Uncertain but resigned to obey, she forced herself to raise her hand, pushing through the pain to reach for the glass. But just as her trembling fingers approached it, McClart pulled the glass away, his gaze fixed on her unsteady grip in irritation.

“How annoying.”

Muttering irritably, he pulled a key from his pocket. With a swift motion, the weight of the cuffs pressing heavily on her wrists disappeared. In one impatient decision, he had freed her hands. Without the weight, her hand steadied, and when McClart extended the glass again, she was able to take it properly.

Though Vienny held the glass, she was still struggling to grasp the situation. She stared down at the water in confusion, while McClart pulled up a chair and sat in front of her.

“Drink it and clear your throat. I don’t want to hear that grating sound.”

So, he wanted her to drink, clear her voice, and then recount her dream. Vienny was dumbfounded by this unexpected act of kindness. McClart Hemlock, offering her water? Could it be poisoned? Or laced with something else…?

“Does your brain revert to a beast every time you attune?”

“N-No, sir.”

Oddly enough, his usual mocking tone reassured her; this was the McClart she knew. Reluctantly, she brought the glass to her lips.

It had been so long since she’d had the luxury of drinking clear water. She’d only intended to wet her throat, but before she knew it, she was gulping it down, emptying the glass completely.

The sudden movement caused her chapped lips to crack, a small cut bleeding, though she paid it no mind. Tilting her head back as she drank, a thin trail of water mixed with blood trickled down her neck.

As soon as she drank, a sudden worry flashed through her mind—what if she ended up spitting out blood? Her shoulders tensed, but she felt nothing unusual. Carefully placing the empty glass down, Vienny cleared her throat, casting a cautious glance at McClart before parting her lips to speak.

“I was wandering through the woods, then… I saw a campfire. I got closer, and… I was hunted.”

“Why did you approach the campfire?”

“I was hungry—no, the beast was hungry… It tried to attack a person. But before it could strike, it was killed. That’s all.”

A low chuckle rumbled from McClart.

“The place where that beast appeared was a burial ground, right behind my castle. A group camping there now? And skilled enough to fend off a beast’s attack with a single strike, in the dead of night?”

Come to think of it, even if the beast had wandered far, it would likely stay near its habitat, meaning it must have been in that area. Would there even be a path for travelers near the burial grounds? Unfamiliar with the local geography, Vienny couldn’t think of how to answer McClart’s questions.

“Did a coven of witches show up and try to take you away?” he asked mockingly.

It was clear that McClart wouldn’t believe her. It wasn’t surprising – she could tell him anything about her dreams and he’d have no way of checking it.

Not that she had any reason to trust her. In the end, Vienny decided to tell what she’d seen as plainly as she could.

“It wasn’t a witch. Just… an ordinary person with black eyes.”

Maybe she should have left out the detail about the caravan. Mentioning it had only raised unnecessary suspicion. She bit her lip, silently berating herself for her lack of foresight.

Her lips, still damp from the water, split slightly under the pressure of her teeth, a sting reminding her of her nervousness. The effort to steady her thoughts helped, and Vienny braced herself for another sneer from McClart. But instead he remained silent, sitting with his legs crossed and an unusual expression on his face.

“Black eyes?”

“…Yes.”

McClart rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on Vienny with an unrelenting intensity that made her uncomfortable. She instinctively lowered her head.

Now that he’d seen her in the throes of attunement, she hoped he might send her back to her room. She didn’t dare wish for the underground cell, but at the very least, she wanted to be left alone.

But Vienny’s prayers had never been answered, and this time was no different. Instead of dismissing her with a scornful order, McClart introduced an entirely different topic.

“Was it you—the girl the witches offered every season?”

Vienny pressed her lips together, unable to hide the slight tremor in her eyelashes.

“So the witches, notorious enough to avoid even natural disasters, have avoided trouble by borrowing the senses of beasts,” he mused, his tone darkening.

He no longer needed any explanation from her.

“And that’s why they looked for you during each hunt… and died.”

McClart seemed to grow more certain with each word, as if the pieces had finally fallen into place.

“Now that there is no witch left to warn them in the same way, they will be hunted down helplessly.

In a twisted way, it was a practical survival strategy. If one person suffered, the rest of their kind could live in peace. It was, by all accounts, an ideal arrangement. Even the title ‘Great Witch’ suited her – she really did lead them, albeit in a self-sacrificing way.

