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Chapter 663: The Spectacle

“There’s one more thing I want to build in Neverwinter,” Roland continued.

Karl straightened. “A landmark? A monument—a clock tower, perhaps?”

“You could call it a spectacle.” The word landed cleanly. Roland could see from Karl’s quick uptake that the man understood immediately—a top figure in the Mason Guild of the king’s city didn’t need things explained twice. Roland nodded, then qualified it: “But not a useless one.”

The battle with the church had cost the First Army dearly. Iron Axe reported that morale held, but morale was not the same as the grief settling into the homes of those who’d lost someone. To strengthen the confidence of his subjects—especially those who had traveled from distant cities and had not yet fully decided that Neverwinter was their future—Roland needed to give them something to look at. Something that said: this place is real, it endures, it builds.

History was full of spectacles raised purely to gratify the rulers who commanded them. Roland wanted none of that.

“I’m going to build a residential building on the south bank of Redwater River, behind the industrial park.”

Karl said nothing. He was clearly running the numbers.

“Fifteen floors. Three and a half meters per floor—overall height slightly over fifty meters. Close to the height of the old king’s city walls. I believe that was the largest project you’ve been involved in?”

Karl drew a sharp breath. “Your Majesty, that would be the Tower of Babel.”

“It’s an ordinary high-rise residential building.” Roland smiled. “It just happens to be a landmark for this era.”

Fifteen stories would clear the castle roof. Anyone entering Neverwinter would see it. It would announce the city’s ambitions before a visitor reached the gate, while solving an immediate practical problem—high-rise construction packed far more living space into a given plot of land than cottages did. The logic of the future was already visible there, if one knew where to look.

“Can a residential building actually be built that tall?” Karl’s skepticism was professional rather than dismissive.

“We’re well within what concrete can support.” Roland thought through it. He’d considered the structural questions carefully before raising the idea. The height was less alarming than it appeared: the Pyramid of Khufu, built four thousand years before anything like modern engineering, had stood taller than 140 meters using nothing more sophisticated than stacked stone. Wooden pagodas in the far east had reached 130 meters. Height was not the constraint—foundation was. Provide a solid foundation and adequate column spacing, and the structure would hold.

In the future, builders had learned to minimize wall and column volume to reduce material costs. Neverwinter already ran a surplus of cement production, which made concrete the obvious choice. A multi-podium design—broader at the base, rising in stages—would distribute the load and simplify construction without sacrificing height. More columns where stability was uncertain. Reinforced steel bars threaded through the concrete to carry tension. As long as the footings went deep, the building was effectively uncollapsible.

The casting of concrete at height had already been solved in Roland’s mind: Maggie would carry Hummingbird aloft, and Hummingbird would lower iron cans down from above, pouring concrete from height rather than from below. Nearly as efficient as a pump, with what they had available.

Karl had built the Witch Building. He knew concrete and form-work; he understood the basic structural logic. This was the same logic at larger scale, with steel reinforcement replacing the bamboo and wire he’d used before, and the Witch Union standing ready to smooth over whatever the conventional methods couldn’t reach.

His expression had shifted—the skepticism replaced by something steadier, more calculating. A mason’s face when a project has moved from hypothetical to possible.

“I’ll guide you through it personally,” Roland said.


“Time’s up. Pens down, everyone.”

Scroll’s knock landed against the table, and Evelyn let out a long, slow breath. The second semester at—she corrected herself—the city of Neverwinter was over. She had written her final exam, had sat here alongside everyone else, and had not disgraced herself.

She capped her charcoal pen and looked around the room. Anna was absent, as usual these days—Wendy had said that Anna had crossed into some region of study that ordinary people couldn’t follow without losing consciousness, as if the books themselves were too densely packed with understanding to be read safely. Evelyn wasn’t sure she believed that entirely, but she didn’t disbelieve it either.

Candle caught her eye from across the room and raised a thumb. You did well.

Nightingale sat at the back with the flat expression of someone absorbing a disappointing result in private. This puzzled Evelyn. Nightingale was of noble birth, educated earlier than most of the witches here—she should have had an advantage in reading and writing above almost anyone. But Nightingale was also the witch His Majesty relied on most heavily for tasks that didn’t show up in lesson records, and perhaps that was the cost. She had fought alongside Lady Ashes. On Sleeping Island, she had been someone Evelyn could only observe from a respectful distance.

The top tier—Agatha, Lucia, Lily—wore the composed faces of people who hadn’t been threatened. Learning came to them the way breathing came to everyone else. Agatha in particular had drawn close to Anna and Tilly’s level, which was especially impressive given that she was also a combat witch. Evelyn allowed herself a small envy.

At the other end, Honey, Hummingbird, and Echo wore expressions that didn’t require interpretation. Paper and Summer, still new and taught separately by Scroll, hadn’t participated.

But the one Evelyn was watching was Maggie.

The guileless, round-faced girl who had beaten her by one point last semester through the sheer improbability of multiple-choice questions. Who had somehow, with no apparent understanding of mathematics or language or anything Scroll had tried to teach, outscored Evelyn on paper.

Not this time.

Evelyn had spent the year at it. Two, three mornings a week at the winery, then back to her books. She hadn’t joined the poker table. She had bought perfume exactly once, when a new scent arrived at Convenience Market. Every other spare hour had gone into the exercise book.

She was going to beat Maggie. She was almost certain of it.

She looked at the guileless girl across the room and felt, for the first time in a long while, genuinely confident.

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