Rewrite That Witch
CH844 · Rewrite
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Chapter 844: Messages Arriving at the Same Time

The decision to put the Ministry of Agriculture in charge of farming rubber worms had not been a passing impulse.

In Roland’s estimation, rubber production mattered as much as oil extraction — both were fundamental to the industrial infrastructure he was building, and both therefore belonged under his direct control. Had the worms presented no risk to people, he might have housed them elsewhere. The Third Border City had been the only practical choice.

He and Barov and Edith had settled on a useful framing: “her ladyship and the fallen city” — a phrasing that would sit more easily with people than the historical truth of a witch empire. The full account of the Battle of Divine Will and Taquila was known only to the City Hall’s senior officials and the core of the First Army. Announcing it to the public without preparation would create panic. The better approach was to release carefully rephrased information in stages, gradually — to let the shock absorb rather than strike all at once.

Roland would have preferred to keep the dark history of the witch empire buried indefinitely, for the sake of the united front’s stability. If humanity survived the Battle of Divine Will, there would be time enough to let archaeologists uncover the old records — and by then, the distance of victory might make the truth easier to receive.

He left the Elk knight in the wormhole to begin his research and followed Pasha’s invitation deeper into the underground hall.

“They’re back, Your Majesty.”

Roland looked up. “Who?”

Pasha did not reply in words. She raised her tentacles toward a secluded passage on the far side of the hall and waited, looking enigmatic.

He turned. At first there was only darkness and the sound of movement, a white shadow swinging through the dark. Then two devouring worms crawled into the light, their great mouths open and their fangs briefly visible.

“Your Majesty — do you remember us?”

The voice was cheerful, with a particular brightness he recognized.

“Jasmine?” He looked between them. “And Lyra?”

He could have remembered them without the names. He still carried the image of their departure — the calm certainty with which they had said they harbored no regrets, standing at the edge of the concrete boat before it turned north toward the Great Snow Mountain. Even in memory, their resolve felt solid.

“Yes! You do remember!”

The second worm nudged the first with the tip of its tail. “Mind your manner. Whatever shells we wear, we are still Taquila—”

“Worms?” Jasmine finished, deliberately.

“Witches!” Lyra’s voice rose in exasperation.

Pasha bowed her main tentacles toward Roland. “They arrived in Neverwinter only recently. They insisted on seeing you before entering dormancy, so I had them wait here. I hope you were not alarmed.”

“Not at all. I’d been waiting for news of the transfer too.” He waved off her concern. “Why dormancy — is it necessary?”

“We cannot sustain the worm carriers indefinitely, Your Majesty,” Lyra said, her tone settling into something more considered. “Fran alone can manage the daily tunneling and transport. There is no need to keep three carriers awake. Fran herself spent most of her time in dormancy before the return journey.”

Lyra had always been bright and energetic, Roland recalled. Something in the Soul Transfer had matured her — not extinguished that brightness, but given it weight. It was not difficult to understand. Not all the Taquila witches had lived long. In the early years, with carriers and God’s Punishment Warrior shells both scarce, the options had been to merge with Eleanor or enter a soul container and wait. Very few had remained conscious across the centuries. Phyllis had changed shells twice and been awake for only a hundred and fifty of those years — and she was considered an elder among the survivors. Jasmine and Lyra had been among the youngest transfers. Their mental age was near their true age, and time had not yet worn its distance into them.

What struck Roland, looking at them now, was that they had held their spirits intact inside those shells. That exceeded what he had seen from many people who carried far less.

He wondered, not for the first time, what it was that the Union had understood about the human capacity for endurance — about what could survive even the most radical transformation of circumstance.

“If I intend to make the Impassable Mountain Range into a true defensive line, three worm carriers won’t be enough,” he said to Pasha. “Keep them awake. There’s work to be done — tunneling, reconstruction, plenty of it throughout Neverwinter. Food won’t be a concern; the City Hall will arrange it.”

“Really?” Jasmine’s voice jumped with something that sounded very much like delight.

No one chose to sleep through their life, Roland thought. And the Taquila witches had slept long enough.

“As long as you don’t request meat at every meal.” He spread his hands. “If their appetites run to Fran’s scale, a hundred people’s worth of food should cover it.”

Pasha, who seemed to have already known what his answer would be, smiled. “Then I will leave them in your hands.”

He felt lighter on the walk back to the castle.

The First Army’s latest report arrived before he had settled into his chair. The mission to detonate the snow mountain pass had succeeded: the passage connecting the underground river to the sea was sealed, and the rising waters would now redirect westward as the ruins submerged. Most of the men were returning to Neverwinter; the Gun Battalion would remain at the mountain to monitor the new watercourse.

Everything had followed its projected path. The Taquila witches had completed their search of the underground ruins and secured the devouring worms. Their exploration was, for practical purposes, finished.

The Western Region could hold itself for a while. He had no pressing concerns there.

He broke the seal on the second letter.

It was from the Northern Region — not a carrier pigeon but a rider dispatched under Duke Kant’s authority and trusted to the garrison. Four pages. Dense. It described the events in the Holy City of Hermes: the collapse of the Tower of Babel, the fraying of the church’s internal order. Eagle Face, the garrison commander, had assessed it as an opportunity. He had weighed the thick city walls and the great mangonels, and he was requesting one or two cannon teams. He wanted to deliver his king the first victory of the new year.

Roland set the letter on the desk. Read it again, more slowly.

The church that both the Union and Starfall City had built across centuries — it had come to this. Collapsing from within, without anyone having to strike a blow.

He questioned the intelligence even as he considered it. The church still had God’s Punishment soldiers and would not yield without trying to drag any attacker into close street fighting. His plan had always been to use the God’s Punishment Witches for short-range engagement while the new mortars drove the defenders into corners. The stated goal of the campaign was unification of the kingdom. The real goal was to end the church entirely.

And yet here were signs of it crumbling on its own.

He was preparing to summon his advisers when something struck the glass of the French window at his back.

He turned. Nightingale was already reaching through the pane, drawing a bird — a carrier pigeon, momentarily stunned and bewildered — in from the outside air.

He removed the letter from its leg. He read it once.

He stood up.

“How dare he?”

There was only one line.

“Appen, the King of Dawn, schemes to disturb the Eastern Region of Graycastle. The situation in the Holy City is volatile. Otto Luoxi has been imprisoned.”

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