Chapter 80

“What is this?” Kennard’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.

He gazed at Leto with no hint of expectation, his dark eyes narrowing.

“What excuse will you try this time?” Kennard demanded, his tone carrying a dangerous edge.

“I never mentioned Elena’s name.”

“Don’t spout nonsense.” Kennard slammed his hand on the armrest of his chair. “Are you asking me to believe that? If you didn’t tell him, how could that priest possibly know Elena’s name?”

“It’s the truth,” Leto pleaded.

Kennard’s lips curled into a sneer. “Are you suggesting there’s another informant? Then tell me—did you see anyone else coming and going from that village?”

“I’ve seen a few Black Wolf Tribe members residing in Terra Demorte,” Leto admitted, his tone neutral, almost detached.

“Who exactly?” Kennard’s voice dropped, laden with suspicion.

“I only saw them in passing,” Leto said after a pause, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know their identities.”

The calmness in Leto’s demeanor made Kennard’s patience snap. With a sudden burst of energy, he shot up from his chair, the sound of scraping wood echoing in the chamber.

As Kennard began pacing the room, Serin silently stepped aside, keeping a wary distance. Kennard circled behind Leto, his gaze landing on the chains dangling ominously from the wall.

At the end of each chain, thick, worn leather straps hung, their design intentional—meant to secure and inflict pain without causing fatal injuries too soon. Once a natural brown, the leather had turned almost black, soaked with blood spilled over countless punishments.

Kennard stared at the chains for a long moment, his jaw tightening. A part of him hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Not yet.

A faint noise pulled his attention back. He turned to find Leto squirming, struggling to shift his head enough to meet Kennard’s gaze.

“No matter how much you struggle, you won’t see me,” Kennard said coolly. His words were slow, deliberate. “Don’t bother wasting your energy. I’m not going to release you.”

Ignoring the futile movements, Kennard moved toward a table lined with an array of torture tools, their metallic sheen reflecting the dim light. Sitting casually on the edge, he picked up a curved metal rod. Its hooked tip tapered to a wickedly sharp point.

He tapped the sharp end lightly, watching as it left a small indentation on the pad of his fingertip. A faint bead of red appeared, but Kennard hardly noticed.

Leto’s gaze darted to the iron rod in Kennard’s hand, and his face twisted into a mask of fear. He stammered, his words tumbling out in a frantic blur. “Your Grace,” Leto blurted out. “Wouldn’t it be more accurate to verify this directly with that priest?”

Kennard frowned as he studied Leto, his grip on the rod tightening. He had a point—questioning the priest directly would be the quickest and most reliable path to the truth.

“I lost him,” Kennard said at last, his voice low and venomous. “No, he vanished—like smoke, in the blink of an eye.”

His glare darkened, his piercing gaze fixed on Leto as if projecting the priest’s face onto him.

In his mind, the memory played like a sinister echo: the priest’s hooded figure, eyes glinting like a snake’s from the shadows. Those eyes had been haunting enough, but what lingered in Kennard’s thoughts were the man’s lips—lips that had spoken Elena’s name with eerie precision, as if conjured from the abyss.

“You lost him?” Leto asked hesitantly, disbelief evident in his tone.

“Yes,” Kennard spat, his frustration boiling just beneath the surface.

He clenched his fists, the memories of that day flashing vividly in his mind.

The moment Serin’s howl had summoned the knights stationed outside the village, Kennard had raced toward the burning altar. He had a single target in mind: the priest.

The others—villagers, intruders, it didn’t matter—could have died on the spot for all he cared. The priest, however, had to live, long enough for Kennard to extract answers.

He had planned to grab the man by the throat and force the truth out of him—how he knew Elena and why he had dared summon Kennard to that wretched place.

But before he could reach him, another obstacle emerged.

Simir.

The trembling figure of Simir had appeared like a fragile thorn bush swaying in the wind. The man’s thin frame had shaken visibly, yet he stood his ground, blocking Kennard’s path as if he’d willingly sacrifice his life to shield the priest.