McClart’s lips curled in contempt. She hadn’t been killed on an altar, but it was no different than a human sacrifice. They just let her die slowly, bit by bit. It seemed that witches were indeed demonic worshippers in need of purification.

“If you can connect with an animal by letting it drink your blood, what if a human were to drink your blood?”

“W-What?”

“I asked what would happen if a human drank your blood.”

Vienne’s face went pale, her expression frozen in horror. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came. Noticing McClart’s brows furrowing in irritation, she answered hastily.

“They’d… become a demon.”

Her words came out almost like a warning, carrying an unsettling sense of certainty.

“Anyone who drinks my blood loses their mind and becomes a demon.”

It was impossible to ignore.

McClart noted Vienny’s tense reaction before rising with casual indifference.

“As expected, witch’s blood would be poison to any human.”

He remarked, moving the chair back into place. He seemed done with her, and Vienny found herself fidgeting with the empty glass in her hands. McClart tossed a few books off the table towards the main room, discarding them as if they were a minor distraction.

He undid the top button of his shirt, weariness showing on his face. Seeing this, Vienny spoke up cautiously.

“Now that you’ve learned everything you wanted, will you send me back to my room?”

“Hardly.”

His response was not what Vienny had hoped for. He cast her a disinterested glance, his voice cold as he spoke.

“Now that I know you’re a living poison pouch, why would I risk letting you go?”

Vienny was left speechless, the words she wanted to say slipping away. Unfazed, McClart opened the door and ordered the soldier waiting outside.

“Bring Pepin.”

It seemed he intended to have her wounds treated again. Which meant she’d be left here, bound and idling away her time, just as before.

Her lips parted slightly, but she swallowed the sigh building in her chest and lowered her gaze. Setting the empty glass aside, she glanced down at her hands.

The discarded cuffs lay beside her, casually tossed aside by McClart. The newfound lightness in her wrists, freed from their weight, felt both foreign and stiff. Slowly, she rotated her wrists, hearing a faint crack as the joints adjusted.

She knew the cuffs would soon be back on. But for a brief moment, she wanted to savor this fleeting freedom, to feel her hands move without restraint.

“Now that the cuffs are off, do you think you can escape?”

McClart’s voice held a slight edge, interpreting Vienny’s movements as something more.

“Consider it a reward for cooperating and answering properly. So abandon any foolish dreams and accept what you’ve been given with gratitude.”

It almost sounded as though he was saying he wouldn’t cuff her again. Vienny, who had been rubbing the bruised, purplish skin on her wrists, looked up at him.

McClart leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with a guarded gaze, ready to take action at the slightest hint of trouble. The fact that he stopped at only this level of suspicion was surprising.

Actually, this wasn’t the only thing that felt unusual. A glass of water, freedom from her cuffs—such trivial kindnesses wouldn’t have happened ordinarily.

Vienny’s lips parted slightly and murmur quietly.

“You always look at me as if I were filth, but…”

It was almost absurd to think that way, but there was a hint of sadness in admitting it. She looked down at the blood trickling from her arm, staining the carpet, and muttered to herself.

“And yet… can you believe that of all of them, you are the most gentlemanly to me?”

No response came. Vienny hadn’t expected one. She kept her gaze fixed on the dark stain spreading across the carpet.

Moments later, the soldier’s voice announced Pepin’s arrival.

Pepin knelt before her, his face tired, as if he had rushed over. Only then did Vienny look around. McClart, who had been standing at the door, had disappeared.

By the fire, the empty sofa cast a long shadow across the room.

* * *

There were many reasons why McClart was exceptionally skilled compared to other Inquisitors, but the primary reason was undoubtedly his divine power.

Normally, a sacred artefact was required to channel divine power. For most Inquisitors, this artefact took the form of weapons such as swords or axes, and like them, McClart imbued his holy greatsword with divine power.

However, unlike others who couldn’t release their power without such a medium, McClart had the ability to summon flames through sheer force of will.

He used a weapon only to increase its accuracy and destructive power. Conjuring divine power with his thoughts alone carried the risk of being influenced by unconscious impulses.

For example, a few days ago when he burned the beast. The creature he originally intended to burn was the black-furred beast that had bitten the Great Witch’s arm.

However, the divine power that was unleashed ended up burning the brown-furred beast instead. It must have been an unconscious instinct not to harm the Great Witch.

It would have been easier just to kill her.

McClart ran a hand through his hair, irritated. Already familiar with the High Priest’s cunning, he had an instinctive feeling that something very unpleasant was about to happen. And now the witch standing before him confirmed his premonition.