Chapter 76

The scene before Kennard’s eyes seemed to bulge outward, then snap back into place. For a fleeting moment, the woman lying on the altar began to resemble Elena.

The incessant buzzing of prayers droned in his ears, a sound that resembled a swarm of bees growing louder by the second.

On the altar, the priest, who had been pouring blood onto the woman’s hair, abruptly turned his head toward Kennard.

The priest’s hood concealed most of his face, leaving only one eye visible beneath the shadowy folds. That single, piercing eye lingered on Kennard for a moment too long before turning away. Yet Kennard didn’t miss the fleeting smirk that twisted the corner of his lips.

“That cursed bastard,” Kennard growled softly, his voice trembling with restrained fury.

The urge to overturn the altar and rip apart the throats of every person gathered surged through him. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to suppress the rage bubbling beneath his skin. The intensity of it burned like fire threatening to consume him whole.

Meanwhile, the priest continued his ritual, smoothing the woman’s hair as though arranging it for display. He sprinkled aromatic oil across her body, the sharp, sweet scent mixing unnervingly with the metallic tang of blood in the air.

Kennard’s breath hitched when the priest moved to the rear of the altar. He stopped in front of the mural of Bazak painted on the wall, its colors seeming to pulse ominously in the moonlight.

The priest raised both arms high into the air and began bowing repeatedly toward the mural. Low, incomprehensible words spilled from his lips, at first sounding like a song, then morphing into a haunting, whistle-like cadence.

“The moon has risen,” Simir’s voice suddenly cut through the night, calm but firm.

Kennard snapped his head toward Simir, startled. Serin followed suit, both of them tilting their heads to gaze at the night sky.

High above, a massive full moon hung, its silver light casting an eerie glow over the scene.

“Lord Bazak,” the priest intoned, his voice growing louder with every word. “We offer the witch as a sacrifice.”

The White Fox Tribe joined in fervent prayer, their voices echoing into the stillness.

“Accept this offering and lift your curse from us,” they chanted.

“Grant us your grace…”

The air seemed to thicken, oppressive and expectant. Kennard’s muscles coiled, ready to act, though he wasn’t sure how or when.

Suddenly, the altar platform groaned violently, a deafening noise like splintering wood and shifting stone reverberating through the air.

Kennard and Serin whipped their heads toward the source of the sudden, jarring sound.

Men on the platform hoisted a long, thick beam onto their shoulders, their movements deliberate and synchronized. Kennard’s eyes widened as they tipped the massive, blazing brazier perched on the edge.

“No—stop! What are you doing?” Kennard shouted, his voice breaking with urgency.

Before his words could reach them, the brazier toppled. A surge of flames cascaded down, engulfing the altar in an instant.

“Your Grace, it’s dangerous!” Serin cried, darting forward and grabbing Kennard by both arms to hold him back.

The woman lying on the altar was already a massive, burning pyre. Her body didn’t writhe, nor did a single scream escape her lips. The fire consumed her in a silence that was more horrifying than any cry for help.

Around them, the White Fox Tribe remained unmoved, their prayers rising above the crackling flames.

“Lord Bazak, accept our offering…”

“Lift your curse, grant us your grace…”

The haunting chorus of their chants echoed into the night, oblivious to the atrocity before them.

Kennard froze, his chest heaving. He turned his gaze to the tribe, his disbelief giving way to seething anger.

What kind of god was Bazak for them to go to such lengths?

His glare shifted toward the priest, who stood still beyond the burning altar, his silhouette dark against the flickering inferno. Slowly, deliberately, the priest reached up and pulled back his hood with both hands.

Kennard’s breath caught in his throat. The man’s face was a grotesque canvas of intricate patterns etched deep into his pallid skin, leaving only his black irises and thin lips untouched.

The priest’s eyes gleamed, reflecting the fiery glow of the altar, their dark depths seeming to burn blood-red. His lips moved in slow, deliberate precision, as though savoring every syllable.

“El…le…na.”

Though no sound escaped the priest’s mouth, Kennard understood the word. He recoiled as if struck, a chill surging down his spine.

The priest’s lips twisted into a long, sinister smile, his expression a mockery of Kennard’s shock.

Kennard’s fists clenched at his sides as realization hit him like a blade to the chest. It was as if the priest were asking: Now do you understand why you’ve been brought here?

The priest seemed to relish flaunting his knowledge of Elena, as if mocking Kennard with the fact that another woman had been offered as a false witch in her place.

The implication was clear. If Elena hadn’t been discovered in the forest months ago—or if she had fallen into the hands of the White Fox Tribe during their subsequent search—she might have been the one lying on that altar tonight.

This time, they had sacrificed one of their own, fabricating a witch to appease their twisted god. But next time, they might truly come for Elena.

That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

It wouldn’t happen.

Kennard’s chest tightened with resolve, his mind racing with one thought: as long as he lived, no one would harm her.

“Serin,” he said, his voice low but steady.

Still blocking his path, Serin turned, his face tense as though anticipating Kennard might try to charge the platform. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Kennard’s eyes remained fixed on the priest, his gaze cold and unrelenting. “Kill them.”

Serin blinked, taken aback. “Pardon?”

“Kill them all.”

The words were quiet, but the weight behind them was unshakable.

“Are you serious?” Serin quickly faced him, his voice laced with alarm.

Kennard’s expression didn’t waver. The murderous intent in his eyes left no room for doubt. “Tonight,” he said, his tone sharp as a blade, “leave no White Fox Tribe member alive in Terra Demorte.”

Serin’s breath caught for a moment before he straightened his posture, the gravity of the command sinking in. “As you command.”

