TWCMH 13

Chapter 13

The knights who had been chattering amongst themselves all fell silent at once, fixing their gazes on Philip.

As if under some spell, the air turned icy cold in an instant, constricting around Philip. Flustered, he stepped back hesitantly and asked.

“Wh-why are you all…?”

The corner of Hugo’s mouth twisted upward as he stared intently at Philip. His voice, too, had dropped noticeably from before.

“How peculiar.”

“What… do you mean by that…?”

“It sounds as though you’re saying the prisoner we’re escorting is a ‘witch.'”

Hugo Brighton took a step closer toward Philip, who was trying to gauge the atmosphere. As he moved, the clanking of his plate armor echoed eerily through the now-silent hall.

“……!”

Philip’s face went pale with fright as he stumbled backward, but there was no escaping the Lampe’s hawk-like grasp.

“*Hurk!* Wh-what is the meaning of this…!”

His breath was cut off instantly, as if caught in the jaws of a beast. The powerful grip seized his aged neck and slowly began to lift him upward.

“If you do not speak truthfully, I will not be able to treat you as courteously as I am now.”

Absurdly enough, even after having already seized his neck, the man spoke as though this was an act of ‘courtesy.’

Philip, his face flushed crimson, grabbed at the man’s hand with both hands and struggled, but he could not move an inch, as if bound in iron chains.

“Le-let go, *cough*!”

“W-Warden!”

“No, wh-what on earth are you doing, Lampe!”

The young priests who had followed the monastery’s warden turned pale and tried to intervene, but were blocked by the other knights.

Overwhelmed by their fearsome and cold demeanor, the young priests could only stand helplessly, watching their warden being hoisted into the air by the Lampe’s grip.

Philip Haist’s face grew increasingly white as his body was half-lifted off the ground. His toes barely grazed the floor. The grip tightened with the full weight of his body, pressing down on him.

“Say, say what you… *huff*!”

There was no mercy in the hand constricting his throat. Just as Philip thought he might actually die if this continued, and cold sweat poured down his back, Hugo, who had been drawing out the moment, finally asked in a low, leisurely voice.

“Where, from whom, and what did you hear?”

“Th-that is… *kuhuk*!”

“Name.”

Though the deeply lowered voice was calm, the hand tightening around his neck grew increasingly brutal.

“Give me a name.”

Hugo Brighton was truly mad, calmly so.

No matter how absolute a Lampe’s authority might be, it was unbelievable that he would so casually throttle the neck of a senior priest who led an entire monastery.

“I-I can’t breathe…! Please, le-let go!”

“Bear in mind that if you do not speak within three counts, even if you wish to speak afterward, you may find yourself unable to do so.”

The composed voice sounded all the more chilling. Philip felt goosebumps rise all over his body.

And also, that the grip on his neck was growing stronger, truly cutting off his airway.

He was wrong! This man would tear his mouth open if necessary to get the answer he wanted.

Count Brutung, who had passed the information to Philip, was a generous donor to this temple, but no matter how precious that money was, it was not more precious than his own life.

“Ha-Hagen! A man named Hagen Brutung… *huff! *kuhk*!”

The moment Philip spoke the name, the grip that had been crushing his throat released immediately.

Philip, who had been kicking his feet, collapsed to the floor with a thud, gasping roughly. His aged body trembled violently with fear.

Philip, pitifully coughing, did not dare lift his gaze from where he lay prostrate. The enormous shadow looming before him filled him with dread.

How could such a man be a messenger of God, carrying out sacred divine duties! He wanted to protest, but lacked the courage.

Those icy blue eyes fixed upon him felt as though they were flaying his aged flesh.

“It was a direct order from above, and we were moving secretly with a small number of men… Yet there was someone in this humble regional monastery who had heard of my movements.”

Hugo, who had been watching Philip gasp for air, knelt on one knee and brought himself to eye level with him.

Facing that once-again courteous voice and gentle smile, Philip’s lips quivered with pallor.

“Surely you can understand my surprise, Priest?”

“I-I made a mistake! Please forgive me! I heard a rumor circulating in the royal court, and a believer who had visited me happened to let it slip, and I carelessly—!”

“It’s quite all right. However, may I trust that word of today’s visit will spread no further?”

“O-of course! Naturally! I shall keep that in mind.”

“Good. I’m relieved to hear it.”

As Hugo finished speaking, the murderous aura emanating from the Paladin subsided.

Only then did Philip and his disciples breathe a sigh of relief, gasping as if finally able to draw breath.

The priests, wiping their drenched palms on their robes, rushed belatedly to Philip and helped him up.

“And as for that prisoner…”

Hugo, having stepped back, turned his gaze toward the shabby cart standing motionless beyond Philip’s shoulder.

After a moment of silence, staring at Philip who stood with his back to the cart, Hugo’s lips parted impulsively.

“Bring it to my chambers.”

The startled Paladins whipped their heads around to stare at Hugo, but his gaze remained fixed on Philip, who was sweating nervously and at a loss.

“I shall keep watch personally.”

His voice was clear, as if issuing a warning.

Her body simmered with heat, prickling all over.

Her forehead burned, and the inside of her throat felt as though she had swallowed scalding soup.

Roelia tried to force down a dry swallow, but only let out a faint groan, her brow furrowed. It felt as if her throat might tear.

Tossing and turning with her fevered body, a weak moan escaped Roelia’s lips.

“Mother…”

The word, spoken as if in a childish whine, was one she had never uttered aloud since the age of six.

She didn’t know why she suddenly missed her birth mother, whose face she could barely recall.

Was she unconsciously seeking somewhere to lean, overwhelmed by the sorrow of being pursued? Or was she suffocating under the weight of this unstable life?

‘Pursued…? Why would I be…?’

Suddenly, a thunderous voice crashed down behind her hazy consciousness.

*”Roelia, you wretched girl! You hid such a secret from me? You’ve leeched off your father your whole life—if you had any sense, you’d repay him now! Where do you think you’re running?!”*

Her hair was grabbed. The pain made her vision go dark, then sharpen.

Suddenly, a dull thud echoed from across the floor. Startled, she looked toward the sound. There lay her father, collapsed with his head and limbs twisted in opposite directions.

Before she could process anything, she saw a white butterfly fluttering up from above her father’s head.

A very pretty, delicate, pure white butterfly…

‘A butterfly, in a place with no flowers.’

Everything felt dreamlike for a moment. The butterfly that had been drifting lazily in her hazy vision disappeared along with a flash of light. Just as she thought it might have been a dream, Dietrich grasped her hand.

*”Let’s run, Sister.”*

They fled with only a few silver coins jingling from inside their father’s pocket and a few changes of clothes. Gasping as they escaped the dark house, she glanced back. Through the closing door, she could see his twisted ankle.

Above her dead father’s head was a white butterfly.

She hadn’t known it then, but she knew it now. That butterfly was hers.

Then… did I kill my father?

“*Hah*!”

Roelia gasped urgently, her eyes flying open.

The sudden light blurred her vision momentarily, then sharpened in an instant.

She raised a trembling hand to shield her eyes, and strands of hair clinging to her damp forehead caught on her fingers.

Her entire body was drenched in sweat. She couldn’t tell if it was from the fever that had burned through the night or from the vividness of the dream.

How much of it was the dream? Her heart was pounding so violently that she couldn’t regain her senses quickly.

*Pull yourself together. Get a grip.*

Just as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to regain a sense of reality—

*Flip.*

The sound of paper turning.

Her startled head shot up.