Chapter 90

“Lady Elena, you’re not still brooding over what that boy said, are you? It was complete nonsense—calling you a witch, of all things.”

Cura’s voice floated through the quiet library as she plucked a book from the shelf. She thumbed through its pages without focus, her gaze drifting repeatedly toward Elena.

Elena hadn’t moved since Bart stormed out. She sat frozen at her desk, eyes fixed on the book in front of her, as if its cover alone could offer answers.

Cura sighed, a soft huff of frustration masked with concern. “Really, now. Red hair and gray eyes? That’s enough to make someone a witch? That’s absurd. You can’t be the only one in the world with that combination.”

It was true, of course—but that didn’t change anything. Elena had never met another person with her coloring. Not once. People looked at her and saw something they couldn’t explain. Something foreign. Unplaceable.

The uncertainty had always lingered in the background like a shadow.

Am I truly a witch? But I don’t have any powers…

She rose from her seat, every movement slow, as though weighed down by a heaviness she couldn’t shake. Her chest ached with unease.

Crossing to the window, she pressed a hand to the frame and gazed out. The sun was harsh, beating down on the courtyard without restraint. Not even the smallest breeze stirred the leaves.

Aside from the distant clang of metal from the training grounds and the faint chirp of birds, everything felt unnaturally still.

She had hoped the sunlight might offer her clarity—or at least a breath of relief—but the air outside only seemed to press in tighter.

If I really am a witch… does that mean His Grace will be cursed because of me?

The thought struck her like a blow. Her breath caught, and dread coiled in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

“Lady Elena, would you like some tea?”

Cura’s voice was light, almost overly cheerful—an intentional softness meant to coax a response. Her eyes lingered on Elena, full of quiet worry.

Elena inhaled slowly, held the breath a moment, then let it out.

As always, her gaze wandered to the same place it did every time she sat in the library: the tower with the barred windows. It was the only one of its kind among the castle’s many spires.

That tower had haunted her ever since the night the White Fox Tribe’s village was set ablaze.

It was here she had run in panic, fearing something had happened to Kennard.

“Cura,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Lady Elena.”

Cura stepped closer immediately, her posture attentive.

“What happened to the people in the White Fox Tribe’s village?”

“I heard His Grace and the knights… killed them all.” 

Cura’s voice faltered, as if she hated saying the words aloud. But she understood at once—Elena was referring to the night Kennard had been invited under the pretense of celebrating Sabbas.

“Do you know why it happened?”

“I don’t,” Cura replied, shaking her head. “Even when I asked my brother, he wouldn’t say a thing.”

There had been a gag order issued about Leto, the man captured that night. No one was allowed to speak of it.

What really happened that night?

Elena barely realized she’d spoken the question aloud.

“I wish I knew,” Cura murmured with a sigh.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Elena said suddenly.

“Right now?”

“Yes. There’s no breeze in here. It’s suffocating.”

Without waiting for a response, Elena turned from the window and made her way out of the library. She felt Cura’s gaze lingering on her back, no doubt noting her pallor, but she didn’t turn around.

At the end of the corridor, Elena veered toward the staircase and began to climb.

“Wait—Lady Elena?”

Cura’s voice rose behind her, tinged with confusion. She peered up the spiral steps, then glanced back down the hall.

“You said you wanted to go for a walk…”

A walk to the garden would’ve made more sense.

But Elena was heading upward—toward the tower.

“I just want to be somewhere higher than the library,” Elena said quietly, offering no further explanation as she continued to climb.

The spiral staircase curved above her in an endless coil, and before long, Cura’s figure disappeared from view below.

A strange unease prickled at the edges of Elena’s thoughts. She couldn’t shake the feeling that if she paused—even for a moment—someone would stop her again. Tell her, as they had before, that she wasn’t permitted to go any farther.

“Lady Elena, there’s nothing up there but the tower,” came Cura’s voice from below, slightly breathless as she tried to catch up.

“I know.”

At last, the staircase ended before a massive iron door.

Last time, she hadn’t truly seen it—too shaken, too lost in fear. But now, standing before it with clear eyes, she took in every detail: the rust along its hinges, the weight it carried, the quiet warning it seemed to whisper.

It loomed before her, not just as a barrier, but as a threshold. A place meant to stay shut.

“I’ll open it,” Cura said with a resigned breath.

Seeing Elena’s resolve, she stepped forward and pressed her shoulder against the iron.

With a long, grating groan, the door creaked open, the sound scraping against the silence like metal on bone.

Light poured in—blinding, sudden. The dim stairwell, lit only by a flickering wall lantern, was instantly overwhelmed.

Elena raised a hand to shield her eyes, wincing as the sunlight stabbed into her vision like a blade.

“Cura?”

Just as Elena’s eyes began adjusting to the sudden brightness, a voice called out.

“What brings you here?”

