Chapter 91

Elena slowly turned to face the source of the pheromones.

“What are you doing here?”

Kennard stood there, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl, eyes fixed sharply on her.

“Your Grace.”

She had expected this. Even within the confines of the castle, if she deviated even slightly from her usual path, Kennard always managed to find her. She should have climbed the tower before he arrived—but she was already too late.

“Everyone, stand down.”

At his curt order, Beryl and Cura retreated, moving to join the knights stationed nearby. Only once they had stepped back did Kennard approach, closing the distance between them with steady purpose.

“Did you forget what I said?” he murmured, voice low and close to her ear. “Not to wander off alone to places where only the knights are posted—especially when I’m not with you.”

Though his tone was quiet enough to escape others’ ears, the disapproval in it was impossible to miss.

“I remember,” she replied.

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to see the tower.”

Kennard’s brow lifted slightly as he looked down at her. She could have said she was just taking a walk—but instead, she chose honesty.

Better to ask for forgiveness than to offer a lie.

“The tower?”

Kennard’s brows drew even tighter, the scarred one lifting with the motion. His expression grew so fierce, Elena found herself struggling to speak.

She swallowed hard.

She had anticipated his anger and braced herself, steadying her breath as she waited for his response.

“That place is off-limits,” he said at last, his voice quiet but firm. “From the day I arrived at this castle, no one has been allowed inside—except Serin and me.”

The words were spoken calmly, without a trace of raised voice. But that even, composed tone made Elena feel all the smaller.

What unsettled her most, though, was that Serin—again—was the exception.

It was reasonable. Serin had been by Kennard’s side for years, loyal and trusted beyond question. Of course he would hold a special place in Kennard’s regard.

And yet, knowing all that did little to dull the faint, bitter sting blooming quietly in her chest.

What am I even thinking?

Afraid the flicker of emotion might show on her face, Elena lowered her gaze. It was a foolish thought. An unreasonable feeling.

“I’m not angry,” Kennard murmured. “So don’t make that face.”

He exhaled softly and cupped her cheek with a warmth that belied his earlier severity. The quiet weight of his palm, calloused but gentle, seemed to confirm his words.

He truly wasn’t angry.

Elena leaned into his touch, just barely.

A low, guttural sound stirred in his throat.

Kennard stepped closer, his fingers lifting her chin. Through the curtain of her lashes, she saw the dark gleam in his golden eyes—deeper now, more intense.

“Is this what you do when you don’t want me to get angry?” he asked, voice roughened with restraint.

His hand slid down, trailing from her cheek to her neck in a slow, deliberate caress. Heat bloomed beneath his touch, and the air between them thickened with the potency of his pheromones.

Still watching her, Kennard lowered his head—close enough that his lips hovered just above hers.

One breath closer, and he could kiss her.

Elena gently laid her hand over his, the one curled around her throat, and tilted her head back.
Beneath her fingers, she felt the taut lines of raised veins on the back of his hand—tense, thrumming with restrained energy.

“Your Grace… there are too many eyes on us,” she whispered, forcing the words past a tight breath that scraped her throat.

The way he looked at her—as if he needed her—made her knees threaten to buckle.
But they weren’t alone. She couldn’t allow herself to melt into the heat radiating from him.
Not here. Not now.

More than that, her thoughts were unraveling.

Kennard’s sudden proposal had already left her shaken. And now, news from the White Fox tribe echoed ominously in her mind:
someone with her face was considered a cursed witch—a bringer of ruin.

She wanted to scream, if only to tear through the pressure crushing her chest.
But it was as though invisible hands were wrapped around her throat, holding her still.

Kennard followed her gaze toward the distant knights and let out a quiet sigh, as if conceding—for now.
Still, he didn’t step back.

“Why did you want to go to the tower all of a sudden?” he asked, his voice low, fingers still resting at her throat.

His thumb began to trace the delicate line of her jaw.

“It keeps drawing my attention,” Elena replied softly.

Kennard tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“I can see it from the study,” she said. “Unlike the other buildings, that tower has barred windows. Maybe that’s why it stands out—it’s always in my line of sight.”

“So you got curious?” he murmured. “That’s all it was?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

Then, silence.

How could I possibly tell him the truth?
That the tower feels like it’s calling to me?
That I hear a scream—silent, but constant—echoing from inside its walls?
What would His Grace think if I said that?

