Chapter 89

“A witch? Did you just say she’s a witch?” one of the attendants gasped, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“What are you talking about? A witch?” another echoed, brows knitting as heads began to turn.

The kitchen buzzed with hushed whispers. Attendants exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes darting toward Elena like she might suddenly sprout horns.

“You actually believe that kind of nonsense?” Cura snapped, her voice cutting through the tension. “All of you, be quiet.”

The murmuring faltered at once. It wasn’t until the head chef barked a sharp, “Enough!” that silence truly settled over the room. Still, unease clung to the air. The kitchen staff stared, their expressions twisted in a blend of confusion and fear.

Elena stood motionless, as if rooted to the floor, her face pale and vacant. It was as though her spirit had slipped out of her body and left only the shell behind.

She’s a witch. That woman is a witch.

The child’s voice echoed in her mind, looping again and again, each repetition tightening around her chest like a noose.

“Unbelievable,” Cura muttered, fury simmering in her voice. “I’m not letting this go. I’ll report everything to His Grace—how the kitchen staff treated Lady Elena today.”

She glared at the attendants, and for the first time, her usual bright smile had vanished. The freckles across her cheeks seemed to bristle with indignation.

“Lady Elena, let’s go,” Cura said more gently, stepping beside her and wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders.

Elena let herself be guided, like a child clinging to a familiar hand in the dark. But just before they reached the door, she stopped.

“Lady Elena?” Cura turned, her brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

She leaned in, searching Elena’s face with concern. “Please, don’t let their foolishness shake you. It’s ridiculous talk. Not worth your attention.”

“I’m fine,” Elena murmured. She patted the back of Cura’s hand and mustered a faint smile.

But it wasn’t true. She wanted nothing more than to leave—just for a moment, to breathe outside that stifling room. And yet she knew: if she left now, the feeling wouldn’t disappear. That crawling sensation at the back of her scalp would linger, whispering doubts for days to come.

When Elena turned back to face the room, a wave of unease rippled through the kitchen. The attendants flinched, bowing their heads as if the very sight of her burned.

“Lady Elena, we deeply apologize,” one of them stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please forgive our rudeness. It won’t happen again.”

The head chef stepped forward, his face ashen. He trembled as he spoke, words tumbling from his mouth in a rush. “We meant no offense, my lady. Truly. Please—show mercy.”

Elena said nothing at first. She only looked at them—really looked. Their fear hung heavy in the air, nearly suffocating. And she understood.

They had called her a witch. Not just any woman, but her—Elena, the one Kennard had named his future duchess. To insult her was to insult him. In their eyes, it was more than disrespect. It was treason.

But that wasn’t what mattered to her.

“I’d like the child brought to the study,” Elena said softly.

At her quiet request, the head chef dropped to his knees with a thud, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor.

“The child—he’s new,” he pleaded, desperation lacing every word. “He only just began working here. He doesn’t understand the ways of the palace. Please… show mercy. And above all, I beg you, do not inform His Grace…”

“I’m not trying to place blame,” Elena interrupted gently. “I only have something I wish to ask her.”

With that, she turned and left the kitchen, her footsteps calm, measured—leaving behind a silence more deafening than her words.

***

Elena stood by the study window, gazing out at the training grounds below. Sharp cries and rhythmic shouts from the knights in training echoed through the air—a steady cadence of discipline and effort.

She closed her eyes and let the breeze brush against her face. Each gust stirred her hair, strands lifting gently to tickle her cheeks.

After a while, the knot of thoughts in her mind loosened, and the tightness in her chest began to ease—if only a little.

“Why do you even want to see that child? After what they said to you? It’d be better to just tell His Grace and let him deal with it,” Cura said, her voice tight with frustration as she paced the length of the study.

“You know His Grace better than I do. If we tell him, things might spiral out of control,” Elena replied softly, her tone subdued.

Drawn by instinct, she looked down again and caught sight of Kennard striding toward the training grounds with Serin beside him.

At that exact moment, as though sensing her gaze, Kennard turned his head and looked up at the window.

Even with the distance between them, Elena could see it clearly—he was smiling. She smiled in return.

Kennard gave a small nod, as if reassured by her presence, then continued walking with Serin. For now, it seemed he wouldn’t be seeking her out.

Elena exhaled quietly, a whisper of relief escaping her lips.

A soft knock sounded at the door. One of the attendants stepped in—the same one who had breathlessly announced her engagement in the kitchen earlier.

The attendant hesitated, gauging Elena’s expression, then turned and pulled in the child waiting outside, practically dragging him by the arm.

“I… I brought him, ma’am,” the attendant said quickly, bowing low. He pushed the boy’s head down in a stiff, clumsy bow.

“Please leave us for a moment.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The attendant hurried out. The boy instinctively stepped after him, but the door had already closed.

He stood pressed against it, rigid as a board, then slowly turned to face Elena.

“Come here,” Elena said, gesturing to the chair across from her at the solid wooden desk. But the boy didn’t move.

