“What did you do outside the walls?”

Macklatt’s voice sliced through the air again. Pepin had invoked the Inquisitor’s authority to insist on taking her out alone. Just mentioning McClart’s name had been enough to clear their path, allowing Pepin to mock and torment her freely. The only limit he observed was not inflicting any new wounds or reopening old ones.

Considering they had gone out unsupervised, McClart’s sharpness was understandable. He likely didn’t expect Pepin to give a detailed account, forcing him to imagine what might have happened.

“Did you let another beast do whatever they wanted to you?”

Getting no response from Vienny, McClart stepped closer, grabbed her arm and jerked it back and forth hard enough to make her stagger. Her loose clothing flapped, exposing her pale skin for a moment before settling down again. Even after confirming that there were no visible injuries, his scowl remained.

“Or was it Dr. Pepin?” he continued, his voice filled with irritation.

Vienny finally looked up slightly to meet his eyes, which only made McClart’s expression contort further. He seemed to interpret her silence as an affirmation.

“I saw the bodies hanging from the fortress wall.”

McClart paused, his raised voice falling silent. He watched her, his blue eyes filled with contempt, annoyance, and distaste. Vienny spoke with a calm, emotionless tone.

“The witch you recently captured and hanged.”

McClart’s sneer deepened.

“Did seeing the death of your kin suddenly fill you with grief?”

At McClart’s mocking question, Vienny blinked slowly. Sadness—a word that felt distant and unfamiliar to her.

“Not at all.”

If it wasn’t sadness, was it satisfaction? No, that wasn’t it either. She felt nothing in particular. Even as she thought the corpse was mocking her, there was no fear or terror, nor did she feel sympathy or guilt. If she had to identify the emotion she felt at the time…

Relief.

“I heard the witch begged to take my place, offering to inform instead. I was grateful that you chose me over her.”

The intense look in McClart’s eyes softened into a faint frown.

“Seems Dr. Pepin’s tongue has gotten quite loose.”

Muttering irritably, McClart grasped Vienny’s chin and lifted her face upwards. The collar around her neck, tightened more than necessary by Pepin’s games, was exposed.

If it were removed, it would probably leave a red mark in its place. McClart gazed coldly at the faint mark on her skin and murmured in a distant tone.

“Did you coax him like a dog to talk?”

There was no need to coax Pepin to talk, but rather than point that out, Vienny quietly looked away. The man in front of her seemed to be in a particularly bad mood. Though she doubted it was entirely her fault, there was no need to provoke him any further.

“Did the doctor do this?”

McClart’s hand, which had been holding her chin, slowly traced along her collarbone, visible beneath the loose neckline. When he pressed unexpectedly, a sharp pain shot through her, and Vienny instinctively furrowed her brow. A short, involuntary gasp escaped her, but then the pressure lifted.

She had no intention of lowering her guard or making another sound. Vienny bit her lip, tensing her body to suppress any further reaction. McClart’s hand lingered near her collarbone, though he didn’t press down again.

Instead, he forcefully pulled her lower lip free from between her teeth with his thumb. Startled by the unexpected gesture, Vienny looked up at him. McClart, staring down at her with a blank expression, spoke in a low, fierce voice.

“It smells like a blood.”

How much could the scent of blood from her lips even linger? Vienny looked at McClart with a vacant expression, then reluctantly lowered her gaze. She had no choice but to comply when he expressed his displeasure.

“Lift your head.”

When she merely raised her chin to avoid his eyes, McClart clicked his tongue gently and grabbed the exposed collar. With a tug of both hands, the collar that had tightly constricted her neck instantly loosened.

Though it wasn’t made of iron, the leather collar had been worked to be very strong, but in McClart’s grasp it tore like a sheet of paper.

The ripping sound echoed just below her chin. It was only the collar being torn, yet Vienny felt as though her own neck might break. She swallowed dryly, and McClart’s gaze flickered to her throat, which moved slightly as she gulped.

He tossed the torn collar carelessly aside and reached for the spot where it had been. His hand was so large that it seemed he could easily strangle her with just one.

