Episode 1
In a mountain village blanketed by a thin layer of sleet, the residents lay groaning and writhing on the ground. The village head, crawling through a field of bodies, grabbed the hem of Ceshion’s cloak and pleaded.
“F-forgive us, Your Grace! We have committed a mortal sin!”
“Get off! How dare you!”
Hans, Ceshion’s adjutant, struck the old man away with the flat of his sword. The village head, cut by the blade, wailed in agony.
“We were truly just holding a witch! Because of her, the harvests fail every year, the elders lose their minds seeing ghosts, and our young men have gone missing!”
“You simply needed someone to blame for all your misfortunes. A witch? Preposterous.”
Ceshion cast a look of pure contempt and turned away. The clanking of his iron armor faded, replaced instantly by the rising screams of the villagers.
The decade-long era of witch hunting was over. Ceshion had abolished the absurd law that offered bounties for discovering witches. Ridiculously, as soon as the reward money dried up, the informers vanished along with it.
Now, witch hunting was strictly illegal. Merely claiming someone was a witch was an offense punishable by death. Unfortunately, news had yet to reach this remote corner of the world, where a poor woman was being sacrificed under the guise of superstition.
Ceshion approached the small shack where the woman was held. The door of the windowless hut was wrapped tightly in heavy chains. It was a bizarre sight—six padlocks used to confine a single woman.
The locks, corroded by years of exposure to snow and rain, were flimsier than they looked. As Ceshion prepared to strike them with his sword, a woman collapsed nearby crawled over and grabbed his ankle.
“B-be careful! You must never make eye contact! The curse…!”
“Let go.”
“I know you don’t believe me. But you can still be cautious! Every man who met her eyes while trying to bring her food went mad!”
“I have one question. If you knew eye contact caused madness, why did you bother feeding her?”
“The truth is, that witch… she was an outsider whom our village bachelors tried to ravish and accidentally killed. We were sure we buried her pieces in different places, but one day she suddenly came back to life…! We feared a worse curse if we killed her again, so we had no choice but to lock her up and feed her… Ugh!“
Ceshion’s blade cut across the back of the woman’s neck. A dead woman coming back to life as a witch? Nonsense. They had likely seen someone who bore a resemblance and, fueled by their own guilt, descended into collective madness.
Thud. The chain, heavy with padlocks, fell away. He pushed open the rotting wooden door to reveal the silhouette of a woman curled up on a pile of straw. Despite it being midday, the windowless interior was draped in gloom.
She had long, black hair that reached her waist—once considered the hallmark of a witch. Her face was completely hidden behind the matted tangles.
Though the weather was biting, she wore nothing but a thin, filthy chemise. The state of her legs visible beneath the hem… it was clear she couldn’t walk. Judging by the marks of shackles on her left ankle, it seemed she had been permanently crippled during a failed escape attempt.
As Ceshion approached, the woman curled tighter into herself. To avoid frightening her, Ceshion lowered his sword to the ground and knelt.
“It’s alright. I’ve come to rescue you.”
“…”
“Let me see your face.”
The woman gave no reaction, as if she couldn’t understand him at all.
Ceshion had seen many women in this state. Often, they lost the ability to speak due to the trauma of prolonged abuse. Or, having been branded witches from birth, they had never been taught to speak at all.
“We have to leave. I am going to move closer to you.”
Ceshion always explained his actions to those who couldn’t speak, ensuring they wouldn’t be startled.
This woman seemed to be among those who knew no language; she didn’t understand his words and tried to crawl deeper into the corner.
“…It’s okay. Those who hurt you are gone. You can come out now.”
Ceshion placed a hand gently on her shoulder. Surprisingly, she didn’t resist. He lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the dark, foul-smelling hut.
Outside, her condition looked even more dire. She was covered in filth and blood.
“Your Grace, you actually brought her out… Ugh, the stench. Is her face alright? Usually, they carve those up too.”
