Instead of responding to Vienny’s words, McClart examined the bloodstains on the bedding, his expression growing even colder, as if something about it troubled him deeply.

“There will be no treatment today. You may leave.”

Pepin, who had just begun laying out medical supplies, looked up in surprise. The wound was right in front of him, still bleeding, yet he was told not to treat it. He sensed that something was seriously wrong.

But Pepin had no grounds to defy McClart’s orders, so, albeit reluctantly, he began packing up the supplies he had taken out.

Until Pepin left, McClart quietly stared at the bedding. Vienny, following his gaze, looked at her own bedding too, unable to understand what was so concerning.

“Bitten by a rat?”

McClart finally spoke.

“Yes.”

“If you were bitten in the underground cell, that means it’s an old wound.”

“I accidentally scratched off the scab…”

As soon as Vienny finished speaking, McClart let out a low scoff.

“Do you expect me to believe that a mere scab coming off left bloodstains that big?”

Having often seen large pools of blood during her time in the underground cell, Vienny couldn’t make sense of the bloodstain on the bedding. But McClart’s words made her realise that there might have been more blood than she thought.

With no excuse to offer, she simply lowered her head in hesitation. If she were still in the underground cell, no one would have noticed something like this. Being in this clean room seemed to make everything more inconvenient. What if they assumed she’d performed some dark ritual because of the bloodstain? Would they send her back to the underground cell for good?

Uneasily, she glanced around, unsure whether to feel relieved or more anxious about McClart’s continued suspicion.

McClart stepped forward and grabbed her wrist again, pressing down hard on her injured finger. Blood that had begun to clot began to swell, then burst and trickled down her hand.

“How curious. Such a small wound, yet it spilled that much blood.”

“Ugh…”

His grip was so strong that her finger went numb. Vienny bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to endure the pain.

“And you still claim you can’t control beasts?”

“I really…”

“Blood must be what it takes to control them, isn’t it?”

Though her hand was caught, it felt as if her neck were being squeezed, the air pressed from her lungs. The large hand holding her seemed poised to ignite with blue flames at any moment. Tears gathered in her red eyes.

“So that’s why your body is covered in wounds.”

It hadn’t even been a week since she was taken out of the underground cell. She’d been under the Inquisition’s watch for nearly six months, and no one had uncovered anything. Yet in just a few days, McClart had pieced it all together with unsettling ease.

If he hadn’t scrutinized her so closely, she might have continued living quietly, just as before. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared enough to give her this much attention. Perhaps she should blame the High Priest, the one responsible for stirring all this trouble.

But now wasn’t the time for such distracting thoughts. Vienny knew too well how much needless pain could come from trying to lie her way out.

“I don’t control them.”

Her trapped hand began to heat up in response to her resistance. Terrified, Vienny shivered and hurriedly added, “It’s just an instinctive reaction, nothing more.”

The heat, which she feared would consume her hand, gradually subsided. Her skin still stung and burned as if it had been scorched, but Vienny felt a wave of relief—more thankful that her hand hadn’t caught fire than concerned about the pain. Holding back her tears, she cautiously lifted her gaze, only to meet McClart’s cold stare.

“Explain.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed her face, but she knew that if she hesitated any longer, she might indeed be set on fire. Silently praying that he would lose interest in her abilities, she reluctantly began to speak, her voice trembling.

“It’s just… temporarily sharing the senses of a beast that drinks my blood. I can’t control it, and it only happens sporadically, usually when I’m asleep, so it’s of no practical use. It’s all random.

“If it’s useless, why were you bitten by so many beasts?”

Vienny’s shoulders shrank pitifully.

“Because I never knew which beast I might connect with or when…”

McClart twisted his lips into an ambiguous expression. Her explanation was unsatisfying in many ways, but instead of pressing her further, he chose a different question.

“Did you rely on this sorcery for your informant work as well?”

Though her body was here, she could potentially see the outside world through the eyes of a beast—McClart seemed to have reached that conclusion. Vienny quickly shook her head in denial.

