AWLITEB Chapter 5

She needed to explain herself.

But how, exactly?

How did one explain dancing with glee in front of a corpse with a hole blown through its face?

How the hell was she supposed to spin that?

"Your Grace. The thing is..."

Isabella forced her racing heart into something resembling order, pushed words past her lips.

"I—I mean, this humble one is... that is..."

"A witch, then."

The Grand Duke murmured it like an observation about the weather.

His expression had gone eerily calm in the space of a heartbeat, all that initial shock smoothed away into something thoughtful. Clinical, even.

Witch. The word struck Isabella like a fist to the sternum, locked her muscles tight.

She remembered the red light that had burst from her fingertips. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth. Every hair on her body stood on end, skin prickling with primal recognition of danger.

Only witches produced red light when wielding magic. Everyone knew that. It was the mark, the tell, the thing that got you burned.

Isabella took a slow step backward.

Even if she truly was a witch, she couldn't possibly fight the Grand Duke. Not now. That surge of power that had killed the drunk—she didn't even know how it had happened. She'd just been desperate not to have her throat crushed, that was all. Pure animal instinct.

Would they boil her alive? Behead her? Tie her up in the town square and let her swing from a rope until her neck snapped?

The most horrific execution methods humanity had ever devised flickered through Isabella's mind like a gruesome slideshow, each more terrible than the last.

"Isabella White."

Genos Perdian moved toward her with the unhurried confidence of a predator that knew its prey had nowhere to run.

He didn't even glance down when his boot landed on the corpse at his feet.

Isabella felt the first cold tendrils of real fear begin to coil around her spine.

Something was wrong with the Grand Duke's eyes.

They were alight with excitement. Anticipation, even. Like a child on the morning of a festival.

"I've been..."

Genos whispered it.

Isabella's back hit the wall. No more room to retreat. Nowhere left to go.

He bent at the waist, bringing his face level with hers. Close enough that their noses nearly touched, close enough that she could count his eyelashes in the dim light.

Isabella swallowed hard, dry throat clicking, and waited with mounting dread for whatever would come next.

"Searching for exactly this miracle."

What?

Isabella's face crumpled in confusion.

She wanted to ask what the hell that was supposed to mean. The words sat on her tongue, sharp and incredulous.

And Genos Perdian was smiling—the brightest, most genuine smile she'd ever seen on his aristocratic face.

"A witch!"

He practically shouted it in triumph, laughing with what could only be called joy.

His eyes sparkled as they traced over her features, drinking in every detail of her face. He looked, impossibly, happy.

Isabella twisted away from that burning gaze, flustered and off-balance, trying to slip past him.

"A witch, Your Grace? I don't—I don't know what you mean."

Genos straightened slowly, leisurely, while Isabella babbled her useless denials.

"No one in this world produces red light when using magic. No one except witches."

"You... you must have seen it wrong. I was just terrified for my life, I didn't know what I was—"

"One in two people can use magic. Fifty percent—significant odds. But ninety percent of those can barely light a room or levitate a pencil. Of the remaining ten percent who can wield real power, only one in a million is born with enough ability to kill."

Genos spoke rapidly, words tumbling out in a rush, eyes never leaving Isabella's face.

"And even if you're born with that kind of genius, you'd need thirty years of training—brutal, deadly training—to develop enough power to do what you just did to that man."

Isabella felt her knees threatening to buckle under the weight of his logic.

"By those numbers, only five people in the entire Empire possess lethal magical ability. And what lunatic would dedicate thirty years to that kind of discipline? So currently, the Empire has exactly zero magic wielders at that level."

"..."

"But you, Isabella. You—with no magical training whatsoever—just killed a man with magic because you felt threatened. And you did it with red light."

"..."

"Which leaves only one possible conclusion."

Genos smiled, deep and satisfied, and spoke in a near-whisper.

"You're a witch."

Isabella's hands trembled worse than before, fear flooding her veins like ice water. If he was going to kill her, she at least wanted warning. Time to brace for it.

"How... how will you kill me?"

"What?"

"Will you use a sword? Or perhaps the gallows—"

"Why would I kill you?"

He tilted his head with that devastating smile, genuinely puzzled by the question.

"You're going to be my warhorse."

"...Excuse me?"

Isabella's head spun, the world tilting on its axis, but Genos looked perfectly at ease—like a man who'd just solved a particularly vexing puzzle.

