ONE NIGHT STAND WITH HOT DUKE-Chapter 176: A wizard

No one answers.

He lets out a short laugh. Dry. Completely humorless.

"This place looks like it hasn’t been lived in for centuries," he says coldly. "And you expect me to believe Valerie came here often?"

He turns slowly.

His gaze lashes at the three of them like a whip.

"You told me," he continues, "this was the last place she visited."

Sera swallows. "Y–yes, Your Grace."

"Then what," Demian’s voice rises slightly, "did you find here?"

Silence.

Demian steps forward.

"Did any of you ever meet the woman Valerie visited in this place?" he asks sharply.

Sera and Lira exchange glances.

"We... only once," Lira finally says, her voice shaking. "And she was... very old."

Demian turns to Noel. "You?"

Noel lifts his head. "No," he answers firmly. "That woman was beautiful. Very beautiful."

Silence falls.

Even the dust seems to stop drifting.

Demian looks at all three of them one by one then laughs again, louder this time, sharper.

"Interesting," he says. "One says old. One says beautiful."

He slams his palm down onto the ancient wooden table. The table cracks. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"So which is it?" he roars."OR ARE ALL OF YOU LYING TO ME?!"

Sera and Lira freeze.

Noel opens his mouth then closes it again.

No one answers.

And just as Demian’s fury is about to fully erupt,

CREAK.

The sound comes from behind them.

Another door one they hadn’t even realized existed slowly opens.

An old man steps out.

His robe is dull and worn, his long hair white, his face carved deep with the marks of time. But his eyes... his eyes are sharp, alive, and they meet Demian’s gaze without even a trace of fear.

He smiles faintly.

"Ah," he says quietly. "So you finally came."

Sera flinches. Lira holds her breath. Noel instinctively reaches for the hilt of his sword.

Demian does not move.

He only stares at the man.

"I am looking for a woman," Demian says coldly. "Her name is Valerie."

The old man lets out a low chuckle a hoarse, unfriendly sound.

"That woman?" he says, tilting his head. "She is not merely a woman."

His gaze locks onto Demian, as if weighing his very soul.

"She is a witch."

The word falls into the room like a death knell.

And for the first time since Demian stood before the pink door His anger does not grow. It changes shape. Into something far more dangerous.

Demian falls silent.

For the first time since he stepped before the faded pink door, no words leave his lips. His gaze remains fixed on the old man yet it is clear his thoughts have already moved far beyond the room, assembling possibility after possibility, none of which he likes.

If that woman is a witch...

then Valerie did not come here without reason.

And if she is involved... then this is no simple escape.

Demian turns away.

Without a single word.

His steps are heavy, steady, as though he is restraining something he wants to destroy. The pressure of his aura remains, but now it is colder more controlled.

That makes it far more frightening.

Gordon, standing a short distance behind, exhales softly and inclines his head toward the old man.

"Thank you," he says briefly.

The man nods. "You’re welcome."

Gordon hesitates, then asks, "Is everyone who lives in this place... a witch?"

The old man narrows his eyes, then smiles faintly the smile of someone who knows more than he intends to say.

"Some," he replies. "Perhaps."

The answer comforts no one.

Gordon glances toward the door Demian has just left, then looks back at the old man.

"If that is the case... could you help me meet one of them?" he asks carefully. "I need to ask questions. There is a possibility the Duke’s woman... is with them."

The old man slowly shakes his head.

"I cannot," he says. "They are already gone."

"Gone?" Gordon frowns. "Where to?"

"By caravan."

The word hangs in the air.

"Caravan?" Gordon repeats.

Noel, who has remained silent until now, finally speaks. "Isn