Chapter 79

Leto weakly shook his head, the movement so faint it seemed more like a tremor.

“That’s not true,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, rasping through his dry throat. “I only went because I heard there was a festival to commemorate the Sabbath.”

The words came slowly, each syllable a laborious effort. His lips cracked slightly as he forced them out, his head drooping lower as if the act of speaking sapped his strength.

Kennard exhaled heavily, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. A shadow of doubt flickered across his stern face.

He wanted to believe him.

For years, Leto had been his trusted ally—someone he’d fought beside, laughed with, and relied on in countless battles. Believing him should have been instinctive.

But the blood-streaked chaos of today had eroded that trust, leaving behind a bitter residue of anger and betrayal.

“I told you to leave,” Kennard said, his voice low and simmering with restrained fury. “I distinctly told you to return home, but you disobeyed me. To anyone else, you would’ve been indistinguishable from the White Fox Tribe. You knew how dangerous the hunting wolves were, and yet you came back. Why?” His tone sharpened, cutting through the suffocating silence. “Or was it all an act from the start? Pretending to leave, only to stay behind and deceive me?”

Kennard’s words hung in the air like a challenge, the incredulity in his voice evident. His piercing gaze never wavered from Leto’s haggard face.

The memories of the massacre in the village surged back to him—finding Leto amid the carnage, the disbelief that had clutched his chest like a vice. Even now, the image felt surreal, a puzzle missing too many pieces to make sense.

“Who was the woman with you?” Kennard asked, his voice cutting through the haze.

At the question, Leto lowered his gaze to the stone floor, his shoulders slumping further under the weight of the inquiry.

“Leto.”

Kennard’s sharp call made Leto flinch slightly. Only then did he speak, his voice as slow and brittle as a withering leaf. “She was the one who ran the tavern I visited… whenever I went to that village.”

“That’s all?” Kennard pressed, his tone demanding, his eyes narrowing as they bore into Leto.

“Yes,” Leto whispered, his words so soft they barely reached Kennard’s ears. “That’s all.”

The tight line of Kennard’s jaw twitched, his frustration barely held in check. His fingers drummed once on the arm of the chair before curling into fists.

“You expect me to believe that’s all she was,” he hissed, his voice tinged with anger and disbelief, “when you screamed like that over her death?”

Kennard narrowed his eyes, his gaze hardening as he glared at Leto.

“You were cradling her corpse in your arms, crying,” he said, his voice cold and cutting. “The blood on your clothes is evidence of that.”

He pointed sharply at the crimson stains on Leto’s garments, but Leto didn’t even flinch. His gaze remained fixed on the cold, unforgiving floor beneath him.

“Did you love her?” Kennard’s tone hardened, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “And of all people—a Whitefox?”

Leto’s bloodshot eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but there was no emotion in them, no spark of life. The torchlight glinted off the tears like shards of glass, but his murky eyes betrayed nothing.

“When you love someone, race doesn’t matter,” Leto murmured, his voice quiet but laced with defiance. “Your Grace, didn’t you also—”

“Leto.”

Kennard’s voice sliced through the air, harsh and commanding.

Before Leto could finish, Serin, who had been standing silently beside Kennard, stepped forward. His voice was low, dripping with disdain.

“Watch your tongue if you haven’t lost your mind,” Serin sneered, his eyes flashing with anger. “Comparing yourself to His Grace? Have you gone insane?”

In one swift motion, Serin surged forward, as if ready to grab Leto by the collar and drag him into submission.

“Enough.”

Kennard’s sharp command stopped Serin in his tracks, his presence like a force that pushed the room into stillness. Serin hesitated, his fists still clenched, but he took a step back, though his glare remained fixed on Leto, burning with contempt.

Leto, his voice trembling with both anger and desperation, finally spoke again.

“Your Grace, why… why did you kill them?”

His eyes, filled with an unspoken resentment, met Kennard’s gaze head-on, the weight of the question hanging heavily between them.

“They may have been Whitefoxes,” Leto continued, his voice thick with bitterness, “but they were powerless commoners. There were no soldiers or knights among them, nor anyone capable of wielding magic. They chose to remain here after the war, and Your Grace allowed it. So why… why did you kill them?”

The words poured out of him in a rush, his expression a twisted mixture of resentment and despair. His gaze never wavered from Kennard’s, demanding answers, as if the very foundation of his beliefs had been shaken to the core.

Kennard let out a hollow laugh, the sound bitter and filled with disbelief. He shook his head slowly, struggling to process the absurdity of it all.

“You seem more like a Whitefox than a Blackwolf,” he said, his tone sharp with disdain. “Living outside must’ve completely assimilated you to them. Falling in love with a Whitefox woman—did it make them seem entirely innocent to you?”

Leto met his gaze with tired, bloodshot eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m just telling it as it is.”

“As it is, huh?” Kennard’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “If you know so much about them, then you must have also known what would happen at today’s ritual.”

Leto’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes flicking down to the ground. The weight of Kennard’s words hung in the air like a suffocating fog. He was silent for a long moment, and it was clear to Kennard that Leto was avoiding the question, unwilling to face the truth.

Kennard leaned forward slightly, his gaze cold and unyielding. “You’d know best what the Whitefoxes look like, wouldn’t you?”

He emphasized the word best with a biting edge, his eyes never leaving Leto’s face.

Leto said nothing, but his eyes betrayed him, the memories swirling behind them. Kennard’s voice cut through the silence again, his words slow and deliberate.

