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Chapter 913: An Idealist (II)

Roland held Edith’s gaze. “Do you really believe leaving the Kingdom of Dawn as it is would serve us better than having Earl Quinn rule it?”

“In the short term, the difference is small.” Edith’s answer came without hesitation. “A reliable ally provides resources, population, and support for the Battle of Divine Will. Earl Quinn’s loyalty you can depend on — you have Andrea, after all. The other nobles are less certain.”

This surprised him. He had expected her to press harder on the unreliability of the nobility, to build her argument there. Instead she was acknowledging the value of the alliance. “She admitted that?” He waited. “Then what’s the short-term you mentioned?”

“On the other hand,” Edith continued, “if the Kingdom of Dawn collapses into chaos, the only path back to order runs through war. The state weakens. It may fail entirely. What you’d inherit afterward would be refugees and abandoned land — the same situation as the Eastern Region or the Southern Territory of Graycastle.” A small pause. “But those people would belong to you permanently, and without the political complications that come with an allied crown.”

“Three benefits against one.” Nightingale’s voice was sharp. “An ally gives you population and resources and military support. Refugees give you population alone. And you haven’t accounted for how many of those people die on the road.”

Edith turned to her without blinking. “Three sounds larger than one, but there’s a condition attached to each of those three. To use an ally’s resources effectively, you first have to invest in them — steam engines, Golden Twos, ammunition, weapons. Without that investment, the Kingdom of Dawn has nothing to offer demons on a battlefield, let alone meaningful support for Graycastle. The investment is substantial. Neverwinter can barely supply its own needs. When you account for the cost, the net benefit of both paths is approximately equal.”

Roland’s brow rose fractionally. Very few people in Graycastle understood risk and return in those terms. Barov would sooner refuse to export a single steam engine than provision a neighboring kingdom’s defense. Edith had just described the investment problem with the precision of someone who had actually done the calculation.

“Then if the net benefit is equivalent,” he said, “why does leaving the Kingdom of Dawn in chaos come out ahead?”

“Because of witches, Your Majesty.” Edith raised one finger. “Consider: if witches are no longer persecuted in the new Kingdom of Dawn — if Earl Quinn, under Andrea’s influence, begins hiring witches for production and construction — then newly awakened witches would have a safe haven south of Graycastle’s border. They would stop moving to Neverwinter. That is one loss.”

She raised a second finger. “The Kingdom of Dawn is geographically better positioned than Graycastle. Witches fleeing the Kingdoms of Wolfheart and Everwinter — driven south by demon incursions or by the church’s remnants — would naturally continue south until they found stability. If the Kingdom of Dawn provides that stability before they reach Neverwinter, they stop there. Within a few decades, the concentration of witches in neighboring kingdoms could exceed that of Graycastle. That possibility concerns me more than the witches you would lose immediately.”

Nightingale’s voice had lost its edge. “Isn’t that a good thing? Everyone living safely, everyone free —”

Edith turned back to Roland as though the question had not been asked. “Has it occurred to you that one witch with an irreplaceable ability can cause a single kingdom to outpace all others?”

“A witch like Anna.”

“Anna. Agatha. Soraya.” She said the names with the care of someone listing assets. “The moment you secured their support, Neverwinter surpassed every other domain. Your broader knowledge and sharper judgment maintained that lead — as long as you are king, and as long as the Witch Union remains intact, no one can challenge Graycastle’s position except the demons.” She let the silence hold for a breath. “But what about a century from now? When neighboring governments operate the same way Graycastle does. When witches are employed widely. When the knowledge you’ve written spreads to cities and towns outside Neverwinter — when people there study machine manufacturing and learn everything you’ve taught them.” Her eyes were steady. “If one awakened witch in the Kingdom of Dawn possesses an ability that no one in Graycastle has, Graycastle falls behind. And that’s only getting started.”

“That’s im—” Nightingale caught herself. Swallowed the word.

Edith pressed the point. “You rely heavily on specific abilities — Anna’s above all — to drive your construction and development. Can you guarantee that Anna’s power represents the ceiling of what a witch can achieve? If a future witch possesses something more capable, and she awakens in the Kingdom of Dawn — will the king there remain your ally?”

Roland almost applauded.

This was not an argument about the next five years. Edith was modeling a century forward, accounting for compound changes the way an engineer accounts for metal fatigue: not in the failure itself but in the invisible stress accumulating long before the crack appears. Ordinary advisors reasoned in terms of the next campaign season. Edith was reasoning about technological succession, about the distribution of talent across civilizations, about which kingdom would be positioned to absorb the next witch who changed everything.

And she was not wrong. Roland knew this from the inside out. He had lived through the history of his other world, had watched technological change accelerate from decades between revolutions to years between them, had seen how a single correct person in the right place at the right moment could rewrite the trajectory of entire societies. The emergence of witches might compress that interval further. If Anna had been born in the City of Glow instead of Neverwinter, the map of the last three years looked completely different.

He could see the future Edith was describing. Members of the Witch Union aging while new and more powerful witches arose in kingdoms that had learned, finally, to value them. That was the fear underneath her argument, and it was not irrational.

If Roland were a lord born into this world — if he measured his obligations by the length of his own reign and the reign of his children — Edith would have just persuaded him. No king wanted to build a rival. No king wanted to guarantee the conditions of his descendants’ defeat.

He could still change course. Abandon Otto. Break the promise he had made to Andrea’s face. Keep the calculation clean.

He found he could not.

Not because he was incapable of the arithmetic. Because the arithmetic was not, finally, what he was optimizing for.

It was not the kingdom he cared about — not as a thing to be preserved past his own death, not as an inheritance for successors he had no obligation to protect. What he cared about was the advancement of the human race in full: improving how people lived, exposing the mechanisms of the Battle of Divine Will, pushing knowledge outward until it belonged to everyone. His successor’s war with the Kingdom of Dawn was not his problem. His successor’s kingdom was not his problem.

What was his problem: breaking his word. Deceiving Andrea to her face. Using a person’s trust as a raw material.

He had noticed, somewhere in the last thirty seconds, that his resistance to Edith’s proposal was not calculated. It had arrived before the reasoning. Which told him something about the kind of person he actually was, as distinct from the kind of politician he was never going to become.

“An excellent argument.” He looked at her with genuine appreciation. “I won’t take back my words.”

Edith’s composure flickered — just barely. “Your Majesty—”

“I know what you’re going to say.” He cut her off, not unkindly. “That a wise king always acts in his country’s best interests, and that a certain kind of deception is simply statecraft. You’re right that this is true of kings.” He paused. “But there are other kinds of rulers.”

Edith repeated the phrase slowly, as though testing its weight. “Other kinds.”

“Yes.” Roland held her gaze. “An idealist, for instance.”

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