Hans approached, pinching his nose and shuddering. He carefully brushed the hair away from the face of the woman nestled in Ceshion’s arms.
“Her eyes… Good heavens. They babbled about curses and eye contact, but did they gouge them out? There are blade marks around the sockets.”
“They weren’t gouged. The wounds were simply infected. The right one looks fine.”
“…There are tears around her mouth, too. They didn’t cut out her tongue, did they? Hey, say ‘Ah’ for me.”
“She understands nothing. We’ll wash her, feed her, and let her sleep before we check further.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
The woman was moved to a large, comfortable carriage. Their mission complete, the Knights of Duke Ceshion Edel descended the mountain. The nuns traveling with them cleaned the woman with practiced hands. Her hair, a matted disaster beyond saving, was chopped into a neat bob.
The atmosphere among the knights remained grim throughout the descent. It was due to the murderous aura radiating silently from Duke Ceshion.
Having lost his own younger sister to a witch hunt, Ceshion grew dark whenever he discovered a woman in such a wretched state. In times like these, the best course of action was to keep one’s mouth shut until his mood lifted.
The black-haired woman was taken to the Edel Ducal Estate.
After finishing his duties, Ceshion visited the woman late in the evening. Though cleaned and treated, she was still a harrowing sight. Her head, left eye, and ankle were wrapped in bandages. Her body was a map of bruises and scratches. Because her wounds were so fresh, they couldn’t scrub her thoroughly, so a faint odor lingered, though it was better than before.
“Your Grace. I have something to report regarding the lady.”
A young maid tending to the woman bowed politely.
“What is it?”
“She endured the washing and the treatment, but she refuses to eat anything at all. It seems… because her tongue is half-severed.”
“…Damn it.”
Ceshion ground his teeth. She likely had a horrific trauma regarding anything being put in her mouth. She would refuse to eat until the brink of starvation, only to succumb to animalistic hunger in a cycle of misery.
Just like his sister, Iris.
“Leave her. I will try to feed her myself.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Ceshion tried his best, but the woman consumed nothing. He managed to offer some sugar water, but she vomited even that back up.
Gremory, the witch, was about to lose her mind.
She had been living a perfectly comfortable, gloomy life in her cozy mountain sanctuary when this Duke suddenly appeared and turned her home into a shambles. To make matters worse, he insisted she was some tragic victim of a witch hunt and kidnapped her.
Dammit. I really am a witch! I’m a high-ranking witch summoned by the soul of the very woman who was dismembered and buried here!
The ruined eyes and legs, the half-severed tongue—she had done all of that to herself. She needed to look dark and “witchy” enough to keep the villagers terrified. It didn’t even hurt. In fact, she could heal it all with a single thought.
As a being that thrived on human suffering and flesh, Gremory found the human food the maids kept pushing on her absolutely repulsive. She spat it out in irritation, but they just looked at her with even more pity, blabbering about “trauma.”
Even Ceshion Edel, that cursed Duke, was no exception.
“Now, this is called a straw. You use it to drink liquids like this.”
Bringing a transparent cup of sugar water, he demonstrated how to use the straw.
“Or you can drink it like this.”
He pulled the straw out and took a large gulp directly from the cup. Gremory watched him as if he were a performing monkey.
“See? I’ve confirmed there’s no poison. The straw is fine. It’s safe. Now, you try.”
Ceshion held the cup out to Gremory, having stuck the same straw back in.
Gremory snatched the cup and hurled it with all her might. It struck Ceshion square in the forehead, drenching his face in sticky sugar water.
There. Now get angry and kick me out. Do it before I turn this place into a hellscape of agony and plague. I’ll overlook the kidnapping as a one-time mistake.
However, Ceshion, possessing an infuriatingly good temperament, simply beamed.
“You’ve still got some spirit in you. That’s a relief.”
“?”
“You’re quite strong for someone so thin. Seeing you resist a stranger so fiercely tells me you still have the will to live.”
“…”
Gremory stared at the man, her expression sour.
What is actually wrong with this guy?