He stood as if rooted to the floor, frozen in place—like taking even one step would send him tumbling off the edge of an invisible cliff.

“Lady Elena asked you to come,” Cura snapped, stepping forward with an impatient frown.

The boy flinched, his small shoulders tightening beneath his worn shirt.

“Cura,” Elena said quietly. “Leave him be.”

With a sigh of reluctant obedience, Cura turned away and wandered back toward the bookshelves, muttering under her breath.

Elena remained seated, watching the boy in silence. She made no move to hurry him, letting the quiet settle.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly, careful to keep her tone light and unthreatening.

The boy clamped his lips together, stubborn and silent. His eyes darted around the room, but he refused to meet hers.

“If you keep acting like this, I really will tell His Grace everything,” Cura warned from behind her, arms folded tightly across her chest.

The boy visibly shrank, pulling his chin to his chest as if he wished he could disappear into himself.

Elena opened her mouth to chide Cura—but paused. As much as she disliked frightening the child, she knew he might not say a word unless nudged.

“I’m not angry with you,” she said, her voice calm and even. “And I’m not here to scold you. I just have something I want to ask.”

She smiled at him—gently, reassuringly—as if to say You’re safe now.

“What’s your name?”

This time, the boy lifted his eyes ever so slightly, peeking up at her from beneath his lashes. His lips moved, barely.

“Hm?” Elena leaned in just a little. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Bart,” he whispered. “My name is Bart.”

The name trembled from his lips, so faint it was like the flutter of a leaf in the wind.

“Then from now on, I’ll call you Bart,” Elena said, her voice soft as she settled into her chair. She gestured toward the seat across from her.

Only then did Bart step forward, his movements hesitant and uncertain.

“Bart,” Elena began once he had sat down, her tone gentle and steady, “why did you call me a witch?”

She waited patiently, her voice quiet as she leaned slightly forward, her hands clasped neatly atop the desk in front of her. Her gesture was meant to reassure him, to ease some of the fear that radiated from him.

Still, Bart said nothing.

He perched on the very edge of his seat, casting furtive glances at her, his entire posture taut as though he might flee at the slightest sound.

“I called you here because I wanted to know,” Elena continued, her words soft, coaxing.

Bart’s gaze flickered to her, then quickly darted away. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice a shaky whisper, “You’re not going to kill me?”

Elena raised an eyebrow, surprised by his question. “If you just answer my questions, I promise I won’t tell His Grace what you said.”

“No, not him…” Bart’s voice trembled even more. “I want you to promise—Lady Elena—that you won’t kill me.”

“Me?” Elena blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. She didn’t understand. “Why would I do that…? I don’t have the authority to do such a thing.”

She thought perhaps Bart had heard rumors of her engagement to Kennard, stories of power and danger. But what he said next was far more unexpected.

“Because you’re a witch,” Bart said, his words almost choking on their weight. “Witches kill people like me…”

Elena froze. The words hung in the air like an accusation, and she found herself unable to breathe for a moment.

“What on earth are you saying?” she asked, her voice quivering with confusion and disbelief.

Cura could no longer hold her temper. “Watch your mouth!” she snapped, her fury boiling over. “Lady Elena may be too kind to report you to His Grace, but I’m not so generous.”

With quick, angry strides, Cura marched toward Bart, her body radiating irritation and warning.

Elena quickly shook her head, signaling Cura to stop. They couldn’t afford to terrify the boy any further.

“I promise I won’t kill you. I won’t hurt you,” Elena said, her voice gentle but firm. She leaned forward slightly, trying to ease his fear. “But… why do you think I’m a witch?”

The words nearly got caught in her throat. She was so taken aback by his accusation, it almost felt surreal.

“Your red hair and gray eyes…” Bart muttered quickly, his gaze flickering between her hair and her eyes. “That’s what they said.”

“My hair and eyes?” Elena repeated, confusion knitting her brows.

Bart gave a small, reluctant nod. “People who look like that are witches… that’s what they said.”

“Who said that?” Elena’s voice was edged with disbelief.

“The villagers from the White Fox Tribe…” Bart said, his words rushing out in a tangled mess. “The ones we visited with Lord Leto. They said someone like you brings curses and should be killed…”

Elena felt her heart drop, the floor beneath her seeming to shift. The words hit her like a cold wave.

She remembered that day in the forest—the attack by the White Fox Tribe. They had come without warning, their hostility sharp and sudden.

Her vision blurred, the world around her fading—her hands still clasped in front of her, the books on the desk, all becoming distant and unreal.

“A curse…” The word felt thick and suffocating in her mouth.

Could that be why they tried to kill me?

The realization struck her with brutal force, as if someone had knocked the breath out of her.

“Lord Leto almost died because he took care of you. It’s your fault—he’s cursed because of you,” Bart’s voice quivered, rising in panic. His eyes were wide with fear, darting around as if searching for a way out.

“That’s why His Grace can’t marry a witch like you. If he does, he’ll be cursed too,” he finished, the words spilling out in a desperate rush.