Even after applying the ointment, Pepin’s hand lingered unnervingly on her thigh. In the cold of the prison, his warmth should have been a comfort, but instead, it sent a chill deep into her bones, colder than the stone floor beneath her.

As his fingers wandered, they found another wound, and he pressed down mercilessly. The unexpected pain struck her, and the tears she had been holding back finally spilled over.

Feigning gentleness, Pepin wiped the tears from her cheeks, muttering words meant to soothe her as he resumed disinfecting the wound.

The treatment was far from over. It had been six months since her imprisonment, yet she had never grown accustomed to this. Instead of becoming numb to the pain, her body seemed to grow more sensitive to it. She cursed her own frailty, resenting how every touch still brought fresh agony.

Trying to distract herself, she shifted her gaze to the dark corridor beyond the cell bars. From the shadows, a creature with ashen fur cautiously crept into view.

The red-eyed rat stared at her, its gaze unflinching. Vienny blinked slowly and moved her fingers slightly, feeling the itch and sting from the earlier bite. The rat squeaked a few times before darting back into the small hole.

“There are still rats around, huh? No wonder your wounds aren’t healing properly in these conditions.”

“You need to be in decent condition before the High Priest arrives. This time, not even the other priests will be able to keep you from meeting him,” he added, his tone laced with unsettling certainty.

* * *

Pepin’s words proved true a few days later.

A week after his visit, Vienny was moved to a proper room, albeit one without windows, for the first time since her imprisonment. Unlike her cell, this room contained real furniture. This change was the result of her six months of submission and the impending visit of the High Priest. They even provided her with water for a private bath.

Preparing water in her room was no small task, but many feared that allowing a witch to bathe in a nearby river would poison the entire waterway. Since no one dared assist a witch with her bath, Vienny was left entirely alone. She didn’t mind the solitude; what troubled her was the uncertainty surrounding the High Priest’s visit.

Pepin had described it as “the footsteps of a saint seeking to witness the submission of evil,” but Vienny sensed there was more to it. Even as she washed her neglected skin, a persistent unease weighed on her. The significance of the High Priest’s arrival hung over her like a dark shadow, filling her with a gnawing fear she couldn’t shake.

When Vienny was given a change of clean clothing—under the pretense that she shouldn’t appear disheveled before the High Priest—her anxiety peaked. Dressed in fresh garments, she couldn’t hide her unease, pacing restlessly around the room. In these better conditions, her wounds finally seemed as if they might start to heal properly.

Although still bound by shackles and handcuffs, being in a proper room instead of the dark, damp cell made her feel as if her situation was shifting—perhaps even regressing.

Regressing… no, that was impossible.

Panic flickered across her face as she scanned the room desperately.

‘If I create a disturbance, will they send me back to the prison?’

Should she try to unleash the so-called witchcraft they feared so much? But what exactly did they mean by witchcraft? If only she could display some obvious, undeniable power like the ones the inquisitors seemed to believe in…

No, if she tried to do anything, they wouldn’t send her back to the cell; they would send her to the pyre.

She had fought so hard to cling to this fragile thread of survival—she couldn’t let it all unravel now.

Unable to reach any solution, Vienny slumped helplessly in the center of the room. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she buried her head, but the trembling in her body refused to subside completely. Somehow, enduring the guards’ torture seemed preferable to this unsettling calm and uncertainty.

“What are you doing?”

A familiar voice spoke above her, startling her. Vienny looked up to see McClart standing there, his hands clasped behind his back. She hadn’t even heard the door open. He frowned down at her.

“Were you attempting some kind of witchcraft?” he asked, his gaze sweeping the room as if searching for any evidence.

Of course, there was nothing for him to find. But his cold distrust was evident as he continued to scrutinize her. Even without proof, McClart’s tone carried an unmistakable warning.

“This room is surrounded by holy relics, so don’t even think about trying anything foolish.”

Vienny had never felt any oppressive force from these so-called relics. The weight of the shackles was burdensome, yes, but only because they were heavy—not because of any divine power they supposedly held. Still, there was no point in correcting his misconception, so she simply nodded obediently.

Despite her compliance, McClart’s expression remained hard. He continued to regard her with a disapproving glare.

“How long do you plan to stay like that?”

“Ah…”

She didn’t understand why he seemed so irritated, but Vienny had no desire to provoke him any further. She stood quickly, though her stiff and battered body protested with every movement. Even after the treatment, her limbs were far from flexible and she couldn’t help but wince as she straightened, her discomfort showing despite her best efforts to hide it.

