Chapter 119

“Why? Planning to stab me with that?”

Marten arched a brow, the curve of it laced with mockery as he stared down the knight before him.

“Didn’t my words just now make it clear who I am? No, of course not—you already know perfectly well who I am.” His tone was casual, but his hand was anything but; he seized the knight’s shoulder in a tight grip, fingers digging in.

The air between them tensed, sharp as drawn steel. For a brief moment their gazes clashed, sparks meeting in silence.

Then came a strangled sound—a muffled groan from the side.

“Urgh—”

Lassino’s body jerked, a gasp clawing up his throat.

Elena turned sharply, her breath catching. The man called Dirk stood beside Lassino, his blade buried deep in the other man’s abdomen. The sword had pierced clean through, jutting out from his back, gleaming wetly in the candlelight.

“Aaah!”

Cura’s scream tore through the room. She clapped a trembling hand to her mouth, her face drained of all color as Lassino’s blood splattered the floor.

Lassino coughed violently, clutching at Dirk’s shoulder with one hand as blood spilled between his lips.

Dirk yanked the blade free in one brutal motion. Lassino’s knees buckled, the strength fleeing his limbs, and he collapsed—first to his knees, then fully to the floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

“Lassino!”

“Don’t!” a knight barked, reaching out to restrain her.

But Elena shoved past him, heedless of his warning, and rushed to Lassino’s side.

At that very instant, Dirk twisted his body sharply, his sword flashing toward her.

The knight’s blade met his in midair—a violent clang reverberated through the chamber, metal grinding against metal in a harsh cry. The knight positioned himself between Elena and the fallen man, using his body as a shield while raising his sword toward Dirk and the surrounding soldiers.

“Do you think you can harm His Grace’s people and walk away unscathed?” the knight growled, barely containing the fury that trembled in his voice.

Dirk scoffed, lifting a finger to idly dig at his ear. “What’s the fuss? It’s just a servant. What’s one dead lackey?”

“You filthy—!”

The knight could no longer hold back. His voice exploded into the tense air, his rage spilling free. Yet even as his anger flared, the numbers told another story. They were outmatched. Even if he was skilled—perhaps one of the best among the royal guard—it wouldn’t matter against the overwhelming odds.

Elena barely heard the clash of metal or the echo of threats. All sound faded to a blur. Her knees hit the ground beside Lassino’s fallen form, and she lifted his head into her lap with trembling hands.

“Lassino, Lassino,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Fear and disbelief made her tremble so hard she could scarcely draw breath.

“My lady… I’m… all right…” His words came in broken gasps, interrupted by the wet rattle of blood in his throat. He coughed again, crimson spilling from his lips.

“Don’t talk. Please, don’t say anything.”

Blood gushed from the wound in waves, dark and thick. It soaked through his tunic, through her skirts, warm and slick against her palms. She pressed both hands hard against his abdomen, desperate to stem the bleeding, but the red only spread faster, creeping up her wrists, painting her skin in a trembling sheen of scarlet.

“What a waste,” Marten’s voice thundered above her. His contempt cut like glass. “We don’t have time for this nonsense. Clean up and move out.”

Dirk grumbled, flicking his sword in the air to shake off the blood. Droplets arced across the floor, glinting like rubies before splattering dark.

Elena lifted her head slowly, her grey eyes narrowing at Dirk in wordless fury.

Marten massaged his temple, exhaling a long sigh, then looked down at her with cold irritation. “See? They’re beyond control. If you don’t want more bodies on your conscience, I suggest you cooperate. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

He snatched the sword from Dirk’s hand and turned it toward Cura.

The girl froze, unable to scream, curling into herself on the floor. Her small frame quivered as though she might crumble under the weight of his gaze alone.

“Why are you doing this?” Elena demanded, her voice trembling with disbelief. “His Grace spared your life—he trusted you enough not to kill you. And this is how you repay him?”

“Why?” Marten gave a short, hollow laugh. “Everything I do, I do for Kennard. If you don’t understand, then stay silent and do as you’re told. Don’t complicate things further.”

His eyes were dark pits of malice, colder than the steel in his hand. The murderous aura in his stare was so palpable that Elena felt her chest seize. Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might stop. Every nerve in her body screamed to flee, but she could not move. Even when she glared back at him with all the defiance she could muster, he didn’t blink—didn’t even twitch.

Hopelessness seeped through her veins. Without Kennard, she had no shield, no power. Everything had spiraled out of her control.

“E-Elena…”

Cura’s tear-streaked face turned toward her, desperate and afraid.

Elena forced a small, trembling smile, though her lips quivered uncontrollably. “It’s all right,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, but her eyes—those pale, storm-colored eyes—were glazed with sorrow and resignation.

She looked back down at Lassino. His eyelids were half-closed now, lashes trembling faintly. His breathing had grown shallow, fading to barely a whisper.

“Cura,” she said quietly.

Cura blinked, startled, as Elena lifted her head.

“Come here. Help me.”