"Step back for a moment."

He gestured. Isabella obeyed immediately, body moving before her brain caught up. A bad habit, that—the speed of her obedience to commands. Years of conditioning carved into muscle memory.

Genos turned his back to her and raised one hand. Blue light burst from his fingertips.

The drunk's corpse erupted into flames.

"Ah!"

Isabella yelped in shock, then clapped both hands over her own mouth.

Genos didn't even flinch. He simply watched the body burn with the detached interest of someone monitoring a campfire.

The flames consumed the corpse efficiently, thoroughly, until nothing remained but a handful of ash.

Genos ground the powder into the cobblestones with the heel of his boot, pulverizing it, erasing even that last trace.

"Nothing happened here."

He turned back to face Isabella.

She nodded mutely, still dazed.

She'd been seconds away from swinging in the town square with the label murderous witch hung around her neck, and he'd just... taken care of it. Burned the evidence. Made the problem disappear.

She should probably be grateful, even if she had no idea what the hell was actually going on.

"Grand Duke! It's Terence—where are you?"

A young man's voice echoed from somewhere nearby, strong and worried.

Genos's gaze swept over Isabella's appearance—her filthy rags, bare feet, tangled hair.

Isabella flinched, suddenly remembering what she must look like.

Genos crossed to her and grabbed the hem of her tattered dress.

"The effect lasts barely a minute."

He yanked the fabric. Isabella stumbled forward with the momentum, and the Grand Duke's arm came around her waist in one smooth motion, steadying her, holding her upright.

"Your weak constitution is going to be a problem."

He muttered it under his breath and released her.

Isabella looked down at herself and gasped.

"What in the—"

Somehow she was wearing a pale green dress adorned with delicate lace and pearl embellishments. White shoes on her feet. Her wild hair had been braided into something neat and pretty.

Genos nodded to himself—good enough—and strode out of the alley, raising one hand.

A young knight hurried over and bowed.

"Any news on the witch?"

"No, Your Grace. We found twelve women who recently gave birth, but none of the infants show any signs of being a witch. Perhaps we should search for pregnant women who haven't delivered yet—"

The knight's dutiful report stuttered to a halt when he spotted Isabella standing behind the Grand Duke.

"Ah, the young lady of the White Barony was out for an evening walk and lost track of the hour."

Genos turned slightly, positioning himself so the knight could half-see Isabella.

She curtsied briefly, clutching her skirts with both hands. The knight returned the gesture reflexively.

A night walk with no escort? And she just happened to run into the Grand Duke?

The knight's face screamed confusion, but comprehension dawned almost immediately. He schooled his expression with admirable speed.

A young man and woman. The dark of night. A location carefully chosen to avoid prying eyes.

"Return to the command room. I'll be along shortly, and we'll resume the meeting."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The knight spun on his heel and departed without further questions.

"Are you sure that's wise, Your Grace? That situation was ripe for misunderstanding."

"Let them misunderstand. That's why I made sure he saw you. If I'd wanted to hide you, I could have positioned you at the far end of that alley and the knight would never have noticed."

"Why allow the misunderstanding?"

"Because it's useful for people to see us together."

"What?"

"I don't have time to answer every question right now. Come on."

Genos removed the brown deerskin cloak from his shoulders and draped it over Isabella's head like a hood.

The magic had already worn off—she was back in her rags. He pulled the hood up to shadow her face, tied the waist cord. The cloak swallowed her thin frame completely.

Then he simply bent and lifted her into his arms.

"Eek!"

Her feet left the ground abruptly. Isabella yelped in surprise.

"Try not to draw quite so much attention."

Genos frowned slightly.

"Why are you suddenly—"

"You're barefoot. If you step on something sharp, your already fragile body will be injured. This is the simplest solution. I can't exactly give you my boots—they wouldn't fit."

He carried her out of the alley without breaking stride.

Isabella felt like she'd stumbled into someone else's dream. Someone else's life.

Impossible things kept cascading one after another, each more surreal than the last.

But she didn't struggle or try to escape his arms. Where would she go, anyway? There was nowhere left to run.

They reached the place where the Grand Duke's carriage waited.

Paile and the escort knights had been standing guard. They couldn't quite hide their shock at the unexpected scene.

"Take Lady Isabella to my manor. I'll follow on horseback later."

"To Your Grace's manor?"

Paile opened the carriage door reflexively even as he repeated the order back, seeking confirmation.