As Vienny awkwardly got to her feet, her eyes darted nervously, trying to gauge McClart’s mood. Just then, the door creaked open, and another figure entered—Pepin, an air of excitement radiating from him.

“You arrived ahead of me, Inquisitor.”

Pepin greeted McClart with a soft smile before shifting his gaze to Vienny. She quickly lowered her eyes, sensing his unsettlingly thorough inspection. The intensity of his stare sent a chill deep into her chest.

“How long will her recovery take?”

“She’ll be in good condition before the High Priest arrives, provided she continues resting in a suitable environment.”

“And what are the chances she’ll regain enough strength to use witchcraft?”

McClart’s voice was cold, laden with suspicion. Pepin chuckled lightly.

“You’re amusing, Inquisitor. If she wanted to use witchcraft, she had several chances. There’s nothing to worry about.”

His words dismissed the notion that Vienny posed any real threat, yet he seemed to take a certain pleasure in the tension between them, as if savoring the uncertainty in the room.

Despite Pepin’s reassurances, McClart’s expression remained one of unmistakable dissatisfaction. From their very first encounter, Vienny had shown no signs of resistance toward him. Even after being brought to this place, she had always kept her head lowered in submission, never once attempting to defy or challenge him or anyone else.

Most people saw her as a walking plague—something to avoid rather than an actual threat. They averted their eyes from her red gaze, not out of fear of being bewitched, but because the blood-like hue stirred feelings of disgust and loathing.

If anyone truly feared her powers, the rotating guards wouldn’t have dared to torture her at every opportunity.

McClart was the only one who never let his guard down around her. If he ever felt Vienny was a threat, he wouldn’t hesitate to unleash divine power to reduce her to ashes. Or he could sever her head with a swift stroke of his greatsword.

“The condition of her wounds?”

“Ah, let me show you!”

Pepin replied eagerly, stepping toward Vienny and grabbing hold of her skirt. The suddenness of his actions caused her entire body to tense. Though the ointment had been applied, her wounds were far from healed, leaving her legs covered in bruises and scabs, now fully exposed before the two men.

The most severe injury was on her thigh, and Pepin lifted her skirt entirely to reveal it. The exposed skin prickled with goosebumps from the cold air.

“Here, this is the deepest wound,” Pepin explained, running his fingers along the inside of her thigh. “To ensure full recovery before the High Priest arrives, I’ll need to treat her daily. You needn’t worry—I’ll handle it personally.”

He smiled pleasantly as he traced the outline of the wound, his touch lingering in a way that felt unsettling. Vienny, struggling to keep her expression neutral, lowered her gaze, subtly tucking her chin to hide her discomfort.

To an outsider, Pepin’s actions might have seemed like those of a doctor carefully examining a patient’s injuries. To react would only invite suspicion and misunderstanding, and the consequences would be hers alone. So she remained silent, swallowing her unease.

Vienny bit the inside of her cheek, doing her best to keep an indifferent expression. McClart remained silent, and without his word, her lifted skirt stayed embarrassingly in place. After what felt like an eternity, she cautiously glanced up to assess the situation.

McClart’s blue eyes were fixed on her face, observing her with an unnervingly calm gaze. His attention then shifted downward, assessing the condition of her exposed thigh.

Pepin continued pressing down on her wounds as if to demonstrate something, his fingers applying just enough pressure to cause pain without reopening the injuries. The discomfort was clear, as beads of sweat formed on Vienny’s forehead.

While Pepin’s treatments had often been painful, this felt different—almost intentional. She looked at his face and noticed a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

Fighting the urge to recoil, she made a subtle attempt to move her thigh away. But before she could move further, McClart’s voice cut through the air with a chilling authority.

“That’s enough.”

The words were simple but carried a weight that commanded immediate compliance.

“Continue the rest of the treatment in my presence.”

“What?”

Pepin’s eyes widened, as if snapped out of a trance. He turned to McClart with a look of bewilderment.

“Is there a problem?”

McClart’s tone was flat, but the underlying threat was unmistakable.

“Well… it’s just that… the Great Witch is already in a weakened state, so there’s no need to be so cautious…”

It was clear that Pepin did not like the idea. Treating Vienny under McClart’s watchful gaze meant he wouldn’t be able to indulge in his usual lingering touches or apply unnecessary pressure to her wounds. His hesitation was obvious, but McClart’s cold stare left no room for negotiation.

Pepin, who had seemed almost giddy at the sight of a freshly cleaned witch, was now desperately trying to justify himself. Even Vienny could see him struggling to find an excuse. But with each stammering attempt, McClart’s expression grew colder and harder.