Chapter 56
A moment later, Hannibal stopped interrogating Ann and turned his eyes toward the witch.
“Is she truly your blood-contracted partner?”
Moira shrugged and gave a sly smile.
“Well…”
“If not, then there’s no way Ann Ferro would still be alive, is there?”
Hannibal, arms crossed, began pressing the witch for answers this time.
“Who is it?”
“Contracts are confidential between the parties involved. What are you asking for?”
“I’m asking how Ann Ferro could have formed a contract when she’s never even been to the West.”
When the witch didn’t answer, Hannibal asked Ann instead.
“Do you know anyone in the West, Ann Ferro?”
“No.”
Her reply came instantly, without a moment’s thought.
As she listened to the conversation between Hannibal and the witch, Ann began to suspect that perhaps her turning back time was because of a witch’s contract.
But with Hannibal there, she couldn’t ask.
Just who, for what purpose, would have done something like this to her?
“Is the contract harmful to the one bound by it?”
“You mean like a curse? Oh my, no. Hahaha.”
The witch waved her hand and burst out laughing, while Hannibal’s expression eased in apparent relief.
Ann just stared blankly at the two, trying to ground herself in reality.
It was no wonder — around them, man-height torch poles surrounded the altar, their flames flickering light over it, and beside it was a massive stone stele inscribed with an unrecognizable script.
She vaguely remembered hearing that in this solemn, sacred atmosphere, the Lord of Clayde would spend the whole night performing rites and praying to honor an age-old promise passed down through generations.
Yet now, these two — looking like mirror images of each other — sat on a stone bench bickering away like they were out for a night picnic.
Seeing Ann tilt her head in puzzlement, the witch patted the ground beside her.
“Your legs must hurt — come sit here.”
When Ann shook her head, Hannibal added,
“Are you going to stand there all night? Your legs will get sore.”
At his words, Ann hesitantly walked over — but to Hannibal’s side, opposite the witch — and sat down.
“Are we just going to stay like this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just… sitting here doing nothing. Is this what a witch’s night is like?”
Outside this forest, there were probably eleven people praying all night. Feeling awkward at the lack of solemnity, Ann scratched the back of her head.
The witch, now lying on her stomach atop the marble and propping her chin on her hands, murmured,
“How can you say we’re doing nothing? You’re spending the night with the witch.”
“Of course, when we first arrive, we pray devoutly to the Witch for the West’s safety. This is just after the ceremony, so we’re relaxing a bit,” Hannibal explained calmly, frowning at the witch’s playful tone — though it sounded more like an excuse than a real explanation.
When Ann’s suspicious gaze lingered, the witch gave Hannibal a mischievous grin.
“I still remember your tiny hands clasped together as you called out ‘Witch, Witch’ so earnestly. You were so cute. But I haven’t seen that face since you were fourteen. Not that you know it’s because I’ve been showing up every year just to see it again.”
Fourteen? That would be the age Hannibal had been when he was tricked by a woman from the capital and wandered into the forest alone, where he met the witch.
“Ah…”
Perhaps that was when his childhood had ended. The thought made Ann sigh with pity, and Hannibal’s brows tightened.
“Who told you that?”
“Sorry?”
“…You look like someone who knows the rumors about Kara Lingbone.”
“That woman’s name was Kara Lingbone?”
“…!”
Realizing he had just confessed it himself, Hannibal’s expression turned awkward.
“What I heard was simply that you were swindled by a woman from the capital, and that you took responsibility and resolved all the damage — a touching story,” Ann said vaguely, deliberately hiding Victoria’s name.
At fourteen, how could he possibly have stopped the West’s natural disasters? He must have borrowed the witch’s power.
Maybe that was what made the two so close, almost like family.
“At such a young age, you solved such a difficult problem yourself — everyone in the territory respects you for it. I thought it was amazing too.”
But how had he even thought to negotiate with a witch at that age?
Ann studied his face. Unlike the witch’s smile, Hannibal’s expression remained grave.
And suddenly, an ominous thought crossed her mind.
The witch grants wishes at the cost of a life.
Could it be… that Hannibal Clayde had wished for something in exchange for his own life?
“That was all my power, hehe.”
The witch’s laugh had taken on a strange, coarse edge. Ann rubbed her arms against the chill, pretending to be fine.
