Chapter 77
Stories of witches exchanging their lives for lifelong wishes were common in oral tradition. But Verodi’s tale was uniquely well known—for one reason only: it had a happy ending.
Perhaps it was the lover’s vow—to stay together until death, or even beyond—that had moved her heart.
Because Moira had always been so cold and calculating when it came to contracts, Anne found it hard to imagine her showing mercy.
“Well, should I ask her next time we visit the Witch’s Forest?”
During the Witch’s Night Festival, no attacks ever came from Luto for that entire week. However, Hannibal’s frequent stays in the south meant he rarely attended the event.
In his stead, Victoria had visited the Witch’s Forest over the years and seemed to have grown quite close to Moira.
“Still, the love of a man sincere enough to move a witch’s heart… that’s something else.”
“Isn’t it?”
As the two women sipped tea and chatted, Butler Patrick knocked and entered the room.
“Today’s mail has arrived. And the Count has requested an increase in his monthly allowance again.”
“Again?”
Victoria sighed. Patrick looked equally exasperated.
“Yes. He was quite displeased last month when we refused.”
“Tell him no.”
Anne’s voice was firm.
“I’ve already conveyed that, but…”
With a soft clink, Anne placed her teacup down and rose to her feet.
“I’ll deliver the message myself.”
“Are you sure, Anne?”
Victoria’s voice was laced with worry, but Anne smiled confidently.
“Of course.”
After Hannibal’s Departure
Even amidst war, Arthur Clayde had tried to take control of the main house and do as he pleased.
“I’m the head of this family! I am the Earl of Arthur Clayde!”
But Anne Ferro—Hannibal Clayde’s fiancée—and Victoria Clayde would not let him have his way.
Alongside the entire estate staff loyal to Hannibal, they stood against Arthur.
“I’d rather leave than live among common trash!”
In truth, Anne had hoped he would just leave for the capital.
But contrary to expectations, the Count had merely relocated to the annex.
Since then, it had been nonstop demands: more alcohol, more money—sometimes daily.
When denied, he would storm into the main house in a drunken rage.
“The Lord hasn’t approved it.”
“That’s my inheritance! I have the right to use it!”
“The Lord has not given permission.”
“That damned Lord! Hannibal’s off at war anyway!”
“You can speak with him when he returns.”
With clenched fists, Arthur would glare at Anne before storming off with a string of curses.
“I’ll handle him from now on,” Victoria had said in concern.
“I’ll make sure he can no longer enter the main house. This was my failure,” Patrick had said regretfully.
“It’s fine. This is something I must do.”
Though Victoria served as acting lord, she had given Anne nearly equal authority and freedom.
She trusted Anne with access to the lord’s private study and even the keys to the underground vault.
Patrick treated her as mistress of the house and instructed the other servants to do likewise, demanding proper conduct and loyalty.
Gradually, the household came to revere Anne not just as the head maid, but as the lady of House Clayde.
Anne took her responsibilities seriously, honoring the authority she had been given.
She didn’t accept respect simply because of her position. She earned it.
Frankly, Arthur Clayde’s scornful words and glares weren’t even worth being called “wounds.”
Not compared to the life she’d once lived.
“How’s the Count lately?”
“He’s still complaining about insufficient funds.”
Patrick’s reports had become routine. Arthur’s grumbling was now little more than background noise to Anne.
But then, one day, Anne uncovered the Count’s secret.
“Fire!!”
A maid came running from the annex, shouting in panic.
It was early morning.
Guests barely awake fled the annex in droves, and servants rushed with buckets of water into the inner grounds.
Anne ran straight to the annex.
“Where is the Count?”
She grabbed a maid and asked urgently. The girl shook her head, panicked.
“He hasn’t come out yet!”
Without hesitation, Anne bolted into the building. The fire had started in the top-floor storage room and was quickly spreading downward.
The Count’s room was on the middle floor.
Servants were banging desperately on the door, shouting.
“Count! There’s a fire! You must come out!”
“Get out! I’ll leave on my own! Back off!”
The Count’s voice came from within. Even as the flames and smoke crept closer, he refused to move.
“On your own? During a fire?!”
There was no time to waste. Anne yelled to the servants.
“Break down the door!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Hesitant moments before, the servants now flung their weight into the door. It crashed open with a loud bang.
