Chapter 117

“What do you mean, something else? What is it?”

Before Serin could answer, his gaze flicked briefly toward Elena.

She thought for a moment that he might have something to say to her—perhaps an explanation, or even an accusation—and so she waited, still and silent. But instead, Serin turned his head back to Kennard, as if he’d merely sought permission to continue.

“Do you remember what we discovered once in the forests of Terra Demorte?” he asked quietly.

Kennard’s brow twitched upward. “You don’t mean sorcery, do you?”

The single word seemed to ripple through the room like a spark. The muscles along his temple flexed sharply, drawing attention to the thin scar that cut diagonally above his eyebrow.

The moment the word “sorcery” reached her ears, Elena’s heart dropped with a sickening weight. She didn’t know why, but the sound of it struck her mind like a physical blow.

“The White Fox Tribe,” Kennard said, his voice low and dangerous. “Are you saying they dared come this far inland?”

“It appears so,” Serin replied.

Kennard’s expression hardened. “We should have wiped them out completely when the war ended. Extermination, not exile…” His words burned with anger, his jaw set tight enough to crack bone.

“Then you believe Marten is in contact with them?”

“It seems likely, Your Grace.”

“First Leto, and now Marten,” Kennard muttered, his hand rising to rub the scar above his brow. “Why in the world…”

He trailed off, the unfinished thought sinking heavily into the air between them.

“Elena.”

Her name, spoken in that low, exhausted tone, made her look up. Kennard had exhaled a long, weary sigh and turned to face her fully. The golden hue of his eyes had darkened to a somber shade, the way sunlight deepens before dusk.

“Tell me the truth,” he said softly. “Someone came to your chamber that night, didn’t they?”

Though his voice remained gentle, Elena could hear the anger carefully caged beneath it—the tension in every syllable, as if he were holding back something dangerous.

“N-no one…” she stammered.

Her throat constricted. The back of her neck throbbed as though her heartbeat had moved there, pounding and visible beneath her skin. A chill spread through her body, numbing her hands and feet until she could barely feel them.

“Don’t lie to me,” Kennard said, his tone tightening. “You need to tell me exactly what happened before it’s too late. The White Fox Tribe wouldn’t risk venturing here without purpose, and their purpose—obviously—was you. But unlike before, they did not harm you. If I reached you before they could act, why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

Elena froze.

The memory of Terra Demorte—the attack, the claws, the blood—flashed vividly in her mind. She had nearly died that night, torn apart by shadows that whispered in human voices.

And now Kennard was telling her that those who came for her had been of the White Fox Tribe.

Her breath caught. Why… why would they come for me?

“Marten is lying to me,” Kennard said suddenly, his voice harsh and cutting. “And so are you. Did he threaten you? Is that it? Is he holding something over you?”

“No! No, that’s not it!” she protested quickly, shaking her head.

Her thoughts were a storm—one half screamed that she needed to tell him the truth, while the other half begged her to stay silent. How could she even begin to explain the thing that had appeared like smoke in her chamber, that shapeless figure whose face she could not recall, whose name she never knew?

He had only said one thing—that he had come for her, just as promised.

And yet…

That demon already knew who you were, his voice whispered again in her memory, cold and cruel. He knew your name, your home, everything. Yet he pretended to be merciful, to name you, to care for you—as if it were kindness instead of deceit.

Could she even repeat those words aloud? Would Kennard believe her if she did?

Was Elena truly her name? Or had it been given to her out of convenience, a mask to hide something older? And Rosou—was that her real family, her real bloodline?

A thousand questions clamored in her chest, but fear sealed her lips. She wanted to be honest with Kennard. She wanted to ask him, to demand why he had lied to her all this time. But when his golden eyes met hers, she faltered.

“Elena,” he said again, sighing her name like a lament.

She shook her head once more. She wanted to trust him, truly she did—but she couldn’t. The doubt had already taken root in her mind, spreading like rot beneath the surface. The stranger’s words were a poison, eating through her thoughts until nothing felt certain anymore.

Kennard studied her in silence. Her eyes trembled, flickering with confusion and fear. Then he stood abruptly, crossing to the opposite sofa and lowering himself into it. The distance between them felt deliberate, as though he could no longer bear to sit close.

He dragged both hands over his face, then pushed his hair back roughly, his movements betraying the storm beneath his composed exterior.

“Ha…” The sound of his sigh filled the room, deep and heavy, rising from the depths of his chest.

Elena clenched her eyes shut.

