set the cup in front of her without asking.

“A whole year since we’ve last seen each other,” he said, settling across from her. “I know there’s much you want to say. Same with me. But—” he glanced at the falling snow outside “—there’s no need to hurry. The winter is still very long.”

She wrapped both hands around the cup and said nothing, watching him.

The phrasing alone was enough to establish the distance. The Roland she knew would not have said that. He had always been the kind of person who performed composure while scanning for exits; his calm was the calm of someone calculating, not someone settled. This was different—this was a person who had decided to be here and had stopped being surprised by his own decision.

“Nightingale,” he said, tilting his head slightly.

“But Your Highness—” The voice came from nowhere, from a corner of the room that held only shadow.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s my sister.”

A pause. “Very well.” The air displaced itself, and Nightingale stepped out of it, expression carefully neutral, then left without further comment.

“Now it’s only us,” Roland said, and returned to the table.

Tilly set down her cup. “Who are you, really?”

She had expected hesitation—a breath, a calculation, the brief performance of sincerity. What she got was an immediate answer.

“I am your older brother. Roland Wimbledon, Graycastle’s Fourth Prince.” He smiled. “I know I’ve changed considerably, but I’m willing to explain it slowly.”

She remembered his letter. As for what led me to this decision, and what made me stop being indifferent as I was before—these small trifling things can be discussed at a later opportunity. It had been that sentence, more than anything else, that had made her come.

“I’d be glad to hear it,” she said.

The story was not complicated. It was, however, extraordinary. A witch named Anna—her execution interrupted, her life spared—had, in Roland’s telling, opened something in him that had been sealed. Through that one act, he had begun to see clearly: the Church’s cruelty, Garcia’s willingness to use assassination as a political tool, the futility of trying to stay small and invisible in a world that rewarded neither. So he had decided to change it.

By the time he finished, Tilly’s cup was empty and she could not have said when she’d drunk it. She exhaled slowly and reviewed the story’s shape.

The emotional logic held. The chronology held. But there remained the question of the knowledge—the steam engine, the weapons, the processes that could not have come from any library she’d ever heard of. Even the most learned of the palace tutors had never touched on any of it.

“So you’re saying the source of all of it is a set of memories that simply appeared in your mind?” she asked.

“Yes.” He met her eyes. “I know it sounds impossible to accept. But it is what happened. After I survived Garcia’s assassination attempt—when I came out of the coma—those memories were there. I didn’t know where they came from. I still don’t. But if meeting Anna was the spark, then what those memories contained was the fuel.”

She turned this over carefully.

The question of how was difficult to resolve. Replacement was possible in theory, but Sylvie’s Eye of Truth could identify any witch whose ability touched the human mind, and the Witch Alliance practiced with their abilities daily—none of them had anything in that category. Control was even less likely; the former Roland had worn a God’s Stone of Retaliation as a matter of course, and there had always been knights nearby. A witch without a concealment ability couldn’t have gotten close to him.

Possession—an ability that let someone occupy a body and inherit the occupant’s thoughts—she couldn’t rule out entirely. But even if such a thing were possible, where would the other knowledge come from? The tutor who had introduced it? The ancient text? The hermit who appeared at the right moment? These were the lies that fell apart when you kept asking.

“How do you prove that you are Roland Wimbledon, and not simply the set of memories that appeared with the rest?”

She said it bluntly. If he were the Roland she remembered, this would be the question that flipped the table.

He didn’t move. “Because I still remember what happened at court. What we shared.” His voice was measured. “I believe a person is, in the end, their unique memories—the things that can’t be replicated by imitation. A witch could reproduce your face exactly and still be a different person, because she wouldn’t carry what you carry. I have a great deal of strange memory that I can’t account for, but I also carry the memory of your face when you fell on the broken glass. Your expression then. The sound you made.” A slight pause. “I haven’t had the chance to apologize for that until now. I hope it isn’t too late.”

Tilly was silent for a moment.

Before her sat a man in clean clothes, watching her with steady eyes. He was not performing sincerity—or if he was, he was performing it perfectly enough that the distinction ceased to matter. And there was the other thing: every version of this conversation she could have imagined with the Roland she remembered would have ended ten minutes ago with a slammed door. This one was still talking. Still sitting. Still present.

“Truly,” she said, finally. “Hard to believe.”

“That’s understandable,” Roland said. “There are many things that seem impossible until you’ve experienced them. I never expected that my younger sister would awaken as a witch—and keep it hidden from everyone in the palace. Yet here we are.” He looked at the snow outside. “But as I said at the beginning: the winter is long. We’ll have time to come to understand each other properly.”

The best solution available. She nodded. “Then, for the next few months—I’m sorry to trouble you.”

“Let me handle it,” he said, and his smile was uncomplicated. “You’ll love it here.”

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