Chapter 75

His voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it carried clearly through the still night air, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

Only after Serin hesitated, then reluctantly sat next to Kennard, did Simir take his place across from them, settling into the first seat on the opposite side of the aisle.

Beside Simir, a figure sat, their face hidden beneath a hood pulled low, casting most of their features in shadow. The only part of them visible was a hand that peeked out from the edge of their sleeve. Despite the obscured appearance, it was clear the figure was a man by the shape of his build and posture.

His attire was distinct from the others—elaborate tassels decorated his clothing, and the exposed hand bore intricate, almost ritualistic markings.

What caught Kennard’s attention most, however, was the man’s complete disregard for his presence. Even as Kennard’s gaze lingered, the figure didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he sat with both hands resting on his thighs, his focus entirely on the altar ahead.

“Who is that man?” Kennard asked, his voice low but insistent.

Simir turned slightly, his gaze flicking briefly to the seated figure before answering. “He is the priest presiding over today’s ritual.”

“A priest?” Kennard’s brow furrowed.

At Kennard’s question, Simir glanced again at the hooded figure.

“This is Your Grace. Please, show respect,” Simir said, his tone laced with a subtle command.

The man’s response was slow but deliberate. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge Kennard, offering a brief, almost dismissive nod before returning to his original posture.

The dim light from the brazier flickered across the figure’s face, illuminating only part of his features. His face was mostly hidden by the deep hood, but Kennard could make out a single eye, its black depth seemingly endless, and a portion of his cheekbone.

Strange, intricate markings, identical to those on his hand, traced patterns along his exposed skin. The faint glow from the fire made his markings look even more striking, almost as though they were alive, shifting with the light.

“The priests of the White Fox Tribe refrain from speaking to anyone and abstain from food for a month before a ritual. They only drink water and dedicate themselves entirely to prayer as preparation. Please, do not take offense if he cannot offer a proper greeting to Your Grace. I ask that you show understanding with a generous heart.”

Simir pressed his palms together in front of his chest and bowed deeply, his posture respectful but calculated.

Kennard’s scowl deepened as he glared at both Simir and the priest. His frustration was palpable, though he said nothing. The irritation simmering beneath the surface was clear to anyone paying attention.

He felt the sting of disrespect—summoned here under pretenses, only to be greeted with this disregard for basic etiquette.

But what use was it to voice his displeasure?

These people, who worshipped invisible gods and branded innocent souls as witches, were savages. Expecting any semblance of civility from them—people who weren’t even nobles—was absurd.

“Whatever it is you plan to do, just get on with it,” Kennard muttered coldly, his voice sharp as ice.

Simir’s lips twitched at Kennard’s tone, but he quickly composed himself, fighting the urge to react. With a forced neutrality, he raised his right hand, signaling the beginning of the ritual.

The drumming grew faster, the heavy beats reverberating through the air like a pounding heart. The prayers of the gathered crowd rose in unison, their words swelling in volume, becoming a chant that filled the space with an almost tangible force.

The priest stood slowly, his movements deliberate and unnervingly smooth. He glided toward the altar, his long cloak trailing behind him, completely concealing his hands.

The man’s ghostly demeanor—the absence of sound, the unnatural fluidity of his movements—made it seem as though he were little more than a specter, fasting for a month had drained the vitality from his limbs.

With deliberate slowness, the priest stepped onto the altar and faced the crowd.

Despite the shift in position, his face remained hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, only his outline visible in the dim flicker of torchlight.

Kennard felt a wave of unease wash over him. He’s as bizarre as the murals carved into the altar. It wasn’t just the hidden face—it was the entire presence of the man. 

At that moment, a group of men stepped forward, dragging a struggling deer between them.

Its legs were tightly bound with rope, and the terrified animal rolled its wide, panicked eyes, letting out frantic cries that echoed through the air.

The men placed the deer on the altar, then stepped aside, their presence silent but commanding.

The priest moved forward with deliberate slowness, his robes trailing behind him like a shadow. He reached the deer and began to stroke its head with unsettling tenderness.

He murmured continuously, the words too soft to decipher, but his tone was gentle, almost soothing, as though he were trying to calm the frightened creature.

Gradually, the trembling deer stilled, its frantic movements halting as it grew eerily motionless, like a lifeless thing.

Once it lay still, the priest raised one hand high into the air.

Kennard’s sharp gaze never wavered. Did he conceal the dagger in his sleeve? he wondered, watching with intense scrutiny.

Before he could finish the thought, the priest, now holding a dagger that had seemingly appeared from nowhere, plunged it deep into the deer’s neck.

Blood exploded from the wound, splattering across the altar and staining the ground beneath in bright, vibrant crimson.

The priest turned the deer’s body slightly, and the blood from its neck began to drip into a silver bowl placed carefully beneath the altar.

