Chapter 74

“Don’t waste my time with that useless body of yours. If my patience runs out, I can’t promise what will happen to you.”
Kennard’s voice was a low growl, each word curling in the air like a predator ready to strike.

Simir flinched visibly, his shoulders trembling as if trying to shield him from the weight of Kennard’s menace. He remained bowing, his head pressed low to the ground, unable to meet the piercing gaze trained on him.

After a tense silence, Simir slowly pushed himself upright, his movements slow and strained. His thin fingers grasped the staff lying on the ground, using it as leverage to stand. He wobbled unsteadily, his legs threatening to betray him, but before he could collapse, two men stepped forward. Without a word, they gripped his arms, steadying him with a practiced ease.

The group moved as one, following Simir into the village. Torches lit their path, the flickering flames casting long, uneven shadows across the dirt road.

Villagers gathered in front of their homes, murmuring in quiet conversation. The moment Kennard appeared, the chatter died as if the air itself had frozen. Bodies stiffened. Eyes widened. It was as though time had come to an abrupt halt.

Only distant sounds—a mournful melody carried on the wind and the occasional cries of wild animals echoing from the forest—dared break the silence.

Kennard, unfazed by the reaction, allowed his gaze to sweep over the crowd. His expression betrayed nothing, his indifference a mask. Yet in those fleeting glances, he cataloged every face, every reaction.

Most of them were older than him, save for a boy who looked to be about Cura’s age. Despite their expressions of fear and unease, Kennard’s sharp instincts warned him not to trust the surface of their emotions.

Somewhere among these people might be someone aiding the White Fox Tribe—the exiles who had been driven beyond the borders. Or perhaps it was someone with a darker secret: the traces of forbidden sorcery found deep in the Terra Demorte Forest.

Kennard’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He wouldn’t allow appearances to deceive him.

“What are you still doing here? Everyone, gather at the altar!” Simir’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and metallic, slicing through the uneasy quiet.

Even the effort of shouting left his frail frame trembling. He swayed where he stood, but his command was absolute. Without hesitation, the villagers began to move, falling into a unified procession that snaked toward their destination.

It was then that Kennard’s sharp gaze landed on someone who didn’t seem to belong.

The man stood apart from the others. His hair was white, as were his robes, but there was something distinctly different about him. His physique seemed oddly familiar, and the faint aura he exuded—a subtle, almost undetectable signature of pheromones—was nothing like that of the White Fox Tribe.

“Leto.”

Kennard’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd like a blade.

The name’s owner—a man walking among the villagers—flinched and halted mid-step. The woman beside him stiffened, her gaze darting toward Kennard before flickering back to Leto, a silent question in her eyes.

Leto leaned toward her, whispering something inaudible. Then, reluctantly, he stepped away from the group. Even before Leto moved closer, Kennard had no doubt—it was him.

“Your Grace,” Leto greeted, his voice trembling as he bowed deeply. His clasped hands fidgeted, betraying his unease.

Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“Well…” Leto hesitated, his gaze darting to the ground as if searching for an excuse.

Kennard’s expression hardened, incredulity etched across his features. Before he could press further, Serin’s sharp voice cut in.

“His Grace asked you a question.”

The reprimand made Leto flinch. “I—I came because I heard there was a festival,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The festival must have ended during the day,” Kennard replied coldly, his irritation simmering just below the surface. His voice dropped into a low growl, each word heavy with restrained anger.

“Y-yes, but…” Leto’s shoulders hunched as though he could make himself smaller, his pale face growing paler still under Kennard’s and Serin’s unrelenting gazes.

Kennard tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing further. “Surely you weren’t planning to attend the offering for Bazak as well?”

“No, no!” Leto exclaimed, shaking his hands frantically as though the very idea was unthinkable. “I was just planning to take a brief look before leaving.”

“Unbelievable.”

Kennard exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead with one hand as though the man’s presence alone was giving him a headache. His glare was sharp enough to pierce through Leto, who visibly shrank under its weight.

“Go home. Immediately.”

“Y-yes, Your Grace! I will leave right away.”

Leto bowed so quickly and repeatedly that it seemed he might fall over. Without another word, he turned and hastily retreated.

“Be at the castle tomorrow at dawn. I’ll have the attendants bring your things. And don’t even think about leaving the castle grounds until you return to Montefiano.”

Kennard’s tone was as cold as steel, brooking no argument.

“Your Grace, but…”

Leto faltered, his eyes darting to Kennard before flicking toward the White Fox woman he’d been speaking with moments ago.

Kennard followed his gaze, his expression darkening as his eyes landed on the woman. He narrowed them, his suspicion sharp and unmistakable.

“Are you defying my orders?” Kennard growled, his teeth clenched in frustration as he glared at Leto.

The older man hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. He dropped his gaze to the ground, unable to meet Kennard’s piercing stare. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them.

“Leto,” Kennard said firmly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“I… I will comply with Your Grace’s orders,” Leto finally replied, his voice quiet and defeated. His slumped shoulders and the faint tremor in his words betrayed his resignation.

Kennard’s unrelenting gaze followed Leto as the older man turned and trudged toward the village’s entrance, his steps heavy with reluctance.

