Chapter 120

The stench hit him first—a foul, clinging odor that rode the wind and burned through his nostrils until his head throbbed with pain. Kennard grimaced, pressing his fingers hard into his temple. The headache had begun the moment he’d stepped beyond the castle walls, and it had only worsened since. What had been a faint, lingering trace of decay around Elena had now thickened into a tangible reek, sharp enough to make him nauseous.

“Your Grace, is the pain still not easing?” Serin’s tone carried genuine concern as he watched his liege wince beneath the pallid moonlight.

“It’s this damned stench,” Kennard muttered through clenched teeth. His jaw was locked tight, the muscle along his cheek rigid with strain, and a deep furrow split the space between his brows.

“Strange,” Serin mused, tilting his head. “You’ve survived wounds that would have felled any man, never once so much as wincing—and yet a headache brings you down? This makes twice now, doesn’t it? Since that day in Terra Demorte.”

“The day we found traces of witchcraft in the forest?”

“Yes, around that time. And if I recall correctly, it was the same day we set out toward the witch’s dwelling beyond the border.”

Kennard paused, sifting through the haze of recollection. Serin was right—he’d suffered countless injuries, but never pain like this. The first time had been in Terra Demorte, and that too had been on a day much like this one: the day the White Fox Tribe had left those grotesque bloodstains in the woods.

A chill shot through him. He froze mid-breath, his thoughts colliding into a sudden, sick realization.

“I need to return to the castle.”

The words left him in a low growl, more to himself than to Serin, before he sprang down from the rock ledge in a single motion.

“What? And what of them?” Serin gestured toward the dark horizon, where plumes of light and smoke spiraled upward into the night. “How many more are we even supposed to find?”

His words barely faded before Kennard’s form shimmered, twisting and elongating into the shadowed shape of a massive black wolf.

“Your Grace!” Serin called, alarm flaring in his voice as he, too, shifted form and followed. He had seen Kennard in battle countless times, but never like this—never with eyes that trembled as if clouded by something between dread and disbelief.

“What scent is this?” Kennard growled, crouching low, muscles coiled to spring.

“Scent? You mean that vile rot? Smells like a carcass left to decay. No wonder your head’s pounding—you’ve always had the keenest nose of us all.”

“There’s no pheromone trace.”

“What?” Serin blinked, confused.

“Other than yours,” Kennard said, his voice tight, “I can’t sense a single pheromone in this forest.”

Serin turned toward the woods, sniffing the air in disbelief. “You’re right… By the gods, what kind of stench could smother every trace of life like that? But what does that have to do with rushing back to the castle?”

Kennard’s gaze snapped toward him. “If we can’t sense who enters the forest, what about who enters the castle?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. With a low snarl, he leapt down the mountain path, his paws pounding the earth. Serin followed close behind, but the Duke was already far ahead, driven by an instinct that left no room for explanation.

Something cold had settled into Kennard’s spine, an intuition so sharp it was nearly pain. It whispered of danger—not here, not in the forest—but behind him, in the place he had left unguarded. In the place where Elena was.

They should never have left her.

***

“Damn it.”

The blow echoed like thunder as Kennard’s fist slammed into the wall. The thick marble buckled under the impact, cracking outward in a jagged web. The lamps shuddered violently, their flames flickering as though the entire room had been struck by an earthquake.

“Your Grace,” came a trembling voice from the floor. “I accept full responsibility. I’ll pay for my failure with my life.”

A knight lay prostrate, forehead pressed to the stone, his sword laid horizontally before him. His voice wavered with terror, cracking under the weight of guilt.

Kennard glared down at him, raking a hand through his hair. He wanted to tear it out by the roots. “Do you think your death will make it right? That your worthless life could pay the price for hers? You should have used it to protect Elena when you had the chance!”

His voice thundered through the chamber, the veins in his neck standing out like cords. His pulse pounded so violently that the pain in his head flared anew, red-hot behind his eyes. He struck the wall again, skin splitting across his knuckles. Blood welled and trickled down his wrist, but he didn’t feel it—didn’t care.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” The knight’s voice broke as he repeated the words again and again, each syllable swallowed by the silence that followed.

