“The day Tempe burns to ashes, I’ll die too.”

“So, what’s stopping me from killing you now?”

Vienny bit her trembling lip. Unlike other inquisitors, McClart wasn’t one to revel in unnecessary cruelty or the screams of his victims. If he decided to end her life, it would be swift and merciful.

If he chose to kill her, she knew she wouldn’t stand a chance.

“I don’t want to die just yet.”

It wasn’t the meek, submissive tone she’d used before. Her words were clear and resolute as she raised her gaze, locking her red eyes with his blue ones. This time, she didn’t look away.

McClart stared back, his expression blank, his blue eyes devoid of any emotion—no trace of the disdain or scorn he usually wore.

It didn’t matter. Vienny prayed silently. Even if those blue flames were destined to consume her one day, she hoped that day was not today.

At the very least, she intended to live long enough to see Tempe reduced to ashes; only then would she accept death willingly.

* * *

When she returned to the prison, the guard was nowhere to be found. Instead, a large bloodstain marked the ground in front of her cell—likely left by the missing guard.

The prison was already thick with the stench of blood and other foul odors, so one more bloodstain hardly made a difference. Yet, the fresh scent in the air seemed to intensify the already chilling atmosphere.

Vienny slumped against the corner of her cell, feeling the weight of the chains pulling down her exhausted limbs. She’d been on the move since dawn, and her body ached for rest. Just as her eyes were closing, a faint squeaking sound broke the silence.

A fist-sized gray rat emerged in the corridor, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air. After a few sniffs, as if it had found what it was looking for, the rat scurried directly toward her cell.

The rat slipped easily through the iron bars and approached Vienny’s limp hand. Without warning, it sank its sharp teeth into her finger. Blood began to seep from the wound, and her finger twitched involuntarily from the pain.

Vienny bit down hard to suppress the sting. She lifted her eyes slightly.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Startled, the rat – still licking the blood from her finger – scurried away and disappeared into a hole in the wall.

“The smell of blood is overwhelming. What did you do this time to end up being tortured again?” a voice called out from the hallway.

The man who appeared spoke with an almost friendly tone. Wearing a monocle, he was her attending physician in this inquisitorial prison.

“You look like a mess. You still recognize me, don’t you? It’s Dr. Pepin.”

Though he was called her doctor, his treatment extended only to keeping her alive. Vienny was well aware that, although he never admitted it openly, he viewed her as nothing more than a test subject for his witch-related studies. With the witch hunts still ongoing, he hadn’t administered any experimental drugs directly to her, but she was certain that once they were over, his scalpel would inevitably find its way to her chest.

Perhaps, out of pure curiosity, he’d preserve her heart as a specimen, fascinated by what a witch’s heart might look like. Or maybe he’d slice away her skin layer by layer, dissecting her as he pleased.

Pepin entered the cell with practiced ease and hung a lamp on the wall hook he had brought with him. The once-dark cell was now filled with stark, revealing light. It exposed the few crumpled blankets strewn across the floor, the only semblance of comfort in the grim room. As always, Pepin shook his head in disapproval. “I’ll never get used to this filth,” he muttered, his brown curls bouncing slightly as he shook his head.

“The Inquisitor said you injured your leg.”

Vienny obediently extended her legs. Dressed only in a pale tunic that fell to her knees, it took little effort to lift the fabric slightly and expose her skin.

Pepin clicked his tongue at the sight of her legs, covered in dark bruises and patches of red scabs.

“That guard deserved to be dismissed.”

Vienny looked down at her own legs. The last guard had used a hot iron to burn the sacred symbol of Chiron into her thigh, insisting on marking her flesh with his divine seal. Looking at the burns, now crusted over with scabs, she felt no anger – only a resigned numbness.

The idea of engraving a symbol with a hot iron was absurd. If it had been done with a knife or an awl, at least the shape might have resembled something. Instead, she’d been beaten for not staying still during the branding, leaving her in a pitiful state.

But what was the difference between this torture and all the others she had endured before? The guard, dismissed for his excessive zeal, had oppressed her in his own fervor, much like countless others who had tormented her in the past. To Vienny, it was just another grotesque scar to add to her collection.

As she examined her wounds with detached indifference, as if they belonged to someone else, she felt a gaze on her. Looking up, she saw Pepin watching her. He was methodically laying out clean cloth and arranging his tools and medicines on the floor.

When their eyes met, Pepin casually turned his attention back to the antiseptics, as if he hadn’t been watching her at all.

“Bite down on this,” he said, holding out a piece of cloth.

Vienny took it without hesitation, clenching it between her teeth. The stiff fabric began to soften as it absorbed her saliva.

“I should’ve brought more antiseptic, given this mess.”

He soaked a cloth with antiseptic and began to wipe down her wounds. There was no luxury of rinsing them with water or using any anesthetic for a witch.

A sharp, stinging pain radiated from each wound he touched, and Pepin seemed to press down with deliberate force, adding to her discomfort.

She squeezed her eyes shut and bit down harder on the cloth, which quickly became soaked with her saliva. Pepin glanced at her, seemingly pleased by her silent endurance, and a cruel smirk crept onto his face. Without warning, he dug his fingers into one of her open wounds.

A muffled whimper escaped her as his fingers ruthlessly pressed into the raw flesh. Despite her efforts, the agony in her leg consumed her focus, and her tightly shut eyes began to glisten with tears.

“Open your eyes.”

Pepin whispered, his voice tinged with a faint, unsettling excitement.

She forced her eyes to open despite the lingering pain, and her vision was immediately met by Pepin’s beaming smile.

“You must have bewitched me with those red eyes of yours, haven’t you?”

With the cloth still clenched between her teeth, she couldn’t respond. Her wet lashes fluttered faintly, trembling like the fragile wings of a butterfly caught in the rain.

“The power of a Great Witch is truly terrifying. To be able to ensnare someone so easily…” he continued, almost as if he were talking to himself.

Chiron’s people were raised with unwavering faith from birth, and Pepin was no exception—a devout believer since childhood. Yet he openly displayed his fascination, even his twisted admiration, for Vienny, despite the very beliefs that condemned her.

Although Vienny had never sought his attention, he remained fixated on her. She had never attempted to bewitch him; she didn’t possess that kind of power.

But denying it would be pointless. No one would believe her anyway.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you die. I’ll treat you properly. Just think of the pain as part of the healing process.”

Pepin was a skilled physician, and she had overheard that he held a significant status even within Chiron. The ease with which he spoke of being “bewitched by a witch” without fear suggested he was of no ordinary lineage.

Fighting back the urge to sneer, Vienny clenched her jaw and closed her eyes once more. Pepin’s behaviour often flirted dangerously close to lines others would never dare to cross. It took more than audacity; it took a recklessness that bordered on madness.

Perhaps Pepin really was an illegitimate child of the high priest, as one of the guards had once speculated. How else could he have behaved with such brazen disregard for decency?

Priests were expected to live celibate lives, devoting their bodies and minds entirely to their god, but Vienny knew that appearances were often deceiving. If the High Priest had a brazen illegitimate child like Pepin, it wouldn’t surprise her in the least.

“You know,” Pepin began, almost as if reading her thoughts, “before you showed up, I was one of the High Priest’s personal physicians. Brave of him to send me here, don’t you think?”

As if confirming her suspicions, he casually mentioned his previous connection to the High Priest while tending to her wounds. He finished disinfecting the worst burns on her thigh and began applying a thin layer of ointment, the cool, slimy texture soothing against her skin.

“You’ve never met him, have you? He’s a true messenger of God, beyond the reach of time itself.”