After a moment’s hesitation, Vienny carefully took the glass. The High Priest held his own and smiled.

“Drink.”

It was a simple command, yet she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Vienny’s hands shook slightly as she held the glass tightly, her gaze fixed on the High Priest, who stood watching her intently.

The cold glass pressed against her chapped lips, sending a shiver down her spine. She tilted it slightly, intending only to take a sip. But the High Priest’s soft voice added.

“Drink it all.”

Closing her eyes, Vienny took a deep breath and drank it all in one go. The strong taste burned her throat, and, unaccustomed to alcohol, she felt her head pounding from just that one glass. She suppressed a cough, her eyes welling up from the strain.

As she tried to shake off the harsh taste lingering in her mouth, she heard the High Priest laughed softly. He sat down, leaning back comfortably, and sipped his own wine, watching her with a steady gaze.

“Sometimes, the influence of alcohol helps ease unnecessary tension. I have many questions for you.”

Vienny pressed her lips together tightly, finally lifting her gaze to meet his.

“Answer faithfully.”

She blinked slowly, struggling to compose herself. Rarely did she drink, and the sudden rush of wine left her feeling flushed and unsettled.

“First… yes, I’ve heard from Dr Pepin. It seems that due to the Inquisitor’s decision to keep you hidden, further experiments could not be carried out.

The High Priest seemed to make no effort to hide his interest in the experiments. Vienny’s mind, momentarily clouded by the alcohol, was sharpened by a sudden chill. She couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the High Priest’s words.

McClart had hidden her. She had thought it was just confinement, but from Pepin’s perspective it seemed more like an obstacle to his experiments.

Of course, McClart knew the power in her blood and was well aware of Pepin’s desires. Obviously, he had no intention of handing Vienny over to Pepin. Pepin wasn’t entirely without perception; if McClart had intended to keep him away, he would have picked up on it to some extent.

“How is the arm that was bitten back then?”

Vienny had once believed Pepin’s research into witches was purely motivated by his personal curiosity. Now, however, she realized he had the High Priest’s support.

It became clear why Pepin had carried such confidence around her—the High Priest’s backing explained his unrestrained expression of interest. Vienny looked down at her arm. Though still wrapped in bandages, it was essentially healed, thanks to Pepin’s attentive care and the relative calm of her confinement.

“Yes.”

“I hear you bear many scars from beast bites. Surely, there’s a reason for that.”

Naturally, as her personal physician, Pepin must have already suspected the origins of those scars. Having seen more of Vienny’s body than anyone else, he would have been the first to question them.

Vienny felt a pang of self-reproach. It wasn’t just the High Priest’s visit that had suddenly drawn attention to her blood. Ever since her capture and arrival at the Inquisition, with Pepin assigned to her, her secrets had already started unraveling piece by piece. The High Priest’s presence now merely signaled the moment he felt fully assured of what he already suspected.

Nothing she said would sway him; he clearly knew everything. Yet, despite this, Vienny still clung to the faint hope of maintaining her façade of ignorance.

“They are marks of worshiping the devil.”

To an ordinary priest or follower, her scars could easily be mistaken for the result of some dark ritual – the marks of a sinister spell. Those misunderstandings had led to her unjust suffering, but now she couldn’t deny that it had become a useful misunderstanding.

“Do not be afraid. The Divine is merciful, and if you speak honestly about your foolish past, the path to salvation will surely open for you.”

“The answer I gave a moment ago is all that I can offer.”

“Oh… how disappointing.”

Vienny pressed her lips together. Though the High Priest’s voice remained as soft as before, invoking the Divine, it no longer sounded sincere to her.

“Do you think I am asking without knowing that your blood connects you to the beasts?”

“This is power given by the devil.”

The High Priest burst out laughing. The sound was so pure that Vienny couldn’t help but look up. He was laughing with a bright, almost carefree amusement, his expression impeccably serene, as if he’d heard the most delightful joke.

“It doesn’t matter who gave you the power.”

The High Priest spoke softly, his expression gentle.

“What matters is how you use that power.”

