The High Priest had been drawn to this aspect of the painting from the beginning—the dry texture of the paint, as though real ash might crumble from it.

“Why are you so interested in the power of the devil?”

Had anyone else been present to hear McClart’s question, they would have gasped at his boldness, considering it disrespectful. The question was outright insolent, almost as if challenging the High Priest’s devotion.

The High Priest, who could have easily taken offense at McClart’s cold question, instead replied in a gentle tone, unfazed.

“Do you believe a benevolent God is perfect?”

McClart remained silent. Perhaps sensing that no answer would come, the High Priest continued without pause.

“How can a perfect God be purely good? Even the devil is a child of the Divine.”

It sounded as if he was musing to himself, or perhaps imparting some sort of lesson to McClart. With a satisfied smile, the High Priest took in the intricate details of the painting, then shifted his gaze to a slightly smaller one hanging next to it. This painting depicted a demon writhing in agony amidst the flames, its tortured expression frozen in vivid detail; in truth, the High Priest often favoured this type of painting. He seemed more interested in depictions of desperate, kneeling creatures than those that praised the Divine or illustrated His greatness. Of course, no one knew his personal preferences.

Breaking the silence, McClart, who had been standing tensely, finally spoke.

“We have confirmed that there is another newly born descendant of the Great Witch.”

The High Priest, who had been wholly absorbed in the paintings, paused.

“If you wish, I can bring her to you.”

The High Priest turned fully to face him, tilting his head slightly.

“Is that true?”

“We received confirmation yesterday. I plan to send people soon to track her down properly.”

The High Priest’s usual steady smile faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of surprise. He regarded McClart with newfound interest, murmuring quietly to himself, as though the news had stirred something within him. After a thoughtful pause, he nodded, a look of understanding settling over him.

At least it seemed that no immediate order would be given to send Vienny to the capital. McClart’s tense expression eased ever so slightly.

Noticing this subtle shift, the High Priest murmured with a faint smile.

“It seems blood cannot lie, given that we both share the same interest. Wouldn’t you agree?”

McClart gave a brief nod, choosing not to respond, and, as usual, turned to leave without waiting for the High Priest’s permission.

As he stepped out, clerics who had been anxiously waiting for a chance to speak with the High Priest surged toward him, eager to ask about the treatment of the Great Witch. McClart, however, shot them an annoyed glare, ignoring their questions as he continued on his way.

For now, McClart had no intention of disclosing the existence of another  Great Witch to the High Priest. After all, the information was based on nothing more than a witch’s testimony.

Until he found more reliable evidence, he had to act as if the information were false. And yet, impulsively, he had mentioned it. If he hadn’t diverted the High Priest’s attention, the demand to send Vienny to the Divine Hall might have come as early as tomorrow.

“What about the Great Witch?”

“She’s been moved to her room.”

***

McClart’s personal quarters were on the top floor of the castle. He reached his room quickly and paused before opening the door. Though it was unlikely, he had the fleeting sensation of a faint, sweet scent of blood wafting through the narrow crack.

Clenching his teeth, he pushed the door open with a calm, steady touch.

Vienny was in front of the fireplace. Given that her fate would likely end in flames, one might expect her to fear fire, yet she showed no sign of it. In fact, she seemed to find some comfort near the warmth.

However, she wasn’t seated on the sofa; she was crouched on the floor, occasionally gazing into the flickering flames, so absorbed that she didn’t even notice McClart’s entrance.

The room’s warmth carried a faint sweetness in the air. The wound on her forehead had already been tended to, so it shouldn’t have been bleeding. She had likely bitten her lip again.

Vienny had warned that anyone who tasted her blood would lose their sanity and transform into a demon. The risk that an unwitting devotee might be lured by its scent made it unthinkable to set her free.

To be honest, McClart suspected that Pepin might have already tasted Vienny’s blood. If so, it would explain Pepin’s unrestrained desire with unsettling clarity.

“Interrogator, you’re not going to stop the witch hunts, are you?”

Vienny spoke suddenly, still staring into the fireplace with her knees drawn close. McClart thought she might have been lost in thought, but it seemed she had sensed his presence.

After closing the door, McClart approached her. Vienny remained seated, her back to him.

