Chapter 21
The simplicity of the answer left Cheshion dumbfounded.
“Not like—’bewitching beauty’—but an actual witch?”
“Huh? What?”
Gremory, who had just given a clear confirmation, now scratched her ear and feigned ignorance. The reason was Iris, who was screaming internally at her:
“Say no! You HAVE to say no! The world won’t tolerate a witch! If you want to live quietly in this household, you ABSOLUTELY must deny it!”
Meanwhile, Cheshion raised his voice.
“I asked if you’re a witch!”
“I’m not.”
“You just said yes!”
“I thought you asked if I was pretty.”
“Sigh… I give up.”
As Cheshion turned to leave, Gremory tugged at his sleeve.
“Pet me before you go.”
“What?”
“You petted me so well when I was a cat. Do it again.”
“……”
“I can’t sleep. Pet me.”
“Ugh. What am I supposed to do with you?”
“I said pet me. Now.”
Cheshion’s heart raced. Was this another one of a witch’s “temptations”? And really, what man could refuse when such a pretty face stared at him, demanding affection?
Succumbing to the witch’s allure, Cheshion stroked Gremory’s head like a cat. She burrowed under the blankets, purring in satisfaction.
Cute.
Infuriatingly so.
He also wanted to flick her forehead. After worrying everyone sick, how dare she recover so perfectly just to toy with him?
Struggling to suppress a smile, Cheshion maintained a blank expression—until he caught himself staring at her sleeping face for far too long.
…Just as he was about to leave, something struck him.
Wait. Why is there no silver decor in this room?
When he first brought Gremory to the estate, she had removed all silver ornaments. He’d assumed it was due to trauma from the witch hunts, but now, the realization unsettled him.
Witches are fatally sensitive to silver. Prolonged contact burns their skin, and even a needle prick causes excruciating pain.
Iris, too, had been pricked with silver needles during the hunts—yet her trauma wasn’t this severe.
…Gremory must have suffered worse.
As Cheshion stepped out, Isollen and the maids—who had been eavesdropping—scattered, whispering about what the two could’ve been doing so late at night.
Deep in the night, Gremory awoke to an ominous presence.
Black aura.
The same dark energy she’d sensed upon first arriving at the estate was seeping from Cheshion’s room. Transforming into a cat, she slipped through his window and perched by his bedside.
Cheshion was drenched in cold sweat, trapped in a nightmare.
“Iris…!”
His sister’s name escaped his lips.
Gremory could guess the dream’s nature. Pressing a paw to his forehead, she pulled him free. The black aura dissipated as he jolted awake—only to find crimson feline eyes blinking at him.
“You woke me?”
Nod.
“Thanks. It was… a terrible dream.”
He pulled the cat into his arms.
Then, in his embrace, the cat shifted—into a human.
“W-Wait! Change back!”
Gremory snorted.
“Humans. Panicking over a little shape-shifting.”
“S-Sorry! But this is shocking!”
Cheshion yanked the blanket over his half-exposed body. Gremory rolled her eyes.
“Why cover up? There’s nothing worth seeing.”
“T-There’s plenty worth seeing!”
“Why are humans so ashamed of their bodies? They’re all basically the same.”
“You feel no shame?”
“Nope.”
“Please learn some!”
Gremory giggled, teasing him—until she suddenly tensed.
“Shh. Intruders. Two of them.”
Cheshion’s blush vanished. Grabbing a hidden dagger, he whispered:
“Sorry, I only have one weapon.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll fight barehanded.”
As Gremory prepared to unsheathe her claws, Iris shrieked internally: “DON’T!!”
“…Fine. I’ll use this.”
She picked up a pillow.
“That’s your weapon?”
“Northern warriors fight with anything.”
“Uh… sure.”
“I’ll take the one in the black hood. You handle the red sash.”
“Got it.”
As the intraders crept in, Cheshion sprang up, slashing at the red-sashed man. Gremory swung her pillow—hardened by witch-strength—sending the hooded figure flying.
The red-sashed man, however, was skilled. Cheshion struggled—until Gremory cast a minor curse, tripping him. Cheshion seized the opening, binding the man’s hands with his own sash.
Just as Gremory smirked—
The “unconscious” hooded man hurled a silver candlestick at her.
“Mori!”
Cheshion knocked him out and rushed to Gremory—too late.
The silver grazed her arm.
“AAAAAAAGH—!”
A scream—shrill, agonizing, unthinkable from someone who’d once vomited blood without flinching—tore through the room.
“It’s okay! You’re okay…!”
Cheshion checked the shallow cut.
Why such pain from a scratch? Unless—
Damn it. Even now, I’m suspecting her?
She’s a witch-hunt victim. That’s all. The trauma runs deep.
Knights and Isollen burst in, arresting the intruders. Isollen hesitated—why are they together in pajamas?—then focused on Gremory, sobbing uncontrollably.
“A silver candlestick? It’s okay, Mori. Just disinfect it—”
“It hurts… I’m scared…!”
“The hunts are over. No one’s stabbing you with silver anymore.” Isollen patted her back. “Your Grace, handle the intruders. I’ll calm her.”
“R-Right.”
As Cheshion left, Isollen examined Gremory—now weeping into her lap.
She’s never shown emotion like this. There’s more to this.
During the hunts, they’d “tested” women by stabbing them with silver. Witches, they claimed, felt greater pain.
“Mori… were you stabbed with silver before?”
Sniff. “A… spear…”
“A what?”
Gremory pulled her collar down, revealing a grotesque scar spanning her chest—piercing through to her back.
Isollen gasped.
“Oh, Mori… Come here.”
Wrapping the wound, she hugged Gremory—and cried with her.
How much did it hurt? How did she survive this?
She regretted ever dismissing Gremory as just another aloof, eccentric survivor.
