Rewrite That Witch
CH408 · Rewrite
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Chapter 408: The Conundrum

She had used his own books to dig the hole, and he was standing in it.

When the information was genuinely complex, most readers struggled simply to follow the argument — let alone to notice what had been left out. The absence of any mention of magic power in books that claimed to study the nature of everything in the world. It was extraordinary that anyone had caught it.

But Roland had let Prince Roland’s memories fade too completely. In the first month after crossing, he had worked to mimic the Fourth Prince’s manner and voice as closely as possible. Once the witches knew and trusted him, and once his ministers proved too respectful to press him, he had let that habit of careful concealment slip. He had stopped monitoring himself.

Tilly was not an ordinary witch, and she was not an ordinary sister.

She was an Extraordinary, which meant she could process his books in hours rather than weeks. She had done exactly that, and then she had sat with a growing sense of wrongness, the feeling that something in the architecture was misaligned, until the conversation about Mystery Moon handed her the missing piece. You separate magic power from nature. She had built her case cleanly, using his own reasoning as evidence, and she had presented it without aggression precisely because she already knew she had won.

Any forced denial would only accelerate her suspicion. Lie to cover a lie, and the structure collapsed faster.

He stared at the door she had closed behind her.

Tilly had pulled back because the relationship mattered more to her than the answer, at least for now. Border Town was the Sleeping Island’s most essential ally. That logic protected him — but it was not a permanent shelter. If he continued to dodge once they had defeated their common enemies, he would lose her trust by a slower route and arrive at the same destination.

He couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Anna and Nightingale were different — they had known only him, from his first days in this body, never the original prince. Tilly had grown up beside the real Roland Wimbledon. Until he understood exactly what that relationship had been, and what she remembered and felt about her brother, he could not risk the disclosure.

He pushed the thought aside before it could compound further, and turned to Nightingale. “You heard all of that. Regarding Maggie and Lightning — what do you think about checking out the situation in Fallen Dragon Ridge?”

“No problem, Your Highness.”

“It won’t be a simple diplomatic call. I’ll be honest — I’m a little worried about you.”

“Wha— what’s there to be worried about?” she said, with an odd catch in her voice. “I’m fine, even if I have to drag Spear Passi back—”

“That is exactly what I’m worried about.” He hit the desk with his palm. “Dragging her back? You’d have her tear all three of you apart. Listen carefully. You go, you assess, you make a clear and non-threatening approach. If she refuses, she refuses — it’s all right. Don’t threaten her. As a fellow witch, she’ll be able to read your intent from the first moment.”

Nightingale deflated slightly. “Is that all?”

“On the witches’ errand — yes. Additionally: help Lightning map the surrounding area. Fortifications, sentries, troop positions, the full layout. Then come back as fast as you can.”

She murmured acknowledgment.

“And finally,” Roland said, more quietly. “Be safe. That comes before everything else.”

The pub called Covert Trumpeter sat in a back alley of the outer city, and it smelled like everything Otto Luoxi had spent his adult life avoiding. The crackling fire that should have been welcoming threw shadows instead of warmth, and the bodies pressed around him carried the particular sour odor of people who spent winter indoors in close proximity to each other. A nobleman rarely entered these areas by choice.

Otto Luoxi had not come by choice.

He found his contact without difficulty — Skeleton Fingers had not lied about that much. A skinny man in a hood in an unlit corner, a small piece of bone lying beside his hand on the table, one thumb tracing its edge with professional patience.

Otto sat across from him. “Cheers to Skeleton Fingers.”

“You don’t have any liquor.”

“But I have the thing measuring all things on earth.” He spoke the code.

The man shrugged. “Call me Hood. You’re here for information?”

Otto nodded. While King Timothy continued to stall on his response, Otto had not been idle. Whoever had held the Western Territory for half a year against the full weight of a new king’s legitimacy — then struck back into the royal city itself — was not a man to dismiss, and not a threat one wanted to stand opposite if there was any alternative. He had spent weeks building a picture through six different Rats, and the picture that had emerged startled him: Roland Wimbledon, the fourth prince, was not weakening. He was advancing.

The fastest path to reliable information remained the Rats. The Black Street network, whatever its limitations, went places that official channels could not.

“I want to know about the crash in King’s City,” Otto said, keeping his voice low. “The collapse in the palace, three months ago.”

Hood leaned back and waited.

Otto watched him and understood: the conversation about price would happen before any information was exchanged.

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