Cura’s gaze darted to the sword pointed at her chest, then to Elena again. Slowly, she crawled forward on her knees, each movement trembling, each breath a quiet plea for mercy.

Marten said nothing. He merely narrowed his eyes, watching in silence, his presence alone enough to command the room.

When Cura reached her, Elena took her hand and guided it to Lassino’s wound, pressing down firmly.

“Don’t let go,” she instructed. “Press hard—like this. Do you understand?”

Cura nodded frantically, tears dripping onto her bloodstained hands.

Elena turned to the knight standing guard, his blade still raised against the enemy soldiers. “Sir Knight,” she said, her voice low but urgent. “Bring Leto from the underground cells. Now.”

He hesitated, his eyes flicking between her and Marten. “My lady…” he began, uncertainty clouding his tone.

“If Lassino is to live, only Leto can save him. Please.”

Marten’s eyes narrowed. “What are you plotting now? Hoping he’ll fetch reinforcements under the guise of fetching that man?”

Elena met his glare squarely. “Before he leaves, I’ll go with you. But if Lassino dies, you know His Grace’s fury will be worse than anything you can imagine. You understand that better than I.”

“Milady, that’s madness!” the knight protested. “If you go with them—His Grace—he’ll…” His words faltered.

She didn’t answer. She merely rose slowly, careful not to step on her skirts, her movements unsteady but deliberate.

Cold seeped into her bones. The edges of her vision blurred. Her legs trembled, and for a moment she swayed, catching herself with a hand to her brow. When she looked down, she saw that her fingers—her entire right sleeve—were drenched in blood.

It wasn’t just her hand. Her gown was stained in patches of crimson, dark and glistening, as though she herself had been wounded.

Elena steadied her breath and lifted her chin. Fear still lingered, but she swallowed it down, forcing her voice to stay even. “Shouldn’t you hurry?” she said, repeating Dirk’s earlier words with deliberate calm.

Marten’s mouth twitched. For a moment, amusement—or perhaps surprise—flickered in his gaze.

The room fell into silence. Only Lassino’s labored breathing and the faint rustle of fabric broke it.

***

Kennard stood atop the cliffs that crowned the heart of Montefiano Forest, his cloak snapping in the sharp wind. The night was vast and clear, the moon hanging high—a pale coin of light casting its glow across the trees. Below, the forest stretched endlessly, dark and ancient.

He waited, eyes fixed on the shadows below where his men scouted. They had been searching for the remnants of the ritual altars—remnants of the White Fox Tribe’s forbidden magic. Since the first trace had been found, two more had followed, and now the fourth pillar of light rose into the sky like a spear of fire.

Bright streaks cut through the night, followed by curling smoke. Kennard’s jaw tightened.

“There’s the fourth one,” Serin muttered beside him. “They’ve built these altars at almost perfect intervals. Not even Terra Demorte had this many. The White Foxes have lost their minds. What are they planning? Are they insane?”

Kennard’s voice was low, taut with irritation. “You seem to have enough leisure to worry about their sanity.”

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, his patience fraying. The mere thought of their white hair—those cursed symbols of their bloodline—was enough to make his vision burn red.

Tonight of all nights—his wedding night with Elena—the creatures had dared to infiltrate the castle. Like rats, they had crept through the shadows, reaching for what was his.

Worse still, whatever they had whispered to her had made her lie—to him. That thought alone filled him with a fury so deep he could barely breathe.

“I’m not worried,” Serin said quickly, lifting a hand in surrender. “Just… wondering what they’re trying to achieve. Ah, look—another one.”

From the far eastern edge of the forest, a new light flared, followed by a plume of white smoke.

Kennard leapt effortlessly onto a nearby boulder, surveying the land from above. The wind howled around him, tugging at his cloak.

“This isn’t random,” Serin continued, climbing up beside him. “They’re planning something big.”

Kennard gave no reply. He didn’t need to. His silence was agreement enough.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t small. Not with this scale. The air itself seemed to hum with unease, charged with the echo of ancient magic.

“If only Lady Elena would speak honestly,” Serin muttered. “Maybe then we could make sense of this.”

Kennard’s expression hardened.

“When you return to the castle,” Serin went on, “try asking her again. Press her if you must—and pressure Count Remid, too. Something about her surrendering so easily when they took her to the dungeon… I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to it.”

Kennard exhaled sharply, his breath turning white in the cold. “I know,” he said.

Serin was right. Only two people knew who had come to the castle earlier that day—Marten and Elena.

And though he could order a dozen interrogations, though he could break Marten without hesitation, he could not—would not—lay a hand on her.

If it came to that, if the cost of truth was her suffering, then he would rather bear the curse himself. He would rather face war, or ruin, or damnation—anything—than see her broken before him.

The night wind surged around him again, carrying the faint, metallic scent of blood from somewhere distant. Kennard’s eyes lifted to the horizon, where the fifth light was beginning to rise.

And as the glow washed over his face, his fury deepened into something darker—a silent vow that when this was done, when he found whoever dared to touch what was his, there would be no forgiveness left to give.