“Lady Elena said she wanted to see it for herself,” Cura replied, stepping out ahead of her. “So I brought her.”

Elena lowered her hand and looked up. A handful of knights stood stationed along the castle wall, their armor gleaming under the midday sun.

Some watched through the square openings in the battlements, bows slung across their backs, while others paced the walkway in slow, practiced steps, their swords at their sides.

Their surprise at her presence was immediate—startled eyes, uncertain glances.

One knight, who had been staring at her a moment too long, quickly bowed. The rest followed in a ripple of hurried greetings.

“Lady Elena.”

A knight stepped forward.

As he drew closer, recognition sparked in her eyes—it was Beryl, the one she had seen at the training grounds, commanding a gray wolf with startling precision.

“Beryl,” she said, a smile softening her expression. “It’s been a while.”

“You remember me?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.

“Of course I do. Have you… been well since then?”

Her voice faltered slightly.

The memory of Kennard’s wrath—that explosive moment in the training hall, the door nearly splintering under his hand—flashed across her mind.

She hesitated. Part of her feared Beryl might have paid a price for that day.

“Sir Serin gave me a warning,” Beryl said.

“A warning?” Elena asked, her brow creasing.

“He told me not to do anything that might displease His Grace.”

“I’m sorry…” she murmured, lowering her gaze. “I didn’t mean for you to get into trouble because of me.”

“Please, don’t say that. It’s nothing—really.”

Beryl quickly waved his hands, his usual easy smile returning as he scratched the back of his head.

“Ah—but, if I may ask… what brings you up here today?”

Elena hesitated for a moment, then finally said the words that had brought her to the tower.

“I’m out for a walk.”

“Here?”

Beryl blinked, glancing around in mild confusion.

The walkway between the towers was narrow and barren. No flowers bloomed here—only stubborn weeds clinging to cracks in the stone and patches of moss darkening the walls. It was quiet, still, and cold. Not the sort of place anyone chose for a stroll.

“Ah! You must’ve come for the view?”

As if the thought had just occurred to him, Beryl pointed past the battlements.

“It’s quite nice from here. In winter it’s brutal—cold enough to freeze the breath from your lungs—but now, it’s not so bad.”

Elena followed the line of his finger, but her eyes didn’t linger on the castle gardens.

Instead, they drifted farther—beyond the outer walls, past the stone paths and cultivated hedges—toward the distant forest of Terra Demorte.

Where once there had been a barren, snow-blanketed expanse, life had returned. Lush greenery now stretched across the land like a living tide, vibrant and rich, as if even her breath caught on the beauty of it.

And then her gaze settled on the clearing.

Where the White Fox Tribe’s village had once stood, the forest had not reclaimed the land. It remained stark and empty—a raw, unhealed scar at the forest’s edge.

There was no smoke, no ash, no trace of the flames that had once devoured the night sky. Yet the absence itself felt louder than destruction.

That had been the home of those who had looked at her—a girl with their same eyes and hair—and called her a witch.

She had wanted to ask them—why?

Why had they called her a witch?

Why had they said she brought misfortune and curses?

But now, there was no one left to ask.

If only I had known…

If only she’d realized all of this before they vanished from Terra Demorte entirely.

A quiet sigh slipped from Elena’s lips, heavy with regret. Her thoughts pulled inward, too deep to notice the quiet concern on Cura’s face, or the way Beryl kept glancing at her, unsure whether to speak.

She stared for a long time at the clearing where the village had once stood—until finally, slowly, she turned her head.

“I want to go there. Is that possible?”

Both Cura and Beryl followed her gaze.

She wasn’t pointing at the forest.

She was pointing at the tower—the one with the barred window.

The one that had drawn her eyes the moment she’d arrived.

She hadn’t understood why at first. Yes, she had come to see the place where the White Fox Tribe had lived and died. But what truly tugged at her, relentlessly, was that tower. Something about it called to her.

“That place is…” Beryl hesitated, his words trailing off as he looked at Elena again. His expression was tight with unease.

“Lady Elena, His Grace has forbidden anyone from entering that tower.”

Cura stepped forward, almost instinctively, as if to shield Elena from the sight.

“Why? Is it… a prison?”

“No,” Cura and Beryl answered at once, exchanging a quick, wary glance.

“We don’t know the reason,” Cura admitted. “Only that His Grace made it clear—no one is allowed near it. He said anyone who disobeyed… would be punished.”

Rather than deterring her, the warning only stoked Elena’s curiosity.

Something about the tower tugged at her—insistently, wordlessly—as though it was reaching for her, whispering through the stone.

And it was that tower—that forbidden place—that Kennard himself had ordered sealed away.

I really can’t…

Elena didn’t finish the thought.

She froze.

In that moment, something brushed against her senses—something achingly familiar.

A presence. A pheromone.

So close, she could feel it.

The next instant, every knight along the ramparts—including Beryl and Cura—bowed their heads in perfect unison.