Just as they were about to enter, a scream rang out from inside.
“Get out! I said get out! Aaaahh!! Don’t come any closer!”
The Count’s voice made the servants pause, but Anne pushed through them.
“Step back, all of you.”
She had a gut feeling—there was something he didn’t want others to see.
The smell of ash grew stronger. The heat intensified. There was no time.
“Count, you must come out now. It’s dangerous!”
“I know! I know, I’m going—!”
Covered in blankets, the Count stumbled forward and tripped.
Anne rushed forward to catch him, and as she did, the blanket fell from his head.
“…Count?”
At that moment, a small bottle slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor.
What is that? Before she could check, her eyes met his—and she froze.
His eyes… red?
Arthur Clayde had always had pale lavender eyes, and silver hair—a clear mark of his witch’s bloodline.
But now, the roots of his hair looked patchy red, and his eyes were a vivid crimson.
With a quick motion, he yanked the blanket back over his head.
“Get out! I’ll handle this myself—danger or not!”
His hand fumbled slowly across the floor.
Anne picked up the bottle that had rolled to her feet and handed it to him.
An unmarked, opaque vial. She could guess what was inside.
“Let’s go.”
When she offered it, the Count snatched it from her hand and buried his face deeper under the blanket.
As Anne exited the annex, the Count followed behind, growling low:
“Don’t tell anyone.”
She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know—but her suspicion only deepened.
“You think just because you know my secret, you can act so shamelessly and arrogantly?!”
All Anne had said was that there would be no more party funds. But Arthur Clayde snarled as though she’d declared war.
“I’m simply stating facts. You’ve already spent the maximum allowed. We can’t approve further spending this month.”
“Can’t? A mere servant dares to say that to me?!”
No matter how loudly Arthur shouted, Anne felt no fear.
No one in the West recognized his authority anymore. On the contrary, Anne had earned the trust and support of the people.
The Western folk, hardened by war and hardship, valued competence and loyalty above all.
Anne had proven herself by managing the estate and supporting Victoria. Naturally, she received far more praise than Arthur, whose status was now hollow.
So his tantrums didn’t upset her in the least.
Only one thing nagged her: Hannibal Clayde.
Was this really his father?
“I am a Clayde! You know nothing, but how dare you question my bloodline?! I won’t tolerate it!”
Arthur barked, as though reading her thoughts.
“Then why…”
Before Anne could finish, Arthur exploded.
“The blood of Asad Clayde runs through my veins! I am the rightful king of the West! Not a witch’s spawn—I am the true heir to Asad Clayde’s legacy!”
So… Asad Clayde must have had red hair and red eyes. Anne guessed. But she felt no sympathy.
“The witch’s blood is too strong and potent. Her line shouldn’t have existed! But I lived! I was born and I survived! I’m here, aren’t I?! That makes me the real Clayde!”
But his disgrace had nothing to do with blood or looks—it was his own actions.
Let him scream and cry—it meant nothing to Anne now.
“In any case, there will be no more money for your parties.”
She repeated herself plainly, like a parrot, and left the annex’s drawing room.
“Miss Anne! A letter from the Lord!”
On her way out of the annex, a smiling maid handed her the mail.
Anne couldn’t help smiling as she accepted the plain white envelope.
She rushed to her room and carefully opened it.
To my fiancée, Anne Ferro,
Are you staying safe and well?
The stiff greeting never changed, but Hannibal always began his letters by calling her my fiancée.
At first, it made her squirm. But after dozens of letters, it started to feel natural.
There was some unrest at the front after news of the Emperor’s illness, but nothing serious. The Western Commander was replaced—but I merely returned to my original post. Oh, and Count Sandor has requested reinforcements in the South, citing the withdrawal of the Crown Prince’s elite guard. But given how much Sandor relied on the imperial army during the last monster subjugation, I’ve no plans to indulge him.
Instead, I’ve ordered the imperial forces and our own troops to shift north. Sometimes I wonder how the southern folk will feel about that decision. What do you think? Do you find it cold-hearted?
Unlike before, Hannibal now addressed Anne with honor and asked her opinions with genuine interest.
No longer a maid—she was his fiancée.
And Hannibal never let her forget it.