For a moment, Vienny was drawn in by his dazzling smile. Anything too beautiful was bound to hide poison, like the lure of the devil’s facade. The lineage of the High Witch, stubbornly passed down through generations, had taught her as much.

…Could the High Priest before her be hiding something similar?

“Is purification the only will of the Divine? No. To give a foolish soul like you a chance is also His Will. You should offer endless prayers of gratitude for His mercy.”

Was her thinking muddled from the alcohol? The High Priest’s seemingly reasonable words felt strangely distorted, and Vienny struggled to grasp his true meaning.

Surely, he wasn’t talking about giving a Great Witch who worshiped the devil a chance. The very idea sent a chill through her.

“What… what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I will personally guide you to use your power correctly.”

No matter how she tried to act clueless, it was pointless. The High Priest seemed to read something in her pale expression and smiled with calculated kindness.

“Do not worry. If you follow my guidance, your difficult life will come to an end.”

Vienny realized she was in the worst possible position. Her breathing grew shallow as the weight of the situation settled over her.

“If you wish, I could even order the witch hunts to stop.”

It was an utterly absurd proposal—terrifying and incomprehensible. What stunned her most was that it was the High Priest himself suggesting something so unthinkable.

The High Priest was someone whose very presence made people step back. When he gestured, they knelt; when he smiled, they wept in reverence. If he wished, the entire world would bend to fulfill his will.

Even if that will meant sparing the wicked Great Witch.

“If you swear to abide by the Divine’s will.”

* * *

The High Priest, sipping his wine with a relaxed expression, glanced up. Someone had entered the room uninvited, exuding a menacing presence that sent the attendants scattering, as though they feared he might break their limbs if they hesitated even a moment. In a low voice, the High Priest spoke.

“McClart.”

He spoke the name almost playfully, and McClart turned his cold gaze on the High Priest. Once the servants had left and the door was closed, McClart stepped forward.

“She is an ill-omened woman. You should not take an interest in her.”

There was no need to clarify who he meant. The High Priest placed his glass down on the table.

“You have been watching over her closely, so perhaps you can judge her more accurately than Pepin.”

The High Priest rose from his chair, turning with an easy, unbothered demeanor. Folding his hands behind his back, he gazed at the large painting on the wall, his expression calm and serene.

“Doesn’t she seem incredibly useful?”

“She is the Great Witch.”

“Oh, indeed she is. Such a lovely and charming Great Witch.”

He laughed, though the painting in front of him held anything but amusement. It was a massive piece, painted in dark, somber tones, depicting a witch burned at the stake, reduced to nothing but ashes.

The work had been donated by a devout artist when the Inquisition was first established, a symbol of hope for a flawless and successful witch hunt. The High Priest had gifted it to inspire those leading the hunts, and McClart had placed it in a suitably spacious guest room.

Ironically, it was in this room that the High Priest had been received. McClart frowned as he watched the High Priest, his gaze lingering on the charred remains in the painting, his tone still light and cheerful.

“Her blood even carries a sweet scent. She is truly a Great Witch, isn’t she? You can sense her fierce will to preserve her kind in a single drop of her blood. How could one overlook such a desperate instinct for survival?”

The High Priest turned his head slightly, casting a probing glance at McClart.

“What did you say? No intention of handing her over?”

McClart responded without a moment’s hesitation.

“The witches of Tempe are hiding like rats, burrowing underground. We still need the Great Witch’s information.”

As their numbers dwindled, the witches had scattered, blended in and tried to live as ordinary people. This made Vienny’s knowledge all the more valuable.

McClart reached his conclusion effortlessly, but the High Priest merely responded with a meaningful smile.

“It’s rather fascinating, the way you’re handling things.”

“The Great Witch is dangerous.”

“Do you truly believe she appears dangerous?”

“Yes.”

The High Priest sighed, shaking his head.

“Oh, you’ve been bewitched, it seems.”

His confident murmur made McClart’s frown deepen.

“That’s not the case.”

“That too must be a test given by the Divine.”

The High Priest replied dismissively, ignoring McClart’s denial. Instead, he leaned forward and studied the rough brushstrokes depicting the witch’s limp limbs. The heavy, forceful application of dark paint seemed to make death almost tangible.