The sight of Simir’s defiance—his unwavering stance—had only fueled Kennard’s fury.

He could still feel the searing heat of the altar’s flames, hear the crackling of fire mingled with the tension in the air. His anger had boiled over, raw and uncontained.

In the end, the first life Kennard took that day was Simir, the village chief, followed by the young men who served under him.

It hadn’t taken long to end their lives.

It was swift—a fleeting moment.

And yet, by the time Kennard leaped onto the altar, the priest had vanished. He was nowhere to be found.

Kennard had sniffed for pheromones that should have lingered where the man stood. But there was nothing—no trace of him at all.

It was as if no one—and nothing—had been there.

Only the acrid scent of the sacrificial woman’s burning body clung to the altar, searing his senses.

Meanwhile, the blood of the White Fox Tribe, being slain one by one by Serin and the knights, mingled with the night air, spreading in every direction like a macabre fog.

Kennard’s grip tightened on the iron rod in his hand as the memory of the night resurfaced in brutal clarity. Rage clawed its way to the surface, boiling over from the depths of his being.

His gaze fell to the metal rod, now trembling slightly in his clenched fist. The sharp edge glinted under the dim light, a reflection of his own simmering fury.

“Damn it,” Kennard muttered under his breath, setting the rod down on the table with more force than necessary. If he held onto it any longer, he wasn’t sure what he might do.

Without another word, he turned sharply and strode past Leto, heading for the door. His boots echoed heavily against the stone floor, each step charged with restrained anger.

Leto’s panicked voice broke the silence. “Your Grace, please—”

Kennard didn’t stop.

But just as he reached the door, he froze abruptly. Serin, who had been trailing him closely, halted and stepped aside, keeping her distance.

Kennard didn’t look back as he spoke, his voice low but cold enough to cut through the tension. “There are no more Whitefoxes in Terra Demorte. That means there’s no one left for you to share your heart with.”

He heard the sharp intake of Leto’s breath, felt the weight of the man’s despair like a palpable force behind him. But Kennard avoided the pleading, grief-stricken gaze boring into his back.

Without another word, he pushed the door open and stepped out, leaving the oppressive silence of the torture chamber behind.

***

“What will you do with Leto?” Serin asked, his tone measured as he ascended the stairs alongside Kennard.

Kennard glanced back at him, his expression unreadable. “What do you suggest?”

Even as he posed the question, the answer already lingered in his mind, heavy and inevitable.

“You must execute him,” Serin said firmly. “To prevent future incidents, he needs to be made an example.”

“You’re right,” Kennard replied, his voice steady but lacking conviction. “That would be the wisest course.”

“Then why hesitate?” Serin pressed.

Before Kennard could respond, they reached the first-floor lobby. Lassino approached with a slight bow.

“Your Grace, the bath is ready,” Lassino announced.

Kennard nodded, loosening the knot at his neck to remove his cloak. Lassino accepted it with practiced efficiency, stepping back with deference as Kennard and Serin resumed their climb up the stairs.

Lassino followed at a respectful distance, far enough to avoid overhearing their conversation but close enough to remain at Kennard’s service.

“Unlike the Whitefoxes, Leto is one of my people,” Kennard said in a low voice, breaking the silence. “I need a clear justification for his execution.”

Serin’s eyes flicked briefly to Lassino, then back to Kennard. He lowered his voice to match the gravity of the conversation. “You’re worried this might involve Elena.”

“Exactly,” Kennard admitted, his tone tinged with frustration. “Even if we fabricate charges and execute Leto, if there’s another accomplice, they won’t stay quiet. Especially with the priest still at large.”

Serin nodded thoughtfully. “Then what will you do?”

Kennard exhaled heavily, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. His chest felt tight, his mind clouded with too many possibilities and too few certainties.

“I need more time to think,” he said at last.

Pressing a palm to his brow, Kennard tried to ease the throbbing pain in his temples. The pounding wouldn’t relent, no matter how much pressure he applied.

