Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 492: Reality and Illusion

As she followed Roland back to his office, Nightingale said quietly, “I failed to protect you.”

“No. You did well.” He shook his head. “Think about why Shio chose the meeting hall of all places. Because he knew you were here—an extremely powerful witch who would have to be drawn away first. Every extra arrangement he had to make was a reduction in his attack. In the end, all he managed was a tiny dagger.”

“He nearly succeeded.”

“Nearly doesn’t count unless he kills me right there. And your presence restricted that possibility.” Roland’s tone was unhurried, certain. “What would he have done if I had no protection at all? He would have waited—patience, a better angle, a fatal strike whenever the moment came. That possibility would have remained open indefinitely. Instead, you made him act before he was ready.” He looked at her. “You’ve already been protecting me very well. The safer the territory becomes, the safer I am.”

These aren’t empty words, she thought, watching him. He actually believes this. The knot of self-reproach in her chest loosened—not gone, but bearable. “Understood. But you can’t let Lightning and Maggie off easy over this.”

“Hm? What did they do?”

“When I’m not at your side, they’re supposed to stay close and watch for threats. If Lightning had been in the hall today, she could have had you in the air before the dagger reached you.”

“She’s just a little more… active than most—”

“That won’t do.” Nightingale stopped him. “Wendy and Scroll would agree with me if they were here. If Lightning and Maggie don’t understand their mistake now, the next emergency will go worse.”

Roland stroked his chin in thought. “All right. I’ll forbid them from going outside until they complete three full sets of MPC comprehensive exercises—Mathematics, Physics, and Chemistry. Will that satisfy you?”

Nightingale inhaled sharply. Comprehensive exercises. The math section was survivable. The physics and chemistry portions were another matter—dense with formulas and diagrams that looked like the incantations from old legends, so disorienting that the first page alone could put you under. If she were the one sentenced to them, she might never see the outside world again. But she’d made the suggestion, and now it felt impossible to walk it back. She hardened herself and nodded. “Yes. That should make the lesson stick.”

The afternoon meeting ran until dusk, Nightingale stationed at Roland’s side without leaving. The general framework of the secondary City Hall was settled, and the first round of candidates confirmed.

Petrov Hull was appointed Chief Executive of the Longsong Region. Beyond overseeing the City Hall, he would serve concurrently as Minister of Finance, with his father, Earl Hull, as Minister of Construction—a consolidation of influence that made Petrov the largest winner among the Stronghold nobles by a considerable distance. Even Nightingale was quietly startled. Roland had not penalized the Honeysuckle Family for the assassination attempt. By the lords’ own standards, it was a striking show of fairness.

The other ministries went to outstanding men from the lower nobility—former barons and knights who, under the old order, would never have reached this level. They were visibly moved by the removal of the restrictive criteria, and pledged their service with what sounded like genuine feeling.

Whether it is genuine, she thought, depends entirely on whether the situation stays favorable. If Timothy or the Church ever retook the Western Region, these same men would likely forget every word of their vow before the week was out.

Before dismissing the gathering, Roland repeated two employment principles with unusual emphasis. First: a ministry head could draw on family manpower, but the proportion must stay below thirty percent, and all names had to be registered with the City Hall beforehand. Second: regardless of family connections, all salaries would be paid directly by the City Hall—any ministry head who kept that money would be prosecuted as a criminal.

Nightingale found the details stultifying and spent much of the closing hour yawning, until a flicker of movement through the window caught her eye: Maggie gliding in over the courtyard with Countess Spear on her back, and her attention sharpened immediately.

After the dinner, a group followed Earl of the Elk Family to Shio’s quarters—a plain bungalow in the castle district, swept clean. Not a scrap of paper remained. He had prepared carefully and destroyed everything before moving.

“Shio lived almost entirely in the castle,” Roland told Summer. “So we only need to reconstruct what he did at night. I need to know everything—from his first contact with the patrol member Maans to today. Every segment, this house, matters.”

Countess Spear linked her magic to connect Maggie and Summer together. Drawing on the pooled power, Summer began to rebuild the past. Shio appeared as though still alive—sitting before the fireplace in deep thought, bent over paper, moving through the motions of ordinary evenings. Soraya’s eyes recorded each segment as it surfaced.

On the fourth reconstruction—four days back from today—he sat again at the fireplace. But this time his hands held something.

“Wait.” Roland’s voice sharpened. “I’ve seen that before. Draw it for me.”

A Magic Pen rendered it in moments: a gem roughly the size of a thumb, polished into a button’s shape, with identical engravings on both faces—a tower and a spear, the unmistakable mark of the royal family.

“Could he have been Timothy’s man?” Nightingale heard herself ask.

Roland’s frown deepened. He was silent a long time. Then he shook his head, barely perceptibly. “No. That is the keepsake of King Wimbledon III.”

Rene’s face went blank with shock. “You mean… your father?”

“Wasn’t the king already—by the eldest prince, Gerald—” Petrov began, equally stunned.

“When I was a child, I saw this emblem on my father’s desk and asked him about it.” Roland’s voice was measured, even. “He told me that each gem represented a warrior loyal to the royal family—the more gems, the more stable the throne.” He exhaled slowly. “Shio was one of those warriors. My father planted him beside Duke Ryan to monitor the Western Region.”

“Then why did he try to kill you?” Rene asked.

“Timothy must have found the gem registry and given the order. To men like Shio, the emblem meant everything—an order through that channel couldn’t be questioned or refused.”

That’s why. Nightingale looked again at the illusion: Shio sitting still, the small gem cradled in both palms. He stared at it for a long time. Then he dropped it into the fire. His face, in that last moment, held something she hadn’t expected—not the hard calm of a man set on duty, but something quieter. A sadness. And beneath it, a trace of relief. Perhaps the order had felt, to him, like a kind of release.

Roland understood the attempt now. But understanding it didn’t loosen his expression. He stared at the sparks in the fireplace and didn’t look away for a long time.

Late at night, after Summer had fallen asleep, Nightingale slipped into Roland’s room.

She hadn’t done this since Wendy had spoken to her about it. The assassination attempt had left her feelings unsettled in a way she couldn’t quite name—and without Wendy and Anna in the castle, she felt the restraint loosen at its edges. She moved through the dark and stood at the bedside, watching him breathe.

Then she emerged from the Mist, bent down, and pressed her lips briefly to his forehead.

I’m sorry, Your Highness. I can’t help it.

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