Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 72: Holding Court as a King

Timothy Wimbledon sat on the throne with the scepter across his knees, and looked out at his ministers.

This is what I fought for. Not Valencia and its endless mercantile arguments — merchant against merchant, ledger against ledger, nothing that mattered. Here. This room. These men waiting on his word.

He lifted the scepter and struck the end against the floor, once. The sound rang through the hall. When every face had turned to him, he nodded.

“Begin.”

The first man forward was Knight Weimar — Sir Ironheart, the city’s defense commander, a man who had never once softened an opinion in Timothy’s presence.

“Your Majesty. I must ask whether the witch hunts can be temporarily suspended.” He held his ground at the center of the hall as if he had planted himself there. “The raids have become excessive. Yesterday, several women were taken from their homes and — according to what I’ve heard — assaulted in the dungeons. One died in custody. None of them were witches. There is panic in the outer city, and if this continues, you will see flight.”

Timothy’s frown settled in. He had ordered the hunts. His father’s death still refused to become something he could examine clearly — refused to become suicide, no matter how often the official version was recited. The smile on the old man’s face. The God’s Stone of Retaliation, certified genuine by the Church, and yet. Something had moved that piece. He had no better theory than witches. The theory was weak. He held it anyway.

He glanced toward Langley, his officer for the raids.

Langley stood immediately. He was cracking his knuckles before he had finished rising — a nervous habit Timothy had catalogued long ago, along with the man’s other inadequacies.

“Your dearest Majesty, the incident was an accident, and I have already severely punished the relevant personnel.” The knuckles popped, one by one. “The warden, castellan, and guards — ten lashes, twenty-five silver royals each.”

“One woman dead,” Sir Weimar said, each word unhurried, “and three others brutally treated. You believe a few lashes and a fine constitute justice?” He turned toward Langley with the patience of someone who had stopped being surprised. “And by what authority did you pass that judgment? The former Prime Minister Vic’s? Lord Padro, Minister of Justice?”

“Your Majesty!” Langley dropped to his knees. “These are extraordinary times. I had to act quickly. The minor setbacks aside, the raids have been successful — we have arrested at least fifteen witches currently lurking in King City, and under interrogation they will soon reveal whether your father — I mean, whether any conspiracy—”

Timothy stared at him. You idiot. The ministers in this hall had almost certainly already reasoned out the shape of the thing, but the public account held that Gerald had killed the King, and that account was not to be troubled. Not by a fool who could not finish a sentence.

Weimar’s contempt arrived without expression. “Fifteen witches. King City is a genuine stronghold, it seems.” A pause, calibrated. “The Church conducted hunts in the eastern forest some years ago and managed six. Your men appear to be far more gifted.”

“You—!” Langley started.

“Enough.”

The hall went quiet.

Langley is a fool, Timothy thought, which makes him my fool, which makes this my failure for using him. He had needed the man early in the succession fight — needed his access, his compliance, his willingness to be deployed. None of those qualities made him competent. These fifteen women had almost certainly never touched an ability in their lives.

“You will go to the Church,” Timothy said, “and pay a priest to come and identify these fifteen women. Suspend all torture until that is done — and apply the same process to every woman taken afterward. If I learn you have ignored this order, I will have you thrown in the city moat.” He held Langley’s gaze a moment longer than necessary. “Alive, obviously.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Langley got to his feet and left the hall.

Timothy turned to the Finance Minister. “Anyone wronged alongside the original three — three gold royals. The woman who died — send money to her family. Send it more than once.”

“As you wish.”

“Your Majesty is generous,” Sir Weimar said, and saluted.

“Next.” Timothy waited. No one spoke. He moved on.

“Minister Yoshua.” He addressed the diplomat by his post — Sir Bullet, the men called him privately, a man of the Flynn family who had held his position for thirty years and looked it: grey hair, a face that had settled into deep lines, one foot already over some interior threshold. “The recall order was issued a month ago. Report.”

Yoshua cleared his throat. “Your Majesty — the 3rd Princess, Garcia Wimbledon, has not responded. The 4th Prince, Roland Wimbledon, has replied. He writes that he will consider his return once his people are safe at the end of the Months of the Demons.”

“And?”

A slight pause. “He addressed the letter to Prince Timothy. Not King Timothy.”

Timothy laughed — a short, genuine sound of contempt. Roland. Still exactly himself, unchanged, as though the world’s rearrangement was a seasonal inconvenience. If you mean to come back, brother, you will take your instruction from me. I’ll give you a pleasant room and a window. If you don’t come back— He waved it away. It was a game of chess and he held the better position regardless of Roland’s move.

“Let him be. My fifth sister?”

Yoshua’s discomfort was visible now, a stiffening in the shoulders. “She is — gone, Your Majesty.”

“Gone.”

“She was the first to confirm her return. A week later, Her Highness disappeared from her residence — along with her butler and both maids. I have search parties active, but there has been no trace.”

The pain in Timothy’s chest was specific and familiar. He had expected more from Tilly. She was the sharpest of all of them — sharper than he was, if he was being honest, which he rarely needed to be since she’d been disqualified by gender from the succession entirely. His father’s arrangement had been clear-eyed in the way his father’s arrangements usually were: Silver City, close to the capital, no military garrison, no possibility of building a power base. A gilded box. He had assumed she would accept the box.

She had chosen to run.

Was this the decision of a wise woman, or a frightened one? He couldn’t tell. He was not sure the distinction mattered.

“Silver City reverts to its former lord. Continue the search — I will not have a member of the royal line wandering without supervision.” He pressed the thought down and looked at Prime Minister Vic. “Which leaves only Garcia.”

Vic understood before the question was complete. He had been Timothy’s most consistent support throughout the succession, and he moved now with the smoothness of a man who had anticipated this conclusion weeks ago.

“Since she persists,” Timothy said, “we will take measures. Duke Ryan to the southern border — force Garcia to abandon Port of Clearwater and escort her back to King City.”

“The order should not be delayed,” Vic confirmed. “Issue the command and I will see it transmitted through the Minister for Foreign Affairs.”

Timothy nodded, reached for his secretary—

The hall doors opened.

Not a knock, not an announcement — the doors simply opened under rapid feet, and Knight Naim Moor, the Cold Wind Knight, strode the length of the hall and dropped to one knee before the throne with the posture of a man carrying news he did not entirely believe.

“Your Majesty.” He was breathing hard. “From the south. Garcia Wimbledon — in five days — has defeated Duke Ryan’s forces and occupied Eagle City.”

He paused for one breath.

“She has declared herself Queen of Clearwater. The southern lords have answered. They are declaring their territories independent.”

The hall held its silence. Timothy looked at the man kneeling before him, at the faces of his ministers arranged in their careful rows — some shocked, some already calculating, all watching him.

He kept his expression still.

Garcia. He had underestimated her. He had known she was capable. He had not thought she was ready.

The scepter rested across his knees, cool and smooth, exactly as it had been a minute ago.

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