“What shall we do?” Serin finally asked, breaking the tense silence.

“Was it the only trace in the forest?” Kennard asked without looking up.

“We followed the lingering scent,” Serin answered, “but haven’t completed the full search yet.”

Kennard rested his chin against his thumb, his hand still covering his mouth, and turned his gaze on Elena again. His expression was unreadable, distant, yet far from calm.

“Your Grace?” Serin prompted, uncertain.

Kennard’s answer came cold and precise. “Lock Marten in the underground prison. Make sure he’s kept far enough away from Leto that not even their voices can reach each other.”

The sound of Leto’s name made Elena’s fingers tighten painfully in her lap.

Leto… was he connected to the White Fox Tribe as well?

Her head began to spin. None of it made sense anymore—why these things kept happening around her, why her very existence seemed to invite calamity.

She wanted to run. To disappear. To stop existing.

No.

The word screamed in her mind.

You erase your memories whenever you’re cornered, the stranger had told her. You run from yourself.

Her blood ran cold. No. That can’t be true. I couldn’t… I wouldn’t…

She felt the urge to tear at her own hair.

“What about the forest?” Serin asked quietly.

“Send the knights,” Kennard replied. “Search every inch. If they find traces of the White Fox Tribe—or anything unusual—they’re to report immediately.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And if they find one alive,” Kennard added, his voice lowering to a growl, “I want them captured. No matter what it takes. Don’t kill them.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Serin bowed low and turned toward the door.

“Serin,” Kennard called, his gaze never leaving Elena.

Serin paused, hand on the door handle, and glanced back.

“I’ll go with the scouting party,” Kennard said. “Make preparations.”

“Your Grace, with all respect—there are too many nobles in the castle right now. If they realize you’re gone—”

“Tell Lassino to handle it. He knows what to say.” Kennard stood, his tone brooking no argument. “Send Cura here, and one knight you trust. Until I return, Elena is not to be left alone.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

When the door shut behind them, the silence returned, heavier than before.

Elena slowly lifted her eyes. Kennard was still there, watching her without moving. His stillness was unbearable. She lowered her head, unable to face him, unwilling to let him see the tears burning at the corners of her eyes.

It hurt—to doubt the one man she had once believed she could trust completely.

“Elena,” Kennard said finally. He leaned back against the sofa, straightening his posture. “Have you remembered anything?”

The question hit her like a blade. Her breath hitched.

“No,” she whispered.

No memories had returned. Only fragments—pain, voices, whispers that didn’t belong to her.

The uncertainty tore at her, made it hard to breathe.

Her voice cracked when she added, “Nothing at all.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The quiet grew so thick that even the sound of their breathing seemed to vanish.

Then came a soft knock at the door.

Cura entered, head bowed, a familiar knight following close behind her.

Kennard exhaled again—deeply, tiredly—and rose from the sofa. “Take Lady Elena to her chamber,” he ordered.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As they stepped aside, Kennard crossed the room toward the door. Just before leaving, he turned back once more.

“Do not leave your chambers until I return,” he said. His voice was calm but brooked no refusal.

The door shut behind him.

***

Elena lay on the wide bed, eyes closed, her body tilted slightly to one side.

The room felt enormous, too vast to ever grow used to. Even if another person—or two, or three—entered, it would not have seemed crowded. Yet tonight, the mere presence of Cura and the knight made it suffocating.

Cura sat by the fireplace, her chin dipping as she dozed. The knight stood rigidly by the door, his posture alert. In Terra Demorte, guards had always kept their distance, remaining outside or somewhere just out of sight. But now they were here, inside, their watchful eyes following her slightest movement.

Elena turned over with a restless sigh.

If only she could fall asleep. Her body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, yet her mind refused to still. The glass doors leading to the terrace were shut tight, the curtains drawn, sealing the room in a heavy stillness.

She drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. If she didn’t, she might scream.

Then—noise.

A muffled scuffle outside the door. The faint, unmistakable scent of pheromones—Lassino’s, and others she didn’t recognize.

Elena turned sharply toward the source of the sound. The knight by the door tensed, hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

A knock came. “My lady,” said a voice from beyond the door. “It’s Butler Lassino.”

“Come in,” Elena said softly.

She pulled her robe tighter as the door opened a crack. The knight, still wary, only opened it slightly, peering out first.

Through the gap, she saw Lassino standing there—and behind him, several soldiers in full armor.

Lassino inclined his head respectfully. “These men have come,” he said, “by order of His Majesty the Emperor.”