“Your Grace…”

It was Cura now, the knight’s companion, barely audible between sobs. She knelt beside him, her face ashen and unfocused, eyes glassy with shock. She tried to speak, but only fragments left her lips—words cut apart by fear.

Behind her, Serin stood motionless, eyes shut tight as if bracing himself for the inevitable.

“If you mean to punish someone,” Serin began quietly, “let it be me, Your Grace. The failure is mine.”

“Silence.”

The word snapped through the air like the crack of a whip. Kennard’s voice had dropped into a deadly calm, low and simmering with rage. “What difference would it make to kill you here? Nothing changes.”

He turned, and his gaze fell to the bed at the far end of the room.

Lassino lay there, motionless except for the faint tremor of his labored breathing. His skin was pallid—almost bluish—and his body drenched in cold sweat. If not for the twitch at his jaw, he could have been mistaken for a corpse.

The bandages wrapped around his torso were soaked through with blood. The sheets beneath him were no better—deep red, spreading wider with every slow heartbeat.

Kennard’s throat tightened. It felt as though someone had reached inside his chest and gripped his heart in a merciless fist.

Lassino had been at his side for as long as he could remember—long before the crown, before the wars. Longer, even, than his own father, the late Emperor. The old steward had raised him, taught him, stayed through every wound and every victory. He was more than family.

And now, that loyal, steadfast man was dying before his eyes.

Worse still, Elena—his Elena—had been endangered because of their negligence. The thought ignited a fury that clawed at his insides. They had been deceived, drawn into a trap so precise, so deliberate, that Kennard could scarcely believe it. Someone had manipulated them like puppets, every move predicted, every weakness exploited.

“What’s his condition?” Kennard asked hoarsely. The words scraped his throat as if made of stone.

“The bleeding won’t stop,” said Leto, his voice heavy with resignation. “The blade pierced clean through. I suspect the internal organs are damaged as well.”

Leto’s hands were slick with blood, his robes and long white beard stained crimson. He looked exhausted—haunted, even—as though every breath he took was weighted with helplessness.

Kennard approached the bed, brushing past the chain at the physician’s ankle without comment. He sat beside Lassino, taking the old man’s hand and resting it on his own thigh. The skin was coarse, lined with years of labor, and already turning cold.

“No hope?” he asked quietly.

Leto hesitated. Silence lingered, stretching taut between them, until Kennard finally turned his head.

“He won’t last the night,” Leto murmured.

Kennard’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he said nothing, his thumb tracing over the ridges of Lassino’s fingers. The pulse beneath them was faint, irregular—fading.

“Serin,” he said at last.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The knight stepped forward, hesitant.

“How many men are stationed in Montefiano?”

“Roughly fifteen hundred, Your Grace.”

Kennard’s eyes darkened in thought. Each soldier under his command was exceptional—many could take wolf form as easily as breathing, and those who couldn’t were still killers honed to perfection. Against the Emperor’s legions, they would hold their own—and win.

But to march on the Empire’s army was to commit treason. To raise his banner against the Emperor was rebellion.

Even so, how long could he remain still while those under his protection were slaughtered? How long could he remain subject to a crown that had already turned against him?

He had delayed too long. He should have declared independence years ago, when the border skirmishes first began. Instead, he had stayed his hand, believing diplomacy would suffice—believing the Emperor’s malice would not reach this far.

Now Elena’s safety hung in the balance, and his patience had cost him dearly.

“Summon Duke Benzef and High Priest Argon,” he ordered.

Serin hesitated. “May I ask… what Your Grace intends to do?”

Kennard rose from the bedside, lowering Lassino’s hand gently onto the sheet before turning to face him. “I’ll have word spread that the Emperor’s men have taken Elena.”

Serin blanched. “That will cause uproar among the nobles. The court won’t know where to stand—some may even turn against you.”

“I don’t care.” Kennard’s voice was ice. “Once they learn that Duke Blade himself had a hand in it, they’ll think twice before siding with the throne.”

For a long moment, the room was silent save for Lassino’s shallow breaths. Kennard’s gaze lingered on him, then drifted to the faint shimmer of blood on his own knuckles.

This was no longer about vengeance. It was survival—his, Elena’s, his people’s.

And if the Empire wished to brand him a traitor, then he would show them what true rebellion looked like.