Without hesitation, Serin shifted into his wolf form, his sleek fur glinting under the moonlight.

The White Fox Tribe, until now engrossed in their prayers, erupted into confusion as panic swept through their ranks. Members began scattering in all directions, their cries piercing the night.

Serin threw his head back and let out a resounding howl, a signal to summon the knights patrolling outside the village.

Kennard’s sharp senses picked up the pheromones of his approaching knights, their presence drawing closer with every heartbeat.

Amid the chaos, the White Fox Tribe screamed and scrambled for safety. Yet one figure remained unmoved.

Simir sat calmly among the pandemonium, as though he had anticipated this outcome all along.

Kennard’s lips curled into a snarl, his voice a growl that carried over the noise. “When you reach hell, be sure to greet your god for me.”

In a blur of motion, he shifted into his black wolf form, his massive frame radiating raw power. Without hesitation, Kennard lunged at Simir. His jaws clamped around his throat with crushing force, and the acrid taste of blood filled his mouth.

***

“Elena, don’t your eyes hurt?”

Cura’s concerned voice broke the quiet as she sat on the sofa by the fireplace, her gaze fixed on Elena.

Elena, engrossed in an ancient text written in archaic script, lifted her head. The soft golden glow of the lantern on her desk flickered with the gentle breeze drifting through the open window, casting dancing shadows across the room.

“It’s late,” Cura added, her tone slightly reproachful. “Far past your usual bedtime.”

“I’m fine,” Elena replied with a small smile. “You can go ahead and sleep.”

“How can I sleep when you’re still awake? Especially with His Grace not here,” Cura said, crossing her arms but failing to mask her yawn. She quickly covered her mouth, her eyes tearing up from the effort to suppress it.

Elena chuckled softly. “The knights are nearby. There’s no need to worry.”

“Well, that’s true,” Cura conceded, her expression softening. “But would you prefer to take the book to your bedroom? His Grace will likely return soon.”

Elena hesitated, her fingers lightly brushing the edges of the ancient text.

“Um…” she murmured, averting her gaze.

She still hadn’t told Kennard that she could read archaic script. It felt strange to bring up the topic out of nowhere, and the thought of explaining how she had learned it made her uneasy.

Even now, as she sat in the quiet study, her nerves prickled at the thought of Kennard suddenly walking in and catching her with the sacred text.

Fortunately, tonight he had left to tend to matters in the village, giving her a rare moment of peace to immerse herself in the book.

The text was a detailed account of the earth god Bazak and his dominion over the land. It described how Bazak nurtured the earth, guided the wind and rain, and enriched all plant life. His blessings were bestowed upon those who worshipped and praised him, while his wrath brought curses that caused death and decay to spread among humans, animals, and plants alike.

One passage stood out to Elena: a decree that all red things, except blood, were considered impure.

“Does that make me an impure being because of my red hair?” Elena mused aloud, her voice soft and tinged with a trace of melancholy.

Her fingers combed through her vibrant hair, the soft strands flowing like molten copper under her touch. She couldn’t help but marvel at how it had transformed since her arrival—once stiff and dull like brittle twigs, now smooth and lustrous.

Cura, still standing nearby, hesitated before speaking. “If His Grace comes back and finds you still in the study… well, he might be upset. Actually, I’m the one who’ll get scolded.”

She punctuated her remark with a yawn she could no longer stifle, her mouth stretching wide as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

Elena smiled faintly, the weight of Cura’s dedication warming her heart. It was clear Cura wouldn’t leave her side until she retired for the night, and to linger any longer would be selfish indulgence.

“All right,” Elena said, shaking her head with a soft laugh.

Cura brightened immediately, springing to her feet as though she had been waiting for those words. She hurried over to the desk, carefully taking the sacred text and returning it to its place on the bookshelf.

Meanwhile, Elena wandered to the window. Resting her hands on the windowsill, she leaned forward slightly and closed her eyes, letting the cool night breeze kiss her face.

The gentle wind was soothing, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and earth.

“Huh?”

Elena’s eyes snapped open, and her body tensed as a sudden chill crept down her spine.

Her gaze darted across the dimly lit courtyard below, scanning the surroundings. The knights standing guard at their posts were the only figures in sight. Nothing seemed amiss.

It’s just the night air, she told herself, shaking off the eerie sensation.

Yet as she stepped back from the window, something caught her eye—a flicker of light far off in the distance. It was faint but unmistakable, like a wavering flame struggling against the darkness.

“What’s that?” she murmured, her brows knitting in curiosity.

“Elena, what is it?”

Hearing her whisper, Cura joined her by the window, concern etched across her face.

“Do you see that light?” Elena asked, pointing into the darkness beyond the courtyard.

Cura followed her gaze, squinting as she leaned closer to the window. “Where?”

She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the lantern’s glow, trying to focus. After a few moments, she shook her head. “I don’t see anything.”

Elena frowned, her confidence wavering. Had she imagined it? Perhaps it was someone passing through the forest with a torch or the distant flicker of a campfire.

“Maybe I was mistaken,” she murmured, stepping back from the window. “Let’s go.”

But as she turned to leave, something tugged at her thoughts. Instinctively, she pivoted and leaned out of the window, her heart racing.

“Elena! That’s dangerous!” Cura exclaimed, rushing forward to steady her.

The urgency in her voice was underscored by her firm grip on Elena’s shoulders, trying to pull her back inside.

Elena didn’t budge. Her breath hitched as realization struck.

“It’s a howling signal,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cura froze, her hands still gripping Elena tightly. The weight of Elena’s words settled between them, a sudden tension thickening the air.