Release that Witch Chapter 3 The Witch Named Anna (Part II)

Chapter 3 The Witch Named Anna (Part II)

After consuming the final bite of fried egg from his morning meal, Roland used a napkin to clean his mouth and then stated, “So you’re saying that you fear the Witch Cooperation Association will learn the witch survived and attempt to save her?”

“Exactly as Your Highness described,” Barov declared, stomping his foot in rage. “Her death would have been problematic enough, but she remains alive! If those witches are deranged enough to abduct infants hoping they’ll become future allies, imagine what they’d risk for a confirmed servant of the devil. Given their wild behavior, a rescue effort wouldn’t shock anyone.”

Roland felt puzzled; something about this whole affair had always struck him as off. Why did the Assistant Minister and Knight Commander dread witches so intensely?

The condemned woman was supposedly a witch, wasn’t she? That frail figure who looked ready to collapse in a mere breeze? If she possessed such horrifying abilities, why endure capture and await execution? No, that made no sense. Church doctrine painted witches as demons deserving instant death without trial—even soldiers paid dearly to combat them. Yet this “demon” had been seized by ordinary folk from this frontier town, tortured, and fitted with a rope, without displaying any hint of her alleged fearsome power.

“How was she captured?” Roland inquired.

“From what I heard, during the North Mine collapse, she revealed her witch nature while fleeing and got seized by furious villagers,” Barov replied.

As he absorbed Barov’s words, Roland pondered inwardly, Why does this feel like it occurred right before my transmigration?

“How exactly did she reveal herself?” the prince pressed.

“Well, uh... I don’t know the details,” the assistant minister admitted, shaking his head. “Things were chaotic; perhaps someone witnessed her casting witchcraft.”

Frowning, Roland probed further, “Didn’t you investigate properly?”

“Your Highness, restarting the mine was urgent,” Barov defended. “That iron mine supplies half the town’s output, and the guards verified a witchcraft killing at the scene.”

“What sort of witchcraft?” Roland asked, curiosity piqued.

“The head and much of the body were splattered across the ground like melted wax. The remains resembled a spent candle,” the minister described with revulsion. “Your Highness, count yourself fortunate you missed that gruesome sight.”

Twirling a silver fork absently, Roland reflected. In history, witch hunt victims were mostly innocents—pawns for church control or outlets for superstitious rage. A few, though, brought doom on themselves: eccentrics brewing odd concoctions, dressed strangely, boasting of foresight into fate and mortality.

In reality, they’d stumbled on basic chemical reactions but touted them as divine gifts.

To contemporary views, mere parlor tricks in chemistry; in medieval eras, easily twisted into miraculous horrors.

Melting flesh? Roland’s mind leaped to acidic solutions.

Yet preparing them was cumbersome, requiring full immersion—not yielding a candle-like result. Other explanations fell short.

So how had she accomplished it?

Perhaps through alchemy, if such skill existed...

His thoughts crystallized, and Roland commanded firmly, “I want to see her.”

Barov froze briefly before stammering, “Your Highness, meet the witch?” In alarm, he lurched to his feet, toppling his untouched milk cup.

“Yes, that’s an order,” Roland replied, turning with a grin at the minister—grateful now for the fourth prince’s capricious reputation.

Reaching the door, Roland halted abruptly and asked, “Oh, one more thing—why the gallows?”

“Pardon?” Barov blinked.

Roland repeated, “Why hang her? Aren’t witches burned at the stake?”

Barov’s expression grew baffled. “Isn’t that the custom? But she fears no fire.”

*

This dungeon was cramped; the desolate region couldn’t sustain many inmates. Most offenders faced swift judgment—freedom or death—after brief confinement.

Accompanying the Prince into the cells were Barov, the Knight Commander, the warden, and a pair of guards.

The dungeon featured four levels in total, its walls constructed from sturdy granite blocks. This marked Roland’s initial visit to such a location, where he observed the corridors growing narrower the further down they ventured. The cells diminished in number too. In his mind, they had likely first excavated a pit shaped like an inverted cone before erecting stone layers upon it.

This crude construction naturally lacked any proper drainage. Moisture soaked the floor, with filthy sewage trickling down the stairs to the lowest level.

Clearly, the witch occupied the dungeon’s deepest part. With every descending layer, the foul odor in the air intensified.

“Your Highness, this is too risky for you, even with her sealed by God’s Locket of Retribution—it still isn’t safe.”

Carter was the one who voiced this. Upon learning of the prince’s intent to visit the witch, he had hurried after him, urging along the entire path for him to turn back. Yet all his efforts proved futile; even invoking the king’s direct order against entering danger zones failed to sway him. Evidently, the knight wasn’t just handsome—he was quite the talker too. After enduring this barrage, Roland half-wished someone would stitch his lips shut. “You must stare evil right in the face before clashing with it on the battlefield, standing firm against it. I figured you understood that,” he remarked.

“Besides battling evil with bravery, one must gauge their own strength and proceed wisely; blind recklessness isn’t true courage,” Carter countered.

“So you’re saying that facing a weaker foe upholds justice, but a stronger one gets ignored?” Roland pressed.

“No, Your Highness, I mean...” Carter faltered.

“You feared a witch attack before, and now even glimpsing a young girl terrifies you—truly, my Knight Commander commands fear.”

Though skilled at speaking, the knight faltered in arguments, utterly outmatched by Roland’s sharp tongue. Seizing the moment, the party arrived at the dungeon’s base.

This level was far smaller than those above, holding just two cells altogether. The warden ignited the wall torches, and as shadows receded, Roland spotted the witch huddled in her cell’s corner.

Late autumn had arrived, dropping the dungeon’s chill to where breaths formed visible mist. Clad in a fur coat lined with silk, Roland felt no discomfort, but the girl wore only ragged linen that barely covered her, leaving arms and legs exposed and bluish from cold.

The abrupt torchlight made her shrink back, eyes squeezed shut. Yet moments later, she opened them and fixed her gaze directly on the group.

Those eyes were a pale blue, reminiscent of a serene lake just before a storm. No trace of fear, rage, or loathing showed on the witch’s face. To Roland, she didn’t seem like a frail child at all—instead, she evoked an inferno’s blaze. Suddenly, the torch flames seemed feeble.

Leaning on the wall, the girl struggled to rise, moving deliberately as if wary of collapsing. At last, she succeeded and shuffled from the shadows into the light’s full embrace.

That basic action alone drew sharp gasps from his men, who stepped back twice over—only the Knight Commander held firm, shielding Roland.

“What’s your name?” Roland inquired of the witch, clapping the knight’s shoulder to signal no need for tension.

“Anna,” she answered.