Rewrite That Witch
CH674 · Rewrite

Chapter 674: No. 76

The wagons pulled to the side of the road and lined up while the Chom Brothers worked quickly to lash them together — one driver could manage all five from a single seat.

After a sharp argument, Annie relented. She led the witches into the forest with Clown as their guide.

Now it was the rest of them. And Yorko.

Rockhill slung a food pack over his shoulder and passed him without slowing. “My lord, we have to move. If they see us, everything we’ve done means nothing.”

“Give me a moment. I want to speak with her.”

He had thought it would take time to decide. It took less than fifteen minutes.

No. 76 stepped forward on her own.

Rockhill had volunteered. Annie had too, before she was redirected to the witches. But Yorko was the one who made the call, and the one he chose was No. 76.

“I trained for five years in combat at Black Money,” she said. “I’m fast. Don’t worry about me.” Her tone was the tone of a simple farewell — no flourish, no weight placed on it. “There’s a village not far from here, isn’t there? I’ll drive the wagons to the village, slip into the crowd, and they’ll lose me. Once this is over, I’ll find you at the border. Wait for me there.”

The magician, hovering at Yorko’s shoulder, murmured that the village was more than ten miles away. With the time lost tying the wagons together, reaching it before the knights caught up was nearly impossible.

If those knights had not been specifically ordered to hunt witches, the worry was smaller — they might simply check the wagons and move on. But if the magician’s read was right, and the knights traced back to Glow with nothing to show for their pursuit, the frustration they’d carry would be punishing. Yorko could imagine easily how that frustration would find its target.

He turned it over. He could volunteer himself. If Appen Moya’s men caught the Ambassador of Graycastle, the king would hold him for ransom — make him a laughingstock among the nobility, perhaps, but would not execute him. Roland would pay and the insult would pass. For anyone else, capture meant death. No. 76 had calculated this, same as he had. She’d made her choice with open eyes.

He wanted to step forward. The words were halfway there each time and each time his throat closed on them.

An ambassador represents his king. If they catch me and mock me, they mock Graycastle.

He told himself this. He was aware that he was telling himself this.

She’s just a bought slave.

Yorko walked over to her. Before he could open his mouth she spoke.

“My lord, this is my decision. It has nothing to do with Black Money — even though Silvermask always taught us to sacrifice ourselves for it when necessary, I never liked that lesson.” She looked at him without flinching, without accusation. “I thought I’d spend my whole life underground, flattering customers until I aged into a new Silvermask. Or I’d be sent off as a handmaid and never see daylight again. You took me out of that place. You showed me how wide the world is.” A small breath. “I have no regrets. Please go. You’re running out of time.”

“But—”

“Thank you, my lord.” She smiled. “If you hadn’t spoken up, I would have been beaten to death in that limestone cave. My life belongs to you. I may survive this — and if I do, let’s meet in Graycastle.”

The Chom Brothers pressed in behind him. “My lord. Now.”

He breathed in. He turned around. He walked into the forest.

She’s just a slave.

This is the best option.

He believed it. The discomfort in his chest remained anyway, formless and stubborn, declining to be reasoned away.

At the tree line he stopped and looked back. The wagons had begun to move, No. 76 at the reins. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look over her shoulder. She moved with the same matter-of-fact calm with which she had volunteered — as though this were an ordinary departure, a routine errand.

The forest swallowed the view.

No. 76 did not drive the wagons to the village.

After about three hundred feet, she reined the horses in and stopped. Another few steps and she would lose sight of the forest entrance entirely; she had no intention of going that far. She climbed down from the box and settled on the tailgate of the last wagon, her back to the road, waiting.

She had spent a great deal of her life waiting. The underground hours of training, the slow years in service, the longer years before that — waiting had shaped itself around her until she could wear it like a coat. So the time passed without pressing on her, and it felt both very long and very short.

The sun was going down when the knights appeared at the far end of the road.

No emblem. No banner. But the armor was fine work and the horses were tall — not village knights, not border garrison. Someone’s household cavalry, well-funded and well-drilled.

She counted thirty-five. Half of those were squires, and their movements were crisp. Whoever led them had not drawn from the dregs.

The leader’s face creased when he spotted the wagons sitting alone at the roadside. He snapped his reins and the column surged forward, surrounding the convoy in a smooth half-circle.

“Sir Lougan — there’s no one in the wagons!”

“Interesting.” Lougan’s smile was thin and contemptuous. “The Ambassador of Graycastle deployed scouts, apparently.” He turned in his saddle. “Caro, Jester — double back and check for tracks on both sides of the road. They’ve abandoned the vehicles and gone on foot, which means there are traces.”

His intent was plain enough.

“Sir — what about the woman?”

“Cut off her hands and feet, then question her. Though if she was willing to stay behind, she probably knows nothing useful.” Lougan flicked his gaze at her with the detachment of a man pricing livestock.

No. 76 rose from the tailgate.

“There’s no need to interrogate me,” she said. “They went into that forest — just back the way you came. But—”

“But what?” A knight drew his sword with one hand and reached for her arm with the other.

They would not spare her regardless of what she told them. That was already settled.

“But you won’t be getting to those witches.”

Her hand moved first. She caught the reaching knight’s wrist, used his own momentum to take him airborne, and slid his head under her arm before he completed the arc. A controlled squeeze — she felt armor compress, then bone, then the wet finality of it. He went limp. She held him upright a half-second longer before letting him fall.

The remaining knights stared.

“Let go of Charlie!”

“Kill her — kill her!”

Swords came out in a chorus. She threw the dead man into the tightest cluster of them, forcing a scramble, and in the gap she snatched his sword from the ground and swung.

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