“Don’t waste my time with that useless body of yours. If my patience runs out, I can’t promise what will happen to you.”
Kennard’s voice was a low growl, each word curling in the air like a predator ready to strike.
Simir flinched visibly, his shoulders trembling as if trying to shield him from the weight of Kennard’s menace. He remained bowing, his head pressed low to the ground, unable to meet the piercing gaze trained on him.
After a tense silence, Simir slowly pushed himself upright, his movements slow and strained. His thin fingers grasped the staff lying on the ground, using it as leverage to stand. He wobbled unsteadily, his legs threatening to betray him, but before he could collapse, two men stepped forward. Without a word, they gripped his arms, steadying him with a practiced ease.
The group moved as one, following Simir into the village. Torches lit their path, the flickering flames casting long, uneven shadows across the dirt road.
Villagers gathered in front of their homes, murmuring in quiet conversation. The moment Kennard appeared, the chatter died as if the air itself had frozen. Bodies stiffened. Eyes widened. It was as though time had come to an abrupt halt.
Only distant sounds—a mournful melody carried on the wind and the occasional cries of wild animals echoing from the forest—dared break the silence.
Kennard, unfazed by the reaction, allowed his gaze to sweep over the crowd. His expression betrayed nothing, his indifference a mask. Yet in those fleeting glances, he cataloged every face, every reaction.
Most of them were older than him, save for a boy who looked to be about Cura’s age. Despite their expressions of fear and unease, Kennard’s sharp instincts warned him not to trust the surface of their emotions.
Somewhere among these people might be someone aiding the White Fox Tribe—the exiles who had been driven beyond the borders. Or perhaps it was someone with a darker secret: the traces of forbidden sorcery found deep in the Terra Demorte Forest.
Kennard’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He wouldn’t allow appearances to deceive him.
“What are you still doing here? Everyone, gather at the altar!” Simir’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and metallic, slicing through the uneasy quiet.
Even the effort of shouting left his frail frame trembling. He swayed where he stood, but his command was absolute. Without hesitation, the villagers began to move, falling into a unified procession that snaked toward their destination.
It was then that Kennard’s sharp gaze landed on someone who didn’t seem to belong.
The man stood apart from the others. His hair was white, as were his robes, but there was something distinctly different about him. His physique seemed oddly familiar, and the faint aura he exuded—a subtle, almost undetectable signature of pheromones—was nothing like that of the White Fox Tribe.
“Leto.”
Kennard’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd like a blade.
The name’s owner—a man walking among the villagers—flinched and halted mid-step. The woman beside him stiffened, her gaze darting toward Kennard before flickering back to Leto, a silent question in her eyes.
Leto leaned toward her, whispering something inaudible. Then, reluctantly, he stepped away from the group. Even before Leto moved closer, Kennard had no doubt—it was him.
“Your Grace,” Leto greeted, his voice trembling as he bowed deeply. His clasped hands fidgeted, betraying his unease.
Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
“Well…” Leto hesitated, his gaze darting to the ground as if searching for an excuse.
Kennard’s expression hardened, incredulity etched across his features. Before he could press further, Serin’s sharp voice cut in.
“His Grace asked you a question.”
The reprimand made Leto flinch. “I—I came because I heard there was a festival,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“The festival must have ended during the day,” Kennard replied coldly, his irritation simmering just below the surface. His voice dropped into a low growl, each word heavy with restrained anger.
“Y-yes, but…” Leto’s shoulders hunched as though he could make himself smaller, his pale face growing paler still under Kennard’s and Serin’s unrelenting gazes.
Kennard tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing further. “Surely you weren’t planning to attend the offering for Bazak as well?”
“No, no!” Leto exclaimed, shaking his hands frantically as though the very idea was unthinkable. “I was just planning to take a brief look before leaving.”
“Unbelievable.”
Kennard exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead with one hand as though the man’s presence alone was giving him a headache. His glare was sharp enough to pierce through Leto, who visibly shrank under its weight.
“Go home. Immediately.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace! I will leave right away.”
Leto bowed so quickly and repeatedly that it seemed he might fall over. Without another word, he turned and hastily retreated.
“Be at the castle tomorrow at dawn. I’ll have the attendants bring your things. And don’t even think about leaving the castle grounds until you return to Montefiano.”
Kennard’s tone was as cold as steel, brooking no argument.
“Your Grace, but…”
Leto faltered, his eyes darting to Kennard before flicking toward the White Fox woman he’d been speaking with moments ago.
Kennard followed his gaze, his expression darkening as his eyes landed on the woman. He narrowed them, his suspicion sharp and unmistakable.
“Are you defying my orders?” Kennard growled, his teeth clenched in frustration as he glared at Leto.
The older man hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. He dropped his gaze to the ground, unable to meet Kennard’s piercing stare. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them.
