Rewrite That Witch
CH370 · Rewrite
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Chapter 370: Rhythm

Three days later, Petrov gave his answer.

“I’m willing to continue serving you,” he said, one hand raised to his chest. “And so is the Honeysuckle Family. I’ll convince my father — he’s a little…” He paused, choosing his words. “Different from the other families.”

“Is that so.” Roland felt something loosen in him, something he hadn’t known was tense. “That’s very good to hear.”

“In these past few days, I’ve seen all the changes you’ve made here.” Petrov’s voice carried something Roland hadn’t expected from a nobleman: honesty. “I realized — this is the city I always wanted to see. If the Honeysuckle Family can grow in a city like this, my father won’t object to the merger.”

It struck deeper than Roland had anticipated. He had brought Petrov here for two reasons: to share important news in person, which was more sincere than a letter, and to read his reaction to the terms. He had never imagined the man would respond like this — not with calculation or reluctant compliance, but with something close to recognition.

“Of course,” Roland said. “In time, every inch of land in the Kingdom of Graycastle will be a home for its people.”

“Then I should return to the Stronghold quickly. My father needs to hear this directly from me.”

“Don’t forget the other four noble families — and all the nobilities of the Western Region.” Roland added. “Any family willing to accept my terms is welcome in the new city, unconditionally, regardless of past conflicts. You can hold a banquet in the Stronghold to spread the word.”

Petrov blinked. “You mean you want me to tell them?”

“Yes.” The prince smiled. “This time, you can act as my ambassador.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The eldest of the Honeysuckles raised his hand to his chest and held it there a moment, then turned to go.

“One more thing.” Roland stopped him at the door. “You handled the witch situation well. After everything this universal education has built — if anyone in the Western Region is still blindly following the Church’s teachings, they should be removed. You can decide how you want to do it.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

After Petrov Hull left, Roland stretched, yawned, and reached for the stack of reports the City Hall had compiled on ongoing construction projects.

The heavy snowfall had halted work on the Kingdom Main Street and slowed residential construction to a crawl — only indoor maintenance underway, nothing that moved earth. Fortunately, Lotus had carved out a series of cave dwellings before she left for Sleeping Island, enough to shelter the newest arrivals. If more refugees came, they could be distributed through the existing caves — that was the advantage of heated brick beds, which maintained warmth through passive conduction regardless of weather. No fuel needed during the night.

According to the Ministry of Construction, over sixty percent of the workforce remained employed even during the Months of Demons — clearing streets, hauling goods to the Blast Furnace Zone, small maintenance work throughout the town. In any other city, the figure would have been inconceivable. Winter was traditionally the season when civilians barricaded themselves behind their doors and survived off what they’d managed to save from the harvest; idleness was the norm, and hardship was not far behind it. Roland looked at the number and felt, instead of satisfaction, a small restlessness. All this available labor, not yet fully applied.

Margaret’s chamber of commerce had bought up the last batch of steam engines produced that year. The City Hall had sufficient money and grain to fund new initiatives. There was no practical reason to leave the workforce idle.

He had his guard summon Karl Van Bate, the Minister of Construction.

“You want the masons and clay artisans to build ships?” Karl asked, when Roland finished explaining. The man stared at the blueprint on the desk with an expression that mixed professional skepticism with genuine confusion.

“Yes. Right at the harbor. Build a temporary workshop from timber and keep a brazier running inside to maintain the temperature — when the ships are completed, they go straight into the water.”

“But, Your Highness — how would they know how to build such a thing?”

“The same way they built the witches’ tower.” Roland picked up a quill and drew. “Set up a frame, lay steel bars, fill it with concrete. I’ll walk you through the first ship, then you supervise. All the idle workers can be put to use.”

Karl looked at the diagram for a long moment. “Is this… a bowl?”

Roland smiled. “A very large concrete bowl, yes.”

Karl hadn’t been involved in the construction of the Littletown, so the principle was new to him. The truth was that ship design had always been a moving target — each era’s vessels barely resembling the last era’s. Roland had no skill with traditional wooden keels and rigging; but a concrete ship was, at its core, a clay model that floated. The engineering was closer to a cistern than a galleon. And with welding improvements, modern steel ships no longer even used keeling — they were plates joined together, the floor bearing the weight across its entire surface. Wooden ships were a detour he was content to skip.

He had thought about a concrete fleet for some time. The coal mines in the nearby mountains and the ongoing movement of refugees both required large riverboats, and flat-bottom construction with a low draught was well-suited to that work. Compared to the Littletown’s conservative lines, the new ships needed longer hulls — better load capacity, better stability, higher speed. Paddle wheels for propulsion: already tested on wooden boats, well within the masons’ capability. Multiple ships built simultaneously, the same approach that had produced Border Town’s roads in months rather than years.

This way, even if no one purchased the next round of steam engines, the labor had somewhere to go. The Furnace Area could continue producing cement — one purpose feeding the other. And if, in a few years, he could command a fleet of concrete riverboats, the First Army would have reliable logistics wherever it moved.

He filed the construction paperwork, stood, and went to check on the backyard.

Leaf’s olive trees and grape vines formed a shelter against the snow — their branches thick enough to hold the drifts back, leaving the paths beneath mostly clear. The witches practiced here when they weren’t working, and the newcomer Paper had been included in the schedule almost immediately. According to Wendy, her ability wasn’t simple temperature control, but it wasn’t material restoration either, and it operated almost exclusively on water — one of the stranger limited profiles Roland had encountered. Three days in, Paper should have shed the worst of her initial terror. He wanted to see her himself.

He pushed through the low gate and stopped.

The garden was wrong.

He couldn’t have said, precisely, what it was at first. The olive trees were evergreen, their silver-green leaves unchanged by winter — nothing unusual in that. The vines were bare but alive. But there was too much green. Too much of it, too vivid, too full, as though the cold stopped at the garden wall and forgot what it had come for. And the plants were moving.

Not in wind. There was no wind.

He stood still and watched: grass at the path’s edge tilting aside as though to make room for him, olive branches above him bending in a slow bow, leaves turning toward him as he moved deeper along the path. The motion was synchronized, unhurried, like breathing — in, out, the whole garden on a single slow rhythm.

Gooseflesh rose along the back of his neck.

It was not a garden. Or rather — a garden was a thing arranged by human hands and left alone afterward. This was something that knew he was in it.

The whole garden seemed to breathe.

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