Chapter 54
“Or maybe, if you introduced me to someone you love, who knows? My mood might improve.”
But Hannibal had been granted the witch’s permission while still in his mother’s womb, so when he inherited the ring, he had no memory of it.
Back then, it was Sarah Clyde who had met the witch in person.
A woman raised for the Clyde family, by the Clyde family, for her entire life.
The heir that Hannibal Clyde’s mother, who had dedicated everything to the family name and succession, had raised in a near brainwashing way—that was Hannibal.
“Please, just show up when I’m on my deathbed.”
If the people of the West had seen him, they would have been appalled—Hannibal’s expression was indifferent and sour.
The woman laughed out loud.
“When you were little, you’d chant ‘Witch, witch!’ and revere me like a god.”
No matter what the witch said, Hannibal sat down heavily in front of the altar with a surly face.
People imagined that on this day, the lord would kneel before the altar, offering solemn prayers and bows. But the reality was entirely different.
“You have no idea what an honor it is to see me every year when there are people desperate to see me even once in their lives, Hannibal.”
“I know. I’m grateful.”
Though there was no visible figure, only a voice, Hannibal spoke as though Witch Moira were standing before him.
“To meet a Clyde as often as you… other than Assad, you’re the first.”
“There’s really no need to meet every year.”
Even with such blunt refusal, the witch didn’t seem offended; she only let out a light laugh.
Soon, the sound of rustling grass was followed by the light chime of metal as footsteps landed upon it.
“So? No wish you want to ask of me this time?”
The woman who strode closer had long silver hair, nearly white, that reached her ankles.
Her hair rippled like waves, swaying as if in a breeze, even in the stillness of the forest.
Her skin was so white and translucent that it could hardly be distinguished from her white dress—beautiful, but unnervingly perfect, like flawless marble.
Her clear violet eyes only heightened that air of mystery.
Hannibal frowned the instant the ghostlike woman came right up to his face.
“None.”
As if telling her to back off, he put a hand to her forehead and pushed her away.
“No matter how much you grumble, I’m still a doting old granny to you, you adorable unfilial child.”
History books were written from a human-centric, victor’s perspective—full of lies. Hannibal realized this the moment he met the witch.
This was the secret passed down only to the lords of Clyde, who never spoke of it.
With her appearance in her twenties, the witch resembled Hannibal all the more—clearly an ancestor of the Clyde family.
The books claimed that Assad Clyde had silver hair and violet eyes, but Moira had told him that Assad was actually a striking man with red hair and red eyes.
“Go on, read this.”
Moira took the bundle of papers he handed her and, weightless, perched herself atop the altar. She opened the first page.
“Anne Ferro? This is the head maid from the capital?”
“Yes. Is there something strange about it?”
“No, just an unusual wish. Nothing I could grant, really.”
Hannibal had glanced at Anne Ferro’s prayer himself.
[I wish to live in a world where the witch’s blessing is unnecessary. By my own strength, by my own effort.]
Her distrust of the witch was practically written all over it, which amused him.
Just before he set out, while everyone else had been praying sincerely, Anne had sat down awkwardly, only half-committed.
When she looked around with those brown eyes, all he saw was puzzlement.
“Lord?”
Her face was full of confusion at his gaze.
Looking at Anne Ferro’s paper, Hannibal said with a hint of satisfaction,
“No one here has a wish so desperate they’d wager their life on it.”
“Again this year? Tch.”
Hannibal had deliberately chosen people whose situations weren’t extreme.
Moira might have had a playful and bright demeanor, but she was by no means merciful.
That’s why, every year, he sought people who valued and cherished their current lives more than anything else.
“Maybe I should have just tracked down that woman and killed her for you?”
“You said it would be difficult because she’s under divine protection.”
“Difficult, yes—not impossible.”
“Forget it. I’ll handle my own affairs.”
Even though she reached out to him with a grandmotherly smile, Moira’s nature was always the same.
If you made a wish, she demanded a price—no exceptions.
“Ah, nothing interesting this year.”
As each page turned, it burst into flames and vanished. Just as she was flipping to the last one, Moira’s dimples deepened.
“This one’s a complete lie.”
Moira said this while looking at the prayer.
Illiterate commoners usually had trouble writing their prayers, so it was obvious when they’d dictated them to a scribe.
But this one—elegant handwriting, flowery rhetoric—was unmistakably written by a noble.