“They drained animal blood and smeared it on the head of the woman lying on the altar. Her eyes were covered, too.” Kennard’s expression darkened as he continued, the memory of the scene still fresh in his mind. “Oh, but perhaps you saw it when you came back, so I don’t need to explain.”

Even now, the recollection sent a shiver down his spine, his stomach twisting with disgust.

“N-no,” Leto stammered, his voice shaking slightly. “I only returned because I heard people screaming and saw the village on fire.”

Kennard’s eyes narrowed, his disbelief palpable. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice colder now. “Then let’s set that aside. What do you think their actions toward that woman meant?”

Leto’s throat tightened as he swallowed again, the movement slow and deliberate. His long beard trembled faintly as he tried to compose himself.

“A woman with hair dyed red in blood,” Kennard pressed, his voice quiet but heavy with meaning. “Does that remind you of anyone?”

Leto’s eyes flickered, something dark and conflicted flashing across his face. He didn’t answer right away, but it was clear from his silence that the question hit its mark.

Kennard clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ground together, the frustration and anger palpable in his voice. “I asked if it reminds you of anyone.”

Leto’s lips trembled as he struggled to respond. “E-Elena… but that’s just a coincidence…”

“A coincidence?” Kennard echoed, disbelief dripping from his words.

“The priest leading the ritual knew Elena’s name. How do you explain that?” Kennard pressed, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Leto’s forehead creased deeply, and his eyes bulged, as if the weight of the accusation had struck him physically. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Kennard’s stare grew colder, more calculating. He leaned forward, his voice low and sharp. “Did you tell the priest? Or the village chief Simir? Considering they knew I was your patient, it seems you had connections with Simir.”

“I don’t know,” Leto muttered, his voice strained and uncertain. “I’ve never spoken with that man.”

Kennard’s patience began to wear thin, and his voice became edged with venom. “Leto, let’s stop wasting each other’s time and tell the truth. I don’t want to have to use those on you.”

He gestured toward the table of torture tools, the clinking of metal echoing through the silence that followed.

Leto’s eyes dropped to the floor, his face pale as he refused to meet Kennard’s gaze.

“You’ve been frequenting that Whitefox village but claim not to know the chief or the priest. Yet you speak as if you know for certain they’re harmless commoners?” Kennard’s voice was now a low growl, frustration bubbling to the surface.

Leto fidgeted, his hands trembling in his lap as he struggled to maintain his composure. “Where did you go every time you visited that village? Who did you meet?” Kennard demanded, his glare intense.

“I mostly stayed at the tavern,” Leto replied, his voice barely a whisper. “The only person I met was Jeanne, and sometimes the patrons who came by. But I didn’t have any private conversations with them.”

“Jeanne—that’s the woman’s name?” Kennard’s voice was steady, though every word felt like a deliberate probe into Leto’s fragile composure.

“Yes.”

Leto’s gaze dropped again, his eyes unfocused and filled with unshed tears. His bloodshot eyes grew redder as he fought to hold them back.

“Did you ever tell Jeanne about Elena?” Kennard asked, his voice soft but laced with the gravity of the question.

Leto flinched visibly, his body stiffening as the question struck a nerve. His eyes flickered with something—guilt, fear, or perhaps a mixture of both—but he remained silent.

Kennard exercised every ounce of patience dealing with Leto.

Had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have repeated himself so calmly.

Usually, Serin or the knights handled interrogations, and during his time in Monterapiano, Kennard had even employed professional torturers.

He only took matters into his own hands when the situation was dire or when he needed a swift confession.

When answers didn’t come despite interrogation, executions often followed on the spot.

“Did she know about Elena or not?” Kennard asked again, narrowing his eyes.

“Your Grace, she didn’t… she wouldn’t…”

Leto shook his head furiously, his complexion growing even paler.

Kennard uncrossed his arms and gripped the armrests of his chair tightly.

“She knew, didn’t she?”

“That’s….”

As Kennard leaned forward, pressing him further, Leto’s gaze visibly wavered.

“How much did you tell her about Elena?”

“Your Grace….”

“Answer me in one go!”

Kennard finally lost his temper and bellowed, veins bulging on his forehead and temples. He clenched his teeth tightly, as if restraining himself from lunging at Leto.

“Leto, don’t make this harder. Of all people, I never expected you to betray me. But right now, you’re the most likely suspect for being a traitor.”

Serin sighed deeply and intervened again, his voice tinged with impatience.

Leto flinched, his face turning pale as he cowered.

Kennard exhaled slowly, struggling to suppress the rage welling up from deep within.

“Stop stalling and speak clearly. You know my damned temper better than anyone. So, how much did you tell her about Elena?”

“At first…”

Leto squeezed his eyes shut and muttered in a barely audible voice.

“When I first came to the castle at Your Grace’s summons to treat Elena, just that once. After that, I never spoke about her again.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her Your Grace had rescued someone from the forest.”

“And?”

“I said her hair, eyes, and pheromones made it impossible to tell her race. That she’d lost her memory, so her identity couldn’t be known….”

Leto’s trembling voice betrayed his fear, as though he’d only now remembered what he had said. His words came hesitantly, with long pauses between them.

Kennard rubbed his face with both hands in frustration.

“Ha…”

A heavy sigh escaped him.

“Of all people, you—my physician—had to be so loose-lipped.”

Leaning fully against the chair’s backrest, Kennard muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Leto.

The sheer absurdity left him feeling hollow.

“I’m sorry.”

Leto hung his head low at Kennard’s words.

“But…”

Something seemed to occur to him, and his head snapped up quickly.