Kennard’s brow furrowed as he observed the blood pooling in the bowl. The metallic scent of it was overpowering, familiar—an odor that always turned his stomach, no matter how many years passed.

“Crazy… What are they trying to do with that?” Serin muttered under his breath, his voice laced with disgust.

“Just keep watching,” Kennard replied coldly, his eyes never leaving the priest’s actions.

He couldn’t afford to blink, not even for a second. There was something unnerving about the priest, and Kennard had a sense that if he looked away, the man might pull something unexpected from his sleeve—or worse.

As the last drops of blood dripped into the bowl, the priest stepped back, his movements deliberate and slow.

The men who had been waiting at the altar carried the lifeless deer off the platform, their actions quiet and reverent.

Then the priest bent down, his robes flowing around him, and submerged both hands into the bowl of blood.

The wide sleeves of his robe soaked up the crimson liquid, until they were drenched, as though the man himself were becoming one with the sacrifice.

Kennard furrowed his brow, one eyebrow twitching sharply upward. The scar that ran from his forehead to his eyelid pulsed with an unsettling throb, as though responding to his growing discomfort.

The priest straightened, his bloodstained hands hovering over the altar as he began to paint something on its surface. From Kennard’s vantage point, he couldn’t make out what the man was drawing.

“What’s he drawing?” Kennard asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.

He glanced at Simir, hoping for an answer, but Simir seemed too engrossed in the ritual to respond.

The man who had earlier trembled like a dying leaf now stood with both arms raised high toward the sky. His muttered words were ceaseless, a low chant that seemed to echo within his cracked, aged voice. His cloudy eyes, once dulled by time, now gleamed with a frightening madness.

Turning to observe the rest of the gathered White Fox Tribe, Kennard saw the same wild intensity in their eyes.

“They’ve all gone insane,” Serin muttered, incredulity evident in his tone as he, too, took in the unsettling sight.

In the next instant, the drumming ceased abruptly, and the chanting of the crowd fell silent as if on cue. The sudden stillness hung in the air, thick and oppressive.

“Your Grace, look over there,” Serin whispered urgently.

Kennard turned his attention back to the altar.

Four men approached, carrying a long, thick wooden stretcher draped with heavy fabric. The center of the stretcher sagged, weighed down by whatever—or whoever—was hidden beneath.

“That’s a person, isn’t it?” Serin asked, his voice low with realization.

As he suggested, the stretcher indeed carried a woman of the White Fox Tribe. Her eyes were obscured by bandages, making it impossible to discern whether she was awake or not. But the shimmering silver of her hair, her pale complexion, and the faint, pheromone-like scent she exuded all made it clear that she belonged to the same tribe.

Kennard watched in silence as the men carefully placed the woman on the altar. A creeping sense of unease curled in his chest. Are they planning to sacrifice her? But they had already killed the deer.

His heart began to race, a cold shiver spreading down his spine. The men laid the woman flat, gently lifting her head to free her silver hair, which cascaded down the altar like a waterfall. The strands followed the path of the deer’s blood, which still lingered in the grooves carved into the stone.

Even as the men withdrew behind the large brazier, the woman remained motionless, her eyes still shut.

“Could she be dead? She doesn’t seem to be breathing,” Serin murmured, leaning forward for a closer look.

“If there’s no rigor mortis, she likely hasn’t been dead for long,” Kennard replied, though the absence of decay in the air suggested she hadn’t passed away at all. There was no telltale stench of death. Perhaps she had been drugged, her heart stopped for the time being, or placed into a deep sleep.

Through the flickering glow of the massive brazier, the men’s figures flickered in and out of view. Their eyes, expectant and hungry, were locked on the priest and the woman on the altar.

The priest moved the silver bowl, still filled with the deer’s blood, closer to the woman’s head. He plunged his hands into the bowl once more, crimson staining his robes as he raised them high.

“That’s insane,” Serin muttered, his voice tight with disgust.

The priest, cupping the blood in his hands, stood and began to pour it slowly over the woman’s hair.

As he did, the drumming grew louder, faster, an insistent pulse that matched the rising fervor of the crowd’s chanting. The atmosphere became thick with anticipation, the air vibrating with energy.

The woman’s silver hair, once a shining beacon, gradually turned a deep crimson as the blood soaked through. Each drop that fell back into the bowl was gathered and poured once more, the ritual seemingly endless.

“Your Grace, I think they’re…” Serin started, but he didn’t need to finish. Kennard understood all too well.

“Red hair,” Kennard muttered under his breath as he slowly rose from his seat.

Now it was clear why they had bandaged the woman’s eyes. The White Fox Tribe was known for their obsidian-black eyes, not the luminous gray ones that shimmered like Elena’s.

If they intended to offer her to Bazak as a sacrifice, they had to hide her true nature—she was being made to appear as something she wasn’t. These people were creating a false witch from their own kin.