“What did I just hear?” Kennard’s eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “Where did they say they were calling me?” he asked.
“To the ritual honoring Bazak…” Serin replied, his voice tinged with caution.
Kennard stilled, his fingers stopping mid-tap on the desk as he fixed a glare on Serin. “Should I refuse outright?”
Serin scratched his temple, a wry smile creeping onto his face. “Isn’t that obvious?”
Kennard leaned back in his chair, resting both elbows on the armrests as he clasped his hands together thoughtfully. “They must be out of their minds. How dare they summon me anywhere?”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Serin nodded. “I was rather stunned myself, but I felt it necessary to inform you first.” He lifted an envelope from the table, examining the seal from the village chief, Simir. “I’ll inform them that Your Grace will not attend. That being the case, what should be done about the ritual? It seems they’re preparing for a celebration.”
Kennard scoffed. “Ridiculous.”
“Understood,” Serin replied with a slight bow. “I’ll make sure that’s clear to them as well.”
Kennard’s gaze followed Serin as he walked to a side desk. He eyed the envelope in Serin’s hand thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in contemplation. A sudden idea crossed his mind, and he quickly calculated the possibilities.
“Serin,” Kennard called.
“Yes, Your Grace?” Serin turned, looking back at him.
“Tell them I’ll attend.”
Serin’s hand froze in midair as he was about to set the envelope down. He shot Kennard a perplexed look. “Pardon?”
“I said,” Kennard’s voice held an edge of finality, “I’ll attend this ritual of theirs… honoring Bazak, or whatever they call it.”
“So, are you saying you’ll also approve the celebration?” Serin asked, stepping back in front of Kennard’s desk with a raised brow. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
“There might be someone among them colluding with the White Fox Tribe,” Kennard replied, his voice low.
Serin frowned, unconvinced. “Even if that were true, do you think there’s a way to uncover it on the day? I doubt any traitor would be reckless enough to act with Your Grace present.”
Kennard tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t be certain. But it wouldn’t hurt to observe their behavior, don’t you think?”
Serin nodded slowly, glancing down at the envelope in his hand. “Shall I tell them Your Grace will attend, then?”
“Yes,” Kennard replied, his tone decisive.
“Will it be just the two of us going?” Serin pressed.
Kennard propped his elbows on the desk, clasped his hands together, and tapped his chin with his thumbs as he bit down on his lower lip. “On the surface.”
Serin’s brows knitted in slight confusion. “When you say ‘on the surface’…”
“You and I will enter the village alone, but the knights will guard the perimeter,” Kennard clarified.
“Understood.”
“And make it clear,” Kennard added, his gaze hardening, “that anyone engaging in nonsense outside the ritual is to be dealt with on the spot.”
“Understood,” Serin repeated.
With a sigh, Serin returned to the side desk, sitting down to quickly draft a reply. After scribbling the formal message, he brought it back to Kennard, who reviewed it with a brief nod of approval.
Serin picked up the sealing wax and held it over the candle’s flame. As the wax melted, he dipped the Devil House’s wolf insignia into the molten pool. With a steady hand, he pressed the symbol onto the envelope.
At the sound of the handbell, Lassino entered from the adjacent room, bowing slightly.
“Send someone to deliver this to Simir,” Kennard commanded, gesturing toward the envelope in Serin’s hand.
“Yes, Your Grace.” With a nod, Lassino took the envelope and swiftly exited the office.
As the door closed, Serin watched with a frown, his disapproval evident. “Wouldn’t it be better if Your Grace didn’t go yourself just to observe their movements? We could simply send the knights to the village.”
Kennard leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m curious.”
“Curious? About what, exactly?” Serin asked, his gaze wary.
Kennard’s eyes gleamed with a subtle interest. “This so-called witch they mention. Apparently, they’re calling someone with red hair and gray eyes a witch.”
“Yes, they are,” Serin confirmed with a nod, though his expression remained skeptical.
Kennard scoffed, his voice tinged with irritation. “All because of this god they call Bazak, who condemns people with such features as witches?”
“That’s correct,” Serin replied, folding his arms. “It’s Bazak’s doctrine that fuels their fear.”
“I’m intrigued by what makes this wretched Bazak, or whatever they call him, so revered. If Elena is to stay here for any length of time, dismantling their misguided beliefs may become… necessary.”
“So that’s the reason,” Serin murmured, a sigh escaping him as he shook his head.
Kennard’s expression darkened, and Serin hesitated before speaking again, carefully choosing his words. “Why should it matter to you what they call a witch outside the castle, especially when you keep Elena—” Serin paused, catching the sharpness in Kennard’s gaze, and quickly corrected himself, “no, Lady Elena—hidden here within these walls?”
“I can’t keep her in the castle forever,” Kennard said, his tone resolute. “I plan to take her to the forest and the hot springs eventually. I won’t have her treated like a criminal in hiding.”
“The… hot springs?” Serin repeated, frowning. “You mean the old man Leto mentioned?” He rubbed his forehead, pressing hard enough to create faint creases.
Kennard nodded, ignoring Serin’s look of disapproval. “She didn’t say anything about it, but I’m sure she’d enjoy it.”
“Your Grace…” Serin hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “Are you certain this is wise?”
“Don’t say a word,” Kennard warned, his gaze icy.
