“How’s the headache?” Serin asked as he placed a stack of documents on the worn wooden desk.
“I’m fine,” Kennard replied, the pain that had plagued him gradually fading away.
The castle, cloaked in the early morning mist, welcomed Kennard upon his return. Lassino awaited him in the dimly lit office. After reluctantly swallowing the medicine Lassino insisted upon, Kennard succumbed to a brief slumber. The headache, once a relentless tormentor, had loosened its grip.
“Did you send a messenger to the homeland?” Kennard inquired.
“Yes, before sunrise. But there’s something else,” Serin hesitated, a cloud of uncertainty shadowing his expression as he glanced at Kennard.
“What’s wrong?” Kennard’s concern deepened.
“While training with the members this morning, we overheard something that’s been bothering me.”
“What is it?”
Serin lowered his head, his fingers deftly wielding a paper knife to open an envelope that held undisclosed secrets.
“During the last battle, there was an abandoned house on the outskirts of a White Fox Tribe village. They took shelter there and stumbled upon something strange.”
“Strange?” Kennard echoed.
“Yes. An altar-like arrangement inside the house and peculiar drawings adorning the walls.”
“Drawings?”
“Yes. Different from what we’ve seen in the forest, yet strangely familiar,” Serin disclosed.
“No one was living in that house?” Kennard questioned, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.
“When the knights went, it was an empty house. There were signs of recent habitation, but it looked like whoever lived there had hastily departed, likely fleeing the encroaching war,” Serin explained.
“Why bring this up now?” Kennard leaned back in his chair, a sense of foreboding settling over him. He could sense that Serin’s revelation was more than just a report on an abandoned dwelling.
“Well, that’s…” Serin hesitated, and Kennard could tell there was more to the story.
“What?” Kennard’s voice held a note of impatience, and as Serin scratched near his eyebrows and averted his gaze, he knew he needed to press for the truth.
“Don’t beat around the bush. Spit it out,” Kennard demanded, his stern demeanor prompting Serin to meet his gaze.
“Serin Elus!” Kennard growled softly under his breath as Serin sighed deeply, his shoulders shrugging in resignation.
“The other villagers mentioned that the house was known as the Witch’s House,” Serin confessed, sighing in surrender.
“What, a witch?” Kennard, visibly surprised, rose from his chair, his gaze turning accusatory.
Glaring at him with a hint of defiance, Serin raised both palms, as if to calm the brewing storm. “Yes, a witch.”
“What nonsense is this? I could entertain the idea of a sorcerer, but a witch?” Kennard scoffed, disbelief etched on his features.
“I don’t believe it either, but it appears the White Fox Tribe harbored a belief in the existence of a witch. Especially…” Serin’s voice trailed off.
“Especially what?” Kennard pressed. An urgency gripped him, fueled by a growing unease that had settled in his bones.
In recent months, an unfamiliar cocktail of misfortune, melancholy, and irritation had seeped into Kennard’s life, an unsettling presence he had never encountered before.
“It’s said that the witch was prophesied to bring ruin to the White Fox Tribe, a tale passed down through the tribe’s legends for generations. The woman in that abandoned house was expelled from the village because of this prophecy,” Serin finally disclosed.
“Are you out of your mind? How can you be sure it’s a witch? Do you truly believe in spells and magic?”
“I don’t have all the answers. But because of that supposed witch, whispers of the White Fox Tribe’s destruction lingered. The residents dismissed it as nonsense, perhaps fueled by their own fears.”
“You want me to believe something you thought was nonsense?” Kennard’s disbelief was palpable as he met Serin’s gaze.
Gritting his lower lip, Serin stared back at Kennard, his gaze unwavering. “Red hair ablaze like fire, and translucent gray eyes that seem to enchant. Anyone with such features, man or woman, was considered a witch.”
As Serin spoke, Kennard felt a sudden blow to the back of his head. The description painted a vivid image that mirrored Elena, a realization that left him stunned. Elena’s once lifeless, rough hair had regained its vitality within the castle’s walls, becoming a fiery red. Her striking, translucent gray eyes had captivated those around her, just as Serin described.
No matter how he tried to deny it, the pieces of the puzzle aligned with the woman Kennard had grown inexplicably attached to – Elena.
The memory of his first encounter with Elena lingered vividly in Kennard’s mind—the place, the piercing gaze of her eyes. As he held the torn-open letter, bearing the emblem of the Blade Duchy in red sealing wax, Kennard’s intense stare bore into its contents. He wasn’t the least concerned about its contents.
“Who’s the one spouting such nonsense?” Kennard’s skepticism cut through the air.
“Irish. If it were anyone else, I might have dismissed it, but Irish isn’t that kind of person. I’ve sensed something off about Elena for a while, and it crystallized yesterday when I found traces of blood in the forest,” Serin explained, her words carrying a weight that demanded attention.
“Do others know?” Kennard’s voice betrayed a hint of vulnerability.
“No. I didn’t want unnecessary rumors spreading, so I only shared it with you,” Serin replied, meeting Kennard’s intense gaze.
“Go bring Irish here,” Kennard commanded, a sense of urgency coloring his words.
“What would you like me to do? I’ve already instructed him to keep silent, so he won’t disclose it to others.”
“If I say bring him, bring him,” Kennard insisted, his tone brooking no argument.
“Understood,” Serin sighed.
Gazing through the office door Serin had just exited, Kennard leaned into the chair’s backrest, his mind a swirl of contemplation. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk, each beat echoing the unexpected revelation that had unfolded. The notion that anyone resembling Elena was labeled a witch by the White Fox tribe loomed over him like an unspoken truth.
Was that why she was chased away?
Was that the reason back then too?
As Kennard grappled with these questions, hazy memories from the recesses of his mind resurfaced. The vivid recollection of that fateful day, etched into his memory with an indelible ink, haunted him relentlessly. No matter how fervently he attempted to bury it, that moment remained imprinted, refusing to be forgotten.