“N-No.”

“Is that so?”

His voice, repeating her words, held a mocking edge.

The heat in her hand began to rise again, slowly but unmistakably. Her focus locked onto her restrained hand, dreading the flames that could erupt at any moment. She flinched and tried to pull her hand away, but it was useless.

As she trembled, staring at her hand, she heard McClart’s low, mocking murmur.

“There was no one at Glada Valley.”

Vienny’s head shot up in shock.

Glada Valley? She hadn’t heard anything about an expedition there. Her red eyes gave away her surprise, unable to mask her confusion.

“That can’t be!”

“Your certainty is impressive—almost as if you’ve seen it yourself.”

Vienny fell silent, biting her lips to hold back any further response. She hadn’t even noticed the blood oozing from the wound on her lips until now. The raw sting in her mouth burned, and fear tightened her breath.

“Name another place.”

His voice was merciless, pressing down on her with unyielding force.

“If it’s not from sorcery, then you should be able to provide a new location right now.”

If it truly was sorcery, her days as an informant were numbered. The holy knights would never tolerate being deceived by a witch’s magic. Her lips, already bitten raw, began to tear, bits of skin loosening painfully.

Losing her role as an informant would mean only one thing—death, likely by execution in blue flames. The thought of torture was unbearable, but even worse was the image of being publicly burned at the stake in the town square. Her life had been filthy, but at least she hoped her death might be…

Without a second to think deeply, Vienny hastily blurted out the first place that came to mind.

“Dairen. Dairen Hill.”

Was there even a village there? Or maybe a few witches had lived there? Perhaps a family of demon worshippers… Vienny struggled to conceal her fear, swallowing her rapid breaths. Surely someone was hiding in that place.

Suddenly, the grip that had held her so tightly was gone. McClart released her, casting her hand aside, and turned away without a moment’s hesitation.

Realizing she had narrowly escaped the blade that had metaphorically hovered at her throat, Vienny exhaled in relief. Her legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, trying to steady her breathing. From the direction of the door, McClart’s voice called out.

“Bring a wet towel. And…”

It seemed he was issuing orders to an attendant outside. He paused mid-sentence, and after a moment, his tone turned even colder as he continued.

“Pass on the order to kill every rat in the underground cells immediately.”

* * *

It would take some time for McClart to verify the truth of Vienny’s information. To her, that time felt endless.

Yet her daily routine remained unchanged. She still received treatment from Pepin in McClart’s presence at precisely eleven o’clock. Whatever conversation had occurred between McClart and Pepin—one Vienny hadn’t been privy to—resulted in Pepin behaving like a diligent physician. As a result, the rat bites healed noticeably faster, and her leg improved as well. Although scars would remain, she was finally able to walk at a normal pace.

Despite the initial urgency, the High Priest’s visit was unexpectedly delayed. Eavesdropping from McClart’s office, she overheard that each city along his route was doing everything possible to prolong his stay. It was said that the faithful, yearning to receive God’s grace for even a moment longer, made it difficult for the High Priest to turn them down.

As he relayed the news, Priest Brown shot Vienny a hateful glare, barely able to contain his eagerness to torture her.

With each passing day, Vienny grew more anxious, awaiting confirmation from McClart—was there truly a witch in Dairen Hill? She didn’t want to die. Her most basic instinct, the same as any living creature, was a fierce desire to survive.

But if she had to die, her first wish was to take all the witches of Tempe with her. Her second wish was to avoid being burned at the stake like them. Though others might see it as a twisted desire, Vienny had her own vision of an ideal death—one that didn’t end with her as ashes scattered across the earth.

Yet, no mention of Dairen came from McClart, even after considerable time had passed. Instead, he departed on a witch hunt. His destination was Glada Valley.

When Vienny heard that McClart was headed to Glada Valley, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of disbelief and resentment. He had insisted there were no witches there, only to turn around and set out for the valley himself. It was clear now that his earlier statement had been nothing more than a way to test her, and the realization left her feeling deflated.