What kind of expression would he make…?

Putting such an inexplicable feeling into words was already difficult. Saying it aloud felt nearly impossible.

And truthfully, even if she did speak it, Elena feared the look he might give her—the kind reserved for someone who’d lost their mind.

“If you really want to… I’ll show you,” Kennard said suddenly.

The words caught her completely off guard.

He spoke with startling ease, then gently took her hand and began walking forward without hesitation.

Elena blinked, stunned, staring at his back as he led the way. Only after a heartbeat did she gather herself, lifting the hem of her dress with one hand so she wouldn’t trip as she hurried after him.

As they approached the tower, the knights who had been standing at a distance quickly moved aside, their faces flickering with surprise and unease. 

It was clear—they hadn’t expected this either.

She caught the exchanged glances, the subtle frowns, the way their eyes followed her and Kennard as they passed.

Cura, caught between duty and uncertainty, hesitated. Her gaze flicked between Elena and the group of knights before her.

Elena gave a slight shake of her head. Cura let out a breath and stepped back with a resigned sigh, folding her hands in front of her.

At the far edge of the castle wall, a heavy iron door came into view—identical to the one on the opposite side of the grounds.

Without a word, Kennard grasped the handle and pushed it open with ease, as though it weighed nothing at all. He stepped inside, guiding Elena after him.

The sunlight vanished the moment they entered, swallowed by the heavy shadows beyond the threshold. Elena’s vision went black, her senses reeling from the sudden shift.

For several heartbeats, she could see nothing.

Gradually, her eyes adjusted. The outlines of the space began to take shape.

A spiral staircase loomed ahead, built like those in the other towers—yet here, there were no lanterns along the walls. Not even a single flicker of light to guide the way.

The air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of mold. It clung to her skin and burned the inside of her nose.

Gripping Kennard’s hand, Elena climbed the stairs one cautious step at a time. She couldn’t see clearly, and every movement left her tense, uncertain what might come next.

Sensing the pressure in her grip, Kennard glanced down at her.

“Is it too much?” 

In the darkness, his golden eyes glowed with an almost unnatural intensity as they met hers.

“I just can’t see well,” Elena murmured, shaking her head.

“Ah! Your Grace—!” she began, but before she could finish, Kennard moved without hesitation.

In one swift motion, he swept her into his arms.

The suddenness of it startled her so completely that a startled sound, nearly a scream, escaped her lips.

The echo bounced harshly off the stone walls, and she quickly clapped a hand over her mouth.

Effortlessly cradling her, Kennard strode up the narrow stairwell as though walking down a sunlit corridor.

The dark stone winding beneath them was broken only by occasional windows, through which shafts of sunlight streamed, illuminating patches of moss and vines crawling along the walls.

From the outside, the tower had seemed tall—but inside, it stretched even higher, a looming spiral of shadow and stone.

With every step upward, Elena felt Kennard’s heartbeat thundering against her, strong and insistent—so much so that it felt as if her own pulse synced with his.

She lifted her eyes to meet his, curiosity softening her gaze. His breathing, however, was calm and steady, utterly controlled, as if he carried her through an ordinary hallway, not a forbidding tower.

Still, the veins in his neck pulsed visibly above the collar of his shirt, swelling with tension. Though his face remained nearly impassive, Elena knew he was on edge.

What could be inside this tower to unsettle him so? If entry was forbidden, there had to be a reason.

She opened her mouth to ask if it was truly safe for him to show her this place, but a sudden thought stopped her cold: if she spoke, Kennard might turn and take her away. So she swallowed the question and stayed silent.

It wasn’t long before they reached their destination.

At the top of the stairs, a wide chamber opened before them.

Beyond it stood a single iron door, thick and formidable like the one outside, but more worn—its surface streaked with rust and corrosion.

Two massive locks hung from the door, so large they seemed to suck the air from her lungs just by their sheer weight.

She had never seen this place before.

It was utterly unfamiliar.

Yet despite the unfamiliarity, something beyond the door tugged at her, as if calling her forward, drawing her closer.

“Is this the place?” she whispered, a chill sweeping through her, shivering through every fiber of her being.

“Yes,” Kennard answered softly.

He gently set her down and laced his fingers with hers.

“Is this… another prison?” Her voice barely rose above a breath, her eyes still fixed on the massive locks as she swallowed hard.