“It’s chafed.”

The collar hadn’t been properly finished along the edges. It was crudely made, focused solely on restraint with no regard for the comfort of the person forced to wear it.

Pepin had probably chosen such a collar on purpose. For Vienny, a minor injury like that wasn’t a big deal, and she didn’t feel any particular discomfort from the rough leather scraping against her neck.

But since McClart had referred to it as a nasty smell of blood, she couldn’t help but be a little more conscious of it now. There probably wasn’t much blood, but considering the man had complained about a small cut on her lip, how much more would he be bothered by the droplets dripping from the scrapes on her neck?

She could feel his thick, rough fingers hovering near the chafed area, almost touching but not quite.

He wasn’t trying to choke her; his touch felt more careful, almost intimate. Despite his indifferent expression, his hand lingered around her neck with a quiet persistence.

He was only looking down at her neck, yet Vienny found herself breathing more heavily. No matter how she tried to control it, her chest continued to rise and fall. Lowering her trembling lashes, she forced her stiff tongue to form words.

“Did you get… any useful information from that witch?”

The question slipped out without even passing through her mind. Her voice, breaking the eerie silence, disturbed the stifling stillness of the air.

McClart withdrew his hand from her neck and turned away, his expression cold. The looming shadow he cast over her receded in an instant.

“If there had been anything useful, it would be you hanging from the battlements instead of that witch.”

As McClart walked slowly towards the fireplace, Vienny glanced at his back and reached up to touch her neck. Had McClart released some of his divine power? Was that why her whole body felt so hot, as if exposed to his heat?

“Think about the next informant.”

He said, his voice cold as he moved toward the main room. Suddenly, he stopped. Vienny, still holding her neck, felt his gaze and looked up. The moment she met his blue eyes, it felt as though her entire body was tightly bound.

“Have you eaten?”

“…Pardon?”

Vienny, unusually caught off guard, asked again in genuine confusion. It was only when she noticed irritation creeping across McClart’s face that she understood what he had said.

A meal. Now that she thought about it, he had once told her not to make herself an eyesore in such a pitiful state. Perhaps he meant for her to eat properly and put on some weight.

…To make her burn longer during a fire execution someday?

“Prepare the meal… No, to her room.”

McClart ordered the attendant outside, leaving Vienny standing there in confusion. Her lips parted slightly, unable to decide what expression to make. Finally, she shrank back and sat down in her usual corner of the room.

McClart didn’t stop her. Instead, he changed his direction from heading to the main room and sat down in front of the fireplace. It looked like he had been working before Vienny arrived—papers and a pen rested on the side table next to the sofa.

The meal was prepared quickly, and surprisingly, the quality of the food was quite good, as if the attendant thought it was meant for McClart himself.

The attendant naturally began setting the table in front of McClart, only realizing that the food was meant for Vienny after seeing McClart’s gesture. He immediately offered to prepare something else, but under McClart’s sharp gaze, he ended up laying out the food in front of Vienny.

Compared to what the High Priest had served her, the meal was modest, yet it was still more than Vienny was accustomed to—she was used to eating only the bare minimum needed to survive. At least the attendant had left out the finest dishes with some tact, making her feel slightly less uncomfortable.

“Eat.”

With those words, McClart completely withdrew his attention from her. He rested his legs on a stool and leaned back on the sofa, reading the papers, as though he were alone in the room.

Seeing him act as if she didn’t exist, Vienny cautiously took her seat at the table. Before, in front of the High Priest, whose gaze seemed to pierce her, even holding the utensils had been a burden. But now, being treated as if she were invisible made her feel strangely comfortable. It was absurd, really, that she found comfort in being disregarded.

Vienny slowly began to move her spoon. As she stirred the food, steam rose, bringing a rich aroma with it. She hoped the scent of the meal would at least mask the unpleasant smell of her blood. So, she stirred the food even more diligently.

So focused on her task, Vienny didn’t notice the occasional blue eyes glancing at her from behind the papers.