Chapter 78

“How much time has passed?” Elena’s voice was little more than a whisper, her words swallowed by the silence of the room.

She reached out a trembling hand to the space beside her, but her fingertips met only cold emptiness. A faint shiver ran through her.

With deliberate care, she pushed herself up on one arm. The bedsheet slid down her body in a soft cascade, pooling around her waist. Raising her hands to inspect them, she noticed the white cloth wrapping her palms, the herbal scent of salve drifting faintly in the air.

Her breath came shallow and labored as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The effort left her feeling as though her body were submerged in water, every movement slow and oppressively heavy. She reached out to draw back the curtain, revealing pale streaks of light spilling into the room.

“Cura,” she croaked, her voice rasping harshly in her throat.

The sound was softer than she intended, and it failed to rouse the figure slumped nearby. Cura sat in a chair, her head drooping forward, chin resting against her chest as she dozed.

“Cura,” Elena called again, mustering more strength this time.

Cura startled awake, her eyes widening. “Elena, are you feeling better?” she asked, quickly rising and hurrying to her mistress’s side.

Elena’s lips parted, but her mouth felt dry as sand. “His Grace… Has His Grace returned?” she managed, though every word felt like shards of glass scraping her throat. Wincing, she pressed a hand to her neck and swallowed hard, the pain sharp and unrelenting.

Cura’s expression softened with concern. She reached for a nearby pitcher, pouring water into a cup. “Not yet,” she replied, guiding the cup to Elena’s lips. “Here, drink.”

Elena took a few small sips before pulling back. Her chest rose and fell unevenly as she exhaled. “Then we still don’t know why the fire broke out?”

“No.” Cura shook her head, setting the cup aside. “But I’ve asked Butler Lassino to inform me the moment His Grace returns.”

“I see.” Elena’s voice had quieted, her thoughts seemingly far away.

She lowered her gaze to her hands, now resting in her lap. The pale skin, once vibrant, looked almost translucent. Bluish veins branched beneath the surface like faint rivers. 

“Oh no, your hands are so cold—like ice,” Cura exclaimed, kneeling on the floor as she cradled Elena’s hands between her own. Her touch was gentle, her concern evident as she patted the back of Elena’s hands in an attempt to warm them.

“Elena, you should lie down a little longer,” she urged softly, her brow furrowed with worry.

“I’m fine,” Elena replied, her voice steadier than she felt. Though her body was leaden with exhaustion, her heart was heavier still, weighed down by a gnawing unease she couldn’t shake. Sitting idle felt unbearable.

Cura hesitated, searching Elena’s face, then sighed in resignation as Elena shook her head stubbornly. “Don’t worry,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “His Grace took the knights with him. Nothing will happen. You know better than anyone what kind of man he is.”

“That’s true, but…” Elena trailed off, unable to voice the creeping anxiety knotting her chest. Her lips pressed together as if trying to trap the words inside.

Cura studied her mistress in silence for a moment before rising gracefully to her feet. She tugged the sheets snugly around Elena’s shoulders with a maternal care, then moved to the table to pour warm tea into a delicate porcelain cup.

“At least drink this,” Cura said as she handed the teacup and saucer to Elena.

Elena accepted it, the familiar aroma of herbs drifting up to meet her. She stared at the steaming liquid, watching the faint ripples caused by the trembling of her hands. The cup rattled slightly against the saucer.

“You collapsed so suddenly earlier; I was terrified,” Cura admitted, her voice dropping as she sat in a nearby chair. Her hands rested on her lap, clasped tightly.

“I collapsed?” Elena asked, her gaze lifting to meet Cura’s.

“Yes. Don’t you remember?”

Elena shook her head slowly. “I don’t. I remember going up the wall, but… nothing after that. How did I get here?”

Cura’s lips thinned, pressing together as though she were trying to make them disappear. Her freckles, usually dancing with life, seemed dulled by the weight of the memory.

“Why?” Elena pressed, her unease growing.

“At first, you seemed dizzy and collapsed,” Cura explained, her tone laced with reluctance. “But then… you started crying, pleading to be saved.”

“I… cried and begged for help?” Elena’s voice wavered, disbelief etched across her face.

Cura nodded grimly. “Yes. No matter how much I called out to you, you didn’t respond. It was as if you couldn’t see me or the knights at all. You looked… utterly terrified.”

Elena’s hands tightened around the teacup, her knuckles paling as Cura continued.

“You kept muttering something,” Cura added, her voice softening with sadness. “But I couldn’t make out the words. Then you fainted, so we brought you here.”

Elena pressed her fingertips firmly against her temples, trying in vain to recall what had happened. The effort only deepened the pounding ache in her head, and she furrowed her brows in frustration.

“Does your head hurt?” Cura asked, springing to her feet. Concern etched across her face, she hurried over to Elena’s side. “I treated the wounds on your palms with herbs, but is there anywhere else that hurts?”

“It seems I’m fine, aside from the headache,” Elena replied, her tone measured despite the discomfort.

Cura crossed her arms, her lips pursing in mild annoyance. “I’ve asked the butler to summon Teacher Leto, but he’s still not here. Honestly, it’s like he’s hiding gold in the village or something.”

Despite Cura’s grumbling, Elena remained silent, her thoughts drifting elsewhere. She recalled a passing comment Leto had made about a tavern woman in the village—a memory that now felt oddly significant. Perhaps that woman was the reason he endured scoldings and lingered in the village longer than necessary.

Knock, knock.

The soft knock on the door drew both their attention. A familiar servant entered the room, bowing politely as Elena turned to face him.

