Chapter 293 - 292. The Demon’s Game (2)
The second day dawned, heavy with anticipation.
It was the day Benedict would confess his crimes to the people. I donned my cloak and set out, leaving Lyall behind to look after the child.
Before leaving, I had asked the boy if he wished to accompany me, but he refused. I understood his reluctance—his trauma was too fresh to confront. I didn’t press him further.
As I approached the Temple, I was met with a restless crowd. A platform had been erected, and clusters of people were already murmuring about the recent attacks on the villages near the Holy Place. The old rumors of the kingdom being cursed had begun to resurface, but such talk was inconsequential to me. My sole focus was on Benedict’s confession—and Lisana, if she was present.
The people of Boulder Crest had treated me well, showing kindness in my time of need. If I could return their daughter to them, even in this chaos, it would be a small repayment of their generosity.
I blended into the crowd, my face concealed, and wove my way through the throng. Their hushed conversations swirled around me, questioning why the Temple had summoned them so suddenly. The higher platform loomed ahead, still a short distance away.
As I pressed closer, I caught sight of a familiar blonde head emerging from the Temple doors. Benedict followed, his appearance gaunt and haggard, a shadow of his former self. He trudged up to the platform, the crowd falling silent as their attention shifted to him.
Benedict’s fear was palpable. Anxiety radiated from his trembling form, and I could see the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He hesitated, his eyes scanning the sea of expectant faces, doubt flickering in his gaze. Perhaps he was reconsidering.
But there was no turning back. If he faltered, I was here to ensure the truth came to light.
Standing several paces behind Benedict was Asher, a vigilant presence that offered no reassurance, only the reminder of duty. I maneuvered through the crowd until I found a vantage point with an unobstructed view of the platform.
Benedict’s hands trembled, and he dabbed at the sweat gathering on his brow. Taking a shaky breath, he steadied himself as best he could. The silence grew heavier, the crowd’s anticipation a tangible force pressing against him.