“The Witch cherishes the West and Clayde, so of course you’d grant the lord’s prayer. Thanks to you, I’ve been able to stay here comfortably.”
Hannibal still said nothing — only stared at her intently.
“Haha. I’m a fair person, Ann. Even Clayde must pay the price for a wish. And especially a prayer to stop all of the West’s natural disasters — that’s far too great to grant for free, don’t you think?”
Hannibal’s head snapped toward the witch.
“What are you saying!”
He snapped at her, thinking she was revealing too much to Ann Ferro.
But the witch only gazed meaningfully past Ann’s brown eyes.
“I’ll tell you one thing for free, Hannibal — Ann Ferro won’t sell you out to the capital.”
Both Ann Ferro and Hannibal had bitter pasts in the capital, Edith Tara. Was she saying that because she knew?
“You said yourself contracts are confidential.”
“Even so — she’d already guessed.”
How could a maid who had survived on quick wits not pick up on something like that? Ann turned her head, avoiding Hannibal’s eyes.
“Ann Ferro, never breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“Yes, understood.”
And really — how and to whom could she possibly say that the current lord’s life was mortgaged to the witch?
Her jaw tightened with resolve.
Still, Hannibal truly was a lord whose whole world was the West.
But how could a fourteen-year-old even think to risk his life to save his people?
It must have been his father, Arthur Clayde, who forced him into it.
Ann pictured the gray-haired, drink-soaked count and muttered silent curses in her head.
“The price of the wish was Clayde’s blood,” the witch said suddenly, oddly gentle toward Ann.
“If you don’t want Hannibal to die, then bring me Arthur Clayde, Ann Ferro. You can enter the Witch’s Forest — if you bring him, I’ll let Hannibal’s debt go.”
“Pretend you didn’t hear that.”
Hannibal replied sharply, squaring off against the witch. She only seemed amused, like she was watching a cute grandson act defiant.
“Is it even possible to pay the price on someone else’s behalf without their consent?” Ann asked, finding the whole thing odd. Hannibal turned to look at her, caught off guard by a question he had never thought to ask.
The witch gave him a wide, toothy grin.
“What do you think, Hannibal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Normally, the sacrifice of someone unrelated to the contract is impossible. But since it’s Clayde blood, I decided to make an exception. And…”
“And?”
Ann prompted, but the witch ignored her and suddenly sprang to her feet.
“Ahh, I’m all stiff. I need a rest!”
As she straightened, the fluttering hem of her long skirt rang faintly with a metallic jingle.
After a stretch, she leaned so close to Hannibal’s face she nearly touched him, and murmured,
“Hannibal… the truth is, you wanted someone to take your place, didn’t you?”
With a sly smile, the witch vanished.
“….”
“…!”
Hannibal, suddenly looking pale, rubbed his face with both hands. Ann just stared at him blankly.
“I…”
“You kept me from entering the Witch’s Forest for that reason, didn’t you?” Ann said, a sudden realization clicking into place.
So that was why he had been so adamant — because Victoria was also of Clayde blood.
Maybe he was afraid she might be sacrificed in his place.
“Don’t bother making it sound noble. I just wanted my father to be the one to die instead of me.”
Hannibal’s self-reproach made Ann shake her head.
“It was never a burden you should have carried, my lord. At only fourteen—”
“At only fourteen, I brought a woman into the Witch’s Forest and caused a fire. That’s the truth. I… trusted Kara Lingbone.”
Because I loved her.
He couldn’t bring himself to say that last part, and swallowed it down instead.
Slowly, Hannibal began to speak of the past he had never shared.
It was because of the witch’s words — that Ann wouldn’t sell him to the capital — erasing the blurred boundary he’d kept up until now.
You’re someone I can trust.
“Ann… I’ve been a lord since the moment I was born.”
With her sitting right beside him, Hannibal took his first steps back into his past.
* * *
“Our lord.”
His mother would call him that whenever she was in a good mood.
“Hannibal!”
“Hannibal Clayde!”
And when she was angry, she would shout it like that. Never once had she called him “son.”
He realized this for the first time when he went to war and witnessed the deaths of commoners.
A woman had clung to a corpse, wailing, “My son, my son—”
When she fainted from grief, Hannibal thought “my son” was simply the dead man’s name.
After all, he had never grown up as anyone’s “son” — only as Clayde’s “next lord.”