“That old fool must be losing his mind,” Serin muttered under her breath, her tone dripping with disdain. She cast a sidelong glance at the White Fox woman, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Could he seriously have fallen for a White Fox woman? She’s young enough to be his daughter.”

Kennard said nothing. Leto had served as his physician for as long as he could remember, a constant presence through every hardship. Despite his occasional loose tongue and penchant for unnecessary chatter, Leto had always been warm-hearted and fiercely loyal—someone Kennard trusted implicitly.

But tonight, something about Leto felt off. He seemed unfamiliar.

“That man is Your Grace’s physician.”

Simir’s voice was soft, almost unassuming, as he broke the silence. He had been standing off to the side, observing, but now he stepped forward slightly.

Kennard turned sharply, fixing a cold glare on him.

“So, you knew who Leto was and still allowed him to come and go from the village?”

“What could we do?” Simir replied, his tone carrying a faint, mocking edge. “We cannot leave this place, but your people are free to come and go as they please. We have no authority to stop them.”

Kennard’s jaw tightened as his eyes narrowed on Simir’s smug smile, a twisted expression that seemed even more grotesque on his wrinkled, thin lips.

“No authority,” Kennard repeated slowly, his voice low and deliberate, letting the weight of the words settle.

“That’s right,” Simir said, lifting his chin slightly, a glint of defiance in his pale eyes.

“Then perhaps someone among my people has been in contact with your tribe beyond the border,” Kennard said, his words sharp and cutting.

Simir’s eyes twitched, betraying a flicker of unease before he quickly masked it.

“Chieftain, the moon is about to reach its peak,” a man nearby interjected suddenly, leaning close to Simir and speaking in an urgent whisper. “We must complete the ceremony before it wanes. Please, we must hurry.”

Kennard’s gaze shifted to the man, his sharp instincts recognizing the attempt to redirect the conversation. Though tempted to press further, he chose restraint and gave a curt nod.

Simir turned without another word, signaling for the group to follow.

As they moved deeper into the village, the faint sound of musical instruments grew louder, an eerie, haunting melody that seemed to echo off the surrounding trees.

At last, they reached the heart of the village, where hundreds of White Fox Tribe members had gathered.

They stood silently, their long silver hair cascading from their waists to below their hips. Every one of them, regardless of gender, wore snow-white garments that shimmered faintly in the flickering torchlight.

At the center of the gathering stood the altar, surrounded by more torches. In its middle was a long wooden platform, its shape and placement resembling that of a ceremonial bed.

On either side of the platform burned enormous braziers, their flames reaching high into the night, casting an almost otherworldly glow over the scene.

The stark contrast between the Tribe’s pristine white attire and the violent, flickering orange flames was mesmerizing—and almost blinding.

Before the altar, the gathered villagers knelt, their foreheads touching the ground in rhythmic devotion. They straightened their upper bodies, raised their palms to the sky, and bowed again, repeating the sequence without pause.

It was the same posture Simir had assumed earlier when he knelt before Kennard, but there was a key difference—these villagers murmured incessantly, their voices weaving a low, eerie chant as though they were praying to an invisible deity: Bazak.

Around the kneeling worshippers stood men beating tall drums that rose to a grown man’s waist. Using their bare hands, they struck the drumheads, their bodies swaying to an unseen force. With eyes closed, they seemed to be playing freely, yet the rhythm was unmistakably synchronized. Even in their apparent abandon, their performance was harmonious, almost hypnotic.

Kennard’s attention shifted to the mural behind the altar, dominating the wooden stage with its grotesque imagery.

The painting depicted a man with the head of an enormous green snake, seated atop a hill. Vast wings stretched from his back, curling around mountains and rivers painted in the background. A tree rose behind him, its branches twisting unnaturally, and from one of them, a figure dangled upside down, bound by a rope.

At the corners of the mural, more figures were tied to wooden posts, their expressions of agony frozen in vivid detail.

The sight struck a chord in Kennard’s memory. The mural resembled the sinister paintings he had once seen in the witch’s house beyond the border.

“Is that Bazak?” Kennard muttered, his frown deepening as he stared at the snake-headed figure. “How grotesque.”

“No kidding,” Serin replied with a sigh, his lips curling in disgust. “They actually believe that bizarre thing is a god.”

“Your Grace, this way, please,” Simir interjected, his voice cutting through their conversation. He gestured toward a wide path that ran through the crowd.

The worshippers sat in perfectly aligned rows, leaving the passage clear. Their murmured prayers grew quieter as Kennard and his companions moved forward, their presence drawing hesitant, darting glances. The people shrank back, their breaths shallow, as though Kennard’s mere presence unnerved them.

Simir led them to the front, where the altar loomed closest. Thick cushions had been arranged neatly on the ground, and Simir motioned for Kennard to sit.

Kennard lowered himself onto the foremost cushion without a word.

“Sir Serin, please sit beside His Grace,” Simir said, gesturing to a cushion beside Kennard.

Serin, still standing, cast a suspicious glare at Simir. “No. Who knows if you’re planning to harm His Grace?”

Kennard glanced briefly at Serin, his expression calm but commanding. “Just sit.”

“Your Grace—”

“The people here wouldn’t dare attack me unless they’ve completely lost their minds,” Kennard interrupted quietly, his tone sharp with warning. “How would they handle the consequences?”