Dello Sandor.
“No love at first sight, no romance. Once you leave here, you’d better be careful, Hannibal.”
“If Dello Sandor causes trouble, I’ll just get rid of him. It’s nothing.”
He had already been investigating the suspicious circumstances surrounding the supposed accidental death, and Sandor was a suspect.
It was a pity, since Victoria liked the man, but better to have her break it off quickly and find someone else.
Hannibal dismissed the matter easily.
By the time Moira had finished looking through the letters, she had burned them all and was perched once again atop the altar.
Then she peered down at Hannibal, who leaned against the base. Despite his relaxed posture, his eyes were sharp, piercing into him.
“That’s not it, Hannibal… Wait. How dare—there’s an intruder!”
Moira’s easygoing demeanor vanished, replaced by killing intent. Something serious had happened—her face turned grim.
In the next instant, she was gone from the altar, leaving only an ominous aura behind.
“What’s going on?”
Someone had entered the forest? The knights should have been guarding it.
He had chosen the petitioners carefully to prevent this sort of thing.
No one destitute, no one deeply miserable—just people with modest, ordinary wishes like health for aging parents or safety for their children.
And yet, someone had broken in.
A sudden, uneasy thought brought Anne Ferro to mind.
Surely nothing had happened to her. She wasn’t the type to act rashly, but she might have gotten caught up in someone else’s trouble.
She seemed like someone who minded her own business, but in truth, she had a broad sense of responsibility—unable to leave others unaided.
Quiet and well-mannered on the surface, yet somehow always finding trouble and stirring up her surroundings.
“It can’t be Anne Ferro.”
Rustle—footsteps, faint in the distance.
Hannibal turned toward the long, straight path that stretched from the altar.
Though it had taken only a short walk to reach the altar from the entrance, to the eye it seemed to stretch endlessly.
It was only after entering the witch’s forest that Hannibal had been able to believe in the witch’s existence—believe in the existence of something alien and incredible.
Before Moira settled here, the northern lands were barren, dry tundra. Everything north of the Haiman Empire’s territory on the forest’s left side was like that.
But here, flowers and trees flourished everywhere one looked.
White blossoms lined the edges of the path he had taken, surrounded by vibrant flowers, trees, and grasses stretching to the horizon.
Even without proper springs or rivers, the temperature and humidity were always just right.
And despite its beauty, not a single insect, like bees or butterflies, was to be found—as though the flowers carried no scent.
Yet here, all the flowers of all four seasons bloomed together in splendor.
The witch’s forest.
“Haa…”
Hannibal rose and turned toward the altar—a wide, high platform of white marble.
In its center, a tall stone slab bore Witch Moira’s name in ancient script.
Beside the altar stood a tall, imposing torch stand. Hannibal picked up a broad leaf, wrote “Anne Ferro’s safety” on it, and tossed it into the stand.
It wasn’t a wish, but a prayer. Still, the belief remained that the witch’s blessing could work.
* * *
After Hannibal disappeared deeper into the witch’s forest, Anne Ferro slowly distanced herself from the group of petitioners.
She had seen the same sight at the temple—people closing their eyes, crying out, losing themselves in their emotions as they prayed.
Back then too, Anne had felt the same sense of distance, unable to hide her discomfort.
Time passed, and before she knew it, the surroundings had grown dark.
Hannibal had set out for the forest to coincide with the moonrise, so it was nearly time to sleep.
People began setting up tents for the night, when suddenly, Sandor approached.
“Anne.”
“Yes?”
“Could you help me set up my tent? I just can’t get it right.”
On the way here, Sandor had already been scolded several times by Hannibal for failing to pitch a proper tent—each time, it had collapsed before morning.
So Anne didn’t doubt for a moment when he asked for help.
“Of course.”
It wasn’t a difficult request, so she followed him to his tent.
But it was set up far from the commoners’ tents and also distant from the knights on watch.
“Isn’t it dangerous to sleep this far out by yourself?”
“They say that during the Witch’s Night, even the monsters fall into a deep sleep. It’s safe.”
“You’re almost at the edge of the witch’s forest here, though.”
He was trying to pitch his tent exactly one meter outside the distance the knights had set.
But the knights weren’t paying attention—they were watching the commoners to make sure none tried to slip away, not a head maid and a noble like Sandor.
