Chapter 53
“Yes, since he’s always busy tending to the territory, I rarely had the chance to meet him in person.”
“Well, no wonder he’s busy. The lord cares so much for his people.”
“Exactly! Last year he came to our village and subjugated the magical beasts, but at that time, everything had already been destroyed—there was no food, nowhere to sleep. But he just laid down a blanket on the bare ground and slept there. And when a child accidentally dropped the bread they were giving him, he simply brushed off the dirt and ate it, thanking them. After that, I moved my whole family here to Tegenes.”
“That’s right, that’s right. Remember way back—when our village got flooded and we were left destitute? The young lord himself came, apologized in person, and arranged for all of us to be relocated near Tegenes. I saw him then, and now this is the second time—and he’s grown into such a fine young man.”
“I wonder who our lord will marry someday, with how tall and handsome he is, right?”
One after another, people sang Hannibal’s praises.
Even though their group was stationed separately, heads kept craning for just a glimpse of his face.
Anne had heard from the maids that the commoners spoke well of him, but hearing it firsthand was different.
She wondered if they knew that this “magnanimous” lord nitpicked every evening after dinner over a single misplaced decimal in the ledgers.
Anne subtly pouted her lips.
“Tch.”
In the distance, Dello Sandor cursed as he struggled to pitch his tent.
Since Lord Hannibal himself had set up his own tent, there was no reason the knights should go out of their way to help the viscount’s family.
Some of the lower-ranking knights even seemed to quietly mock him for it.
Anne wanted to ignore it and just keep resting, but she remembered that Victoria had asked her to look after him.
“Shall I help you?”
She reluctantly walked over.
“Forget it. What strength could a woman have?”
With open disdain, Sandor snorted at her.
“I’ve already set up three of the tents over there by myself, and helped with two others.”
“Hmph. Then let’s see you do it.”
It wasn’t some massive exhibition tent—just a small one meant to shelter a single person from rain and wind.
As long as you got the poles and drainage right, it was easy enough, and Anne quickly pitched an A-frame tent on the ground.
“I’ll be going now.”
She hadn’t expected any thanks from Sandor, who stood there with his arms crossed and an unpleasant expression.
In fact, the way his eyes bored into the back of her head made her feel so uncomfortable that she regretted helping him at all.
After that, she ignored him completely and didn’t even leave the commoners’ tent area.
When Sandor’s complaints became endless, Hannibal finally told him to quit whining, and the chastened Sandor managed to erect a clumsy-looking tent.
On the third night, a muffled whump came from his tent collapsing, followed by his startled scream—and Anne chuckled in her sleep.
By the time they reached the far northern edge of the western region, Hannibal occasionally glanced at Anne.
But whether it was because of the distance between them or because she was avoiding him, they rarely met eyes.
The only time their gazes aligned was when they were speaking to each other directly.
Even then, she only lifted those long lashes from staring at the ground when she had a question or needed to answer.
“Has Anne Perot ever camped outdoors before?”
Lieutenant Oliver had stayed behind at the main camp to deal with Count Arthur, so only his attendant, Jack, accompanied Hannibal.
Since Hannibal had tasked Jack with looking into Anne’s background, the young man immediately answered his question.
“There’s nothing in the records. But people say that when she was young, she used to pitch tents and play with her younger brother.”
“That’s why she’s so well adapted?”
Camping in the dry, cool desert air—on hard, uncomfortable ground—was difficult for most people.
Even commoners often complained after just one night about aching backs and sore bodies. Yet Anne seemed perfectly fine.
“The head maid isn’t the type to show dislike outwardly, is she?”
Jack, who had observed her for months, spoke, and Hannibal agreed—while watching Anne mingle easily with the commoners.
Some commoners who worked for high-ranking nobles tended to forget their place and looked down on their peers.
Given Anne’s background—educated at a baron’s estate, teaching Victoria herself, and becoming head maid at a young age—she could have easily been arrogant, even condescending.
But she was humble. Almost too much so.
Could someone who once advised Victoria to use her family’s power to secure a man, who was so knowledgeable about rank and salary, really feel no sense of superiority about her own position?