“My lady,” the servant began, his voice steady but formal. “His Grace has returned.”

“Is he unharmed?” Elena asked quickly, swinging her legs over the bed. She rose to her feet with such urgency that the sheet draped around her slipped to the floor, but she didn’t spare it a glance.

The brief pause before the servant responded felt like an eternity.

“Yes, everyone returned safely,” he finally said.

Elena let out a long, relieved sigh, pressing a hand against her chest as the tension drained from her shoulders. “Where is he now? Isn’t he coming straight here?”

The servant hesitated, shifting awkwardly. His fingers brushed against his temple, and his uneasy expression reignited Elena’s apprehension.

“Well…” He scratched the back of his neck, clearly reluctant to speak.

Elena’s sharp gaze pinned him in place. “Where is he?” she demanded, her voice edged with impatience.

“He’s gone to the basement,” the servant admitted, his words hanging heavy in the room.

“The basement?” Elena repeated, her heart skipping a beat. Her mind immediately went to the dungeon and the torture chamber it housed. “Why the basement…?”

The servant avoided her gaze, rubbing his neck as though the gesture could shield him from her growing anxiety. The unease that had momentarily lifted now came crashing back, a wave of dread threatening to drown her.

“Did His Grace bring someone back with him?” Cura asked, stepping closer to the servant as if speaking on Elena’s behalf.

“Yes,” the servant replied curtly, his tone giving away little.

“Who…?” Cura hesitated, glancing at Elena, who took a few steps nearer to the servant herself.

“Who is it?” Elena pressed, her voice quiet but steady, carrying an undertone of urgency.

The servant sighed, his shoulders lifting slightly before he straightened his posture. “Lord Leto,” he said finally.

The unexpected answer rendered Elena speechless. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

“His Grace didn’t return with Lord Leto… but captured him?” she murmured at last, the words tumbling out as if spoken by someone else.

“Yes,” the servant confirmed simply before bowing and excusing himself from the room.

As the door clicked shut, Elena remained frozen, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief.

“Elena, did I hear that right?” Cura asked, her voice uncharacteristically shaky. She stepped closer, her face pale and her brows drawn tight. “He said His Grace captured Teacher Leto, didn’t he?”

Elena managed a weak nod, her throat tight as if an invisible weight pressed against it. The revelation gnawed at her, each unanswered question more unsettling than the last.

“Cura, I need my clothes…” she said finally, glancing down at her chemise. Her dress had been removed earlier to make her rest more comfortable, but now it felt like a barrier between herself and taking action.

“No,” Cura said firmly, surprising Elena with the sharpness of her tone.

“Cura,” Elena said, her voice soft but questioning.

“They captured Teacher Leto, not the White Fox Tribe,” Cura pointed out, her lips pressing into a thin line. “And His Grace went to the basement.” She bit her lip, glancing toward the closed door. “Even if it’s frustrating, I think it’s best to wait here.”

Elena exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging. She knew Cura was right. Even if she tried to follow, Kennard would never allow her into the basement, a place she had never ventured into herself.

With a heavy heart, Elena walked to the chair Cura had been sitting in and sank into it. Her fingers rested limply on her lap, her mind swirling with unease.

The fact that Lord Leto had been captured—of all people—signaled that something unusual and likely dangerous was unfolding.

But as Cura had suggested, there was nothing Elena could do now except wait for Kennard to return and hope he would bring answers with him.

***

The air was thick and oppressive, carrying the sharp tang of mold mixed with something far more putrid. This was Terra Demorte’s underground prison, and in its deepest, most desolate corner—where the stench of death seemed to cling to the very walls—lay the torture chamber.

The chamber was a bleak, windowless room encased in cold stone. The thick iron door admitted no light or sound from the outside. If the lone torch wedged into the wall sputtered out, the space would be swallowed in impenetrable darkness.

At the room’s center stood a metal chair, its frame bolted to the stone floor as though to anchor the horrors it witnessed. Chains and hooks hung menacingly along the back wall, and nearby, a heavy wooden table bore a grim selection of tools. Their sharp edges and jagged tips were stained with what could only be old blood, their purpose evident in their design.

Somewhere in the background, the steady drip of water echoed faintly, each drop amplified in the silence. Cutting through this rhythm was the sound of labored breathing—hoarse, shallow, and uneven.

The source was Leto. He was bound to the chair, his snow-white hair and beard now matted with grime and streaked with blood. His once-pristine clothing was tattered, stained, and clinging to his bruised and battered frame.

His head hung low, and his eyes were glassy, fixed blankly on the ground as though the world had ceased to matter. Were it not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, he might have been mistaken for a corpse.

Kennard sat a short distance away, his chair dragged into place with a scrape that still echoed faintly in the chamber. His broad shoulders were tense, his sharp eyes boring into Leto with a mixture of anger and something unreadable.

Standing beside Kennard was Serin, his arms crossed over his chest. He leaned slightly against the wall, his expression one of guarded observation, though his silence was heavy with expectation.

Kennard had said nothing since entering the room. The anger that had consumed him during Leto’s capture now churned into something deeper, darker, as he struggled to decide where to begin.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Leto.”

The name cut through the air, but there was no response. Leto’s head didn’t move, his eyes remaining fixed on the floor.

“Leto,” Kennard repeated, his voice sharper this time, laced with steel.

Slowly, as though dragged by invisible weights, Leto’s eyes shifted toward him. They held no life, only a faint flicker of recognition.

Kennard leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of his chair. His voice dropped, cold and precise. “Is it true? Were you really colluding with the White Fox Tribe?”