A faint, bitter laugh escaped him. “I can’t even trust the medicine anymore,” he muttered. The bitterness clung to his voice as he continued, almost to himself. “Leto… of all people…”

Hearing Kennard’s quiet murmur, Serin abruptly stopped in his tracks. His expression darkened, and his voice was firm as he spoke. “I would never betray you, Your Grace.” 

Kennard turned to look at him, taking in the sight of Serin, covered in blood from head to toe. The contrast between his disheveled appearance and the steadfast declaration only deepened Kennard’s sense of heaviness.

“I know,” Kennard said quietly. He placed a firm hand on Serin’s shoulder, his grip lingering for a moment. “Go rest.”

Serin hesitated, but eventually gave a small nod. He stood still as Kennard turned and resumed climbing the spiral staircase.

The endless ascent led to the corridor where Kennard’s chambers awaited. Tonight, Serin did not follow him further, breaking from his usual habit. On other nights, Serin might have accompanied Kennard to the door, rambling on about various matters to lighten the mood. But not tonight.

Instead, it was Lassino who silently trailed behind. The butler’s presence was as unobtrusive as ever, his footsteps barely audible.

Kennard broke the silence without turning around. “Where’s Elena?”

“She is in her room, Your Grace,” Lassino replied promptly, his voice steady.

Kennard stopped briefly and glanced over his shoulder. “She knows nothing of Leto’s situation, I hope?”

Lassino hesitated, a rare falter in his usually flawless demeanor. “Well…” he began, then trailed off. His pause said more than his words ever could. It was clear the news had already reached Elena.

Kennard’s jaw tightened. His tone turned sharp as he issued his next command. “From now on, ensure the servants keep their mouths shut.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Lassino replied immediately, bowing his head. “I’ll take care of it.”

Before reaching his chambers, Kennard shrugged off his frock coat and handed it to Lassino.

He paused, running a hand over his face before glancing at the butler. “How do I look?”

Lassino’s gaze remained composed, but his response carried a faint hint of tactful honesty. “If you’re worried about startling Lady Elena…”

Kennard didn’t need him to finish the sentence. He knew. He must look no better than Serin had earlier.

He cast a glance at his reflection in the polished surface of a nearby cabinet. Removing his cloak and coat had done little to conceal the blood matted in his hair and streaked across his face.

“Forget it,” Kennard muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll head straight to the bath.”

Letting out a long, weary sigh, he pushed open the door to the bathroom adjoining his chambers. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air, mingling with the faint warmth of the steam that enveloped the room.

A servant, carefully pouring fragrant oil into the bathwater, straightened and bowed deeply at the sight of Kennard. The man had been tending to Kennard’s baths for years and moved with the practiced precision of someone who knew his master’s preferences well.

As Kennard approached the tub, the servant stepped forward, his hands deftly unfastening Kennard’s shirt and peeling it away. The rest of his garments followed, each piece revealing more of the blood and grime that clung stubbornly to his skin.

Even stripped bare, Kennard felt as though the stench of blood had seeped into his very being.

He sank into a low-backed chair near the tub, leaning his head against it as the servant began to pour warm water over him. The steady stream cascaded down, washing away the filth in crimson rivulets that swirled and disappeared into the drain below.

Kennard tilted his head back, watching the water as it pooled and streamed away. For a moment, the sight mesmerized him, the red against the pale marble floor mirroring the chaos still raging in his mind.

Rising slowly, he stepped into the tub, the water rising to his chest as he lowered himself in.

The servant hesitated, his gaze flickering uncertainly between Lassino and Kennard.

“Leave me,” Kennard said quietly, his voice firm but devoid of harshness. The command echoed softly in the steam-filled room. “I’ll manage on my own today.”

“But, Your Grace…” Lassino began, a hint of protest in his voice.

Kennard shook his head, cutting him off. He didn’t want company—didn’t need it. His chest ached with the longing to be alone, or rather, with Elena as soon as possible.