“You’re going to purify every witch in Tempe, right?”

When he didn’t respond, Vienny lowered her arms and turned to face him. Her crimson lips were speckled with fresh droplets of blood.

“Even the last of the Great Witch’s bloodline—you’ll purify it all, won’t you?”

McClart, who had been silently holding her red gaze, narrowed his own.

“Purification is not a task for your personal revenge.”

“Eventually…”

“Do not taint the sacred act of fulfilling the Divine’s will with petty, selfish motives.”

Vienny bit down hard on her lips as McClart’s cold words cut through her. Her already dark red lips deepened, as though they couldn’t possibly get any darker. Her tightly clenched mouth twitched, betraying whatever thoughts ran through her mind.

“My betrayal… it began as something personal. If it’s no longer needed, then…!”

“It is still needed.”

Vienny, who had been speaking with mounting frustration, fell silent. She frowned, clearly confused. The firelight, which McClart initially thought merely cast its glow on her, illuminated her flushed cheeks.

Now that he thought about it, the scent in the room wasn’t just the faint sweetness of blood—there was the distinct aroma of wine, too. McClart recalled the wine the High Priest had been drinking earlier. It wasn’t hard to imagine the High Priest offering a glass to Vienny; he was known to use strong liquor to soften others’ defenses.

If he had gone so far as to give Vienny wine, it could only mean one thing: the High Priest intended for this weak and fearful Great Witch to fall even further, to become a faithful servant of the Divine.

“Did you really think you’d be set free?”

Vienny couldn’t find the words to respond.

“No matter what kind or gentle words the High Priest spoke, abandon any foolish hope.”

He went on, gesturing for her to move. Vienny stared at him blankly before realising his intention. Rising unsteadily, she made her way to her usual corner of the room and sat down as quietly as she could.

With her head bowed, Vienny’s expression was a mix of gloom and faint sorrow. McClart regarded her with a look of displeasure before unlocking the tightly secured door. He called for an attendant waiting outside, then glanced back at her.

“Bring the cuffs… no, bring the shackles.”

Vienny’s head lifted slightly, strands of dark hair falling across her face as she looked up. She absently rubbed her bruised, purplish wrists, and her crimson eyes shimmered with an unsettling brightness, as if soaked in blood.

For days, McClart had been plagued by the scent of Vienny’s blood. Now, even the sight of anything red made his mouth water. Red—the color of blood—the sweetness of it. It all connected in his mind, as if he were becoming like a trained dog, conditioned to respond to that vivid shade.

Perhaps it was why each new guard found himself unable to resist laying hands on her, why Pepin’s interest in her had grown so disturbingly intense. They too, consciously or unconsciously, had been conditioned by her presence.

Vienny is dangerous, McClart concluded once again.

The servant quickly returned with the shackles.

McClart picked up the heavy metal. He walked towards Vienny, even though the weight of the cuffs alone had always been a struggle for her, the shackles were necessary now that the cuffs had been removed.

Without protest, she offered her ankle. Her thin, pale leg seemed as though it could fit entirely in his hand. Even the smallest size of shackles was loose around her, and as soon as they were fastened, her ankle bone turned red from rubbing against the metal.

After adjusting her feet a few times, Vienny settled down, making no further movement. With the chain now secured to a ring in the floor, she could no longer sit by the fireplace.

McClart put the key in his pocket and started to get up when Vienny, who had been silent the whole time, murmured quietly, almost as if talking to herself.

“You really are a gentleman.”

If choosing shackles over cuffs was considered gentlemanly, then the Grand Witch was indeed weak and foolish. McClart scoffed, dismissing her words.

A gentleman? She must have forgotten entirely about the blue flames he had summoned to burn her village to the ground.

“It’s fortunate that you’re the one in charge of me, Inquisitor.”

“A gentleman?”

Vienny was silent for a moment, then lifted her head to meet his gaze directly.

“Because you have unwavering faith.”

Her bloodstained lips curved into a faint smile, revealing a hint of relief. McClart frowned, unsettled as he looked at Vienny’s expression—it was the first time he had seen her smile.

It would be easier if he could just kill her right then and there. A surge of irritation began to build within him.

She was a troublesome, inconvenient Grand Witch.