“There wasn’t any other new information, was there?”
“No. Only that she learned to read and write for the sake of earning a higher wage. And with her younger brother serving as Gray Benton’s attendant, nothing she told you was untrue.”
“And her connection with Gray Benton was just a one-sided crush on his part…”
If that was the case, why had she looked at him like she despised him to her very core?
“I refuse!”
Anne Perot had shouted those words, her face pale, her expression filled with something close to hatred.
Hannibal recalled the image of her—standing straight among the crowd, politely covering her smile with one hand, her light brown hair glinting in the sand-laden wind.
“Go and collect the people’s prayer papers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Put Anne Perot’s at the very top.”
“Understood.”
The prayer papers were just a formality—Hannibal only took them to the Witch’s Forest to burn them.
He had never bothered to read them. They were addressed to the witch, not to him.
In rare cases, when a wish was truly desperate, the witch herself had sought out the petitioner—but he had always avoided thinking too much about it.
Yet, for the first time, Hannibal found himself curious about Anne Perot’s wish.
“They said it feels like winter even in midsummer—and it’s true.”
The cold air bit at her cheeks, and Anne pulled her cloak tighter around her. After three days, they had finally reached their destination.
“So this is the Forest of Moira the Witch.”
The forest was so densely green it looked almost black, exuding a dark and overwhelming aura.
They called it the holy ground of the West, and it certainly looked like stepping inside without permission would be dangerous.
The trees and undergrowth were so tightly packed that there was only one place open enough to serve as an entrance.
“They say it’s usually completely closed.”
Natalie, a middle-aged woman Anne had befriended on the journey, spoke.
She had once lived in a remote village that was later flooded; thanks to the lord’s generosity, she’d found work and a home in Tegenes.
She was a typical Tegenes resident—utterly devoted to Hannibal, fascinated by the Clayde family, and enthralled by the witch’s legend.
“What did you write for your wish, Anne?”
“Well… wouldn’t it lose its power if I told you?”
Anne smiled slyly, and Natalie gave her a playful nudge with her elbow, laughing heartily.
“Only at times like this do you act so secretive. I told you mine!”
“I never asked you!”
“So what is it? What is it?”
“It’s a secret.”
While Anne and Natalie joked back and forth, the knights stood guard around the forest’s perimeter, and Hannibal changed into a solemn white ceremonial uniform.
In his hand were twelve prayer papers—one from each petitioner.
“They’re about to start.”
At someone’s announcement, the atmosphere grew calm and reverent. Anne and Natalie lined up together among the twelve petitioners.
The knights stood at measured intervals, six on each side of the forest entrance. At the very front of the commoners stood Sandor, representing the nobility.
“Under no circumstances may you cross this line.”
Driving a stake into the ground about a meter from the forest, the vice-captain leading the knights in Oliver’s place called out.
Soon, the ritual began, and everyone knelt toward the forest. Anne followed suit.
“Do not follow me inside. I will deliver your wishes.”
Hannibal spoke, holding the folded papers, and the people cheered.
“Lord Hannibal Clayde!”
“Lady Witch! Lady Moira!”
The names of the witch and the lord were chanted together. Anne looked up and met Hannibal’s eyes.
“My lord?”
As if he’d heard her faint call, Hannibal’s lips curved slightly in a smile.
Then, amid the cheers, he turned and disappeared into the near-black depths of the forest.
He had taken only one step inside, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the air changed—cool, moist, and fresh, as if it belonged to another world.
The perfect humidity, the gentle breeze—it was refreshingly pleasant.
The forest, no longer dark, quickly gave way to lower trees and shrubs, where pale green sprouts and vivid blossoms welcomed him.
Hannibal walked a familiar path.
He made this journey every year. Especially since the age of fourteen, he had always walked it with the same single thought in mind.
“Still alone this year?”
At the sound of a clear female voice, Hannibal’s brows knit slightly.
“You should have brought your father.”
Since Asad Clayde’s death, it had become even harder for members of the Clayde family to meet the witch.
Only one person per generation—
The one recognized as the ruler of the western oases and of Tegenes—was granted the right to meet her in person, receiving Assad, ring from her own hand.