Paile never questioned orders. But this particular command was baffling enough that the words escaped before he could stop them.

"Yes. See that she arrives safely."

Genos deposited Isabella inside the carriage as casually as setting down a moderately heavy package. Then he turned and walked away.

The carriage door shut while Isabella stared numbly after his retreating form.

The scenery rolling past the window felt alien. Unreal. Like she'd become someone else entirely, slipped into a stranger's skin.

The wheels clattered over stones, loud and relentless.

Isabella looked down at her hands.

When she'd fled the basement, she certainly hadn't anticipated this.

"Red light..."

The moment she'd felt her life threatened, red light had burst from her fingertips. She could still feel that electric thrill, the way power had surged through her veins.

Her body shivered involuntarily at the memory.

But fear crept in alongside the exhilaration.

What was going to happen now?

What had Genos meant when he said she'd be his warhorse?

Isabella folded her hands—those hands that felt like weapons, like instruments of death—in her lap and took a deep, steadying breath.

"At least the Grand Duke was friendly. He didn't kill me. He was actually happy. So the situation isn't bad. It's not bad."

She bit her lip, trying to convince herself, trying to believe it.

The carriage rolled on for some time before stopping at Grand Duke Genos Perdian's manor.

Genos subscribed to the philosophy that excess space only provided hiding places for assassins. His manor was surprisingly modest for someone of his rank—nowhere near the ostentation one might expect.

It was maybe a quarter the size of the White family estate. Even that, Genos considered unnecessarily large.

"I'm opening the door now."

Paile knocked briefly, then opened the carriage door and extended his hand to Isabella.

She took it carefully and stepped down.

A pair of fluffy slippers waited on the ground in front of the carriage—Paile must have retrieved them from inside just moments ago.

"Please, put these on. I apologize that we only have servants' slippers in a size that might fit. I hope you'll forgive the humble offering."

"No, these are perfect. I'm just embarrassed to keep appearing barefoot."

Isabella slipped them on gratefully.

The guards stationed around the manor were visibly rattled by Isabella's presence.

Genos Perdian had never brought an outsider to this estate. Not once.

Especially not at this hour. Especially not a woman.

They didn't show it openly, but their eyes met, exchanging silent questions.

"This way, please."

Paile gestured with practiced courtesy.

Isabella pulled the hood lower over her face and followed him past the guards, into the manor.

A bell rang when the door opened. Three maids emerged from a nearby servants' room, roused from sleep.

"This is lady Isabella White, youngest daughter of the White Barony. Draw her a bath and prepare warm tea."

The maids blinked owlishly, still half-asleep and utterly confused.

"Did you hear me?"

Paile's second prompt snapped them fully awake.

"Yes, sir."

"But—we don't have any nightgowns. Nothing suitable for a noble lady."

The manor housed only the Grand Duke, Paile, and the servants. Of course they didn't have anything appropriate for an aristocratic young woman.

"I'll send someone to acquire appropriate clothing immediately. For now, assist her with bathing."

"Yes, sir."

The maids curtsied. Paile bowed to Isabella and stepped outside.

"Please follow me."

One of the maids led Isabella away with careful deference.

They arrived at a bathing room, and Isabella couldn't suppress a small sound of wonder.

Even when she'd lived with the White family—even on those rare occasions when she'd been dressed up and groomed and paraded before others like a presentable daughter—she'd never had access to a proper bathing room.

As a child in the orphanage, she'd used their inadequate facilities. After the Whites adopted her, she'd been relegated to the horrific tub in the basement.

The orphanage had actually been better, in retrospect. At least the water there hadn't reeked of blood.

"We'll help you undress."

The maids carefully removed the cloak.

Then they saw the rags underneath. Isabella felt them stiffen in shock.

She kept quiet, simply allowing them to help her out of the tattered dress without comment.

But Isabella had forgotten something important: her body was in far worse condition than the dress.

"Good God!"

One maid gasped before she could stop herself.

Old scars layered over fresh wounds, a chaotic map of violence and pain covering Isabella's skin.

"Are you—are you all right? These injuries are terrible..."

The maid couldn't finish the sentence.

"We'll call a physician immediately after your bath."

"No, I'm fine. These wounds heal on their own without medicine. I know they do."

"What?"

"Just... the bath, please."

Isabella withdrew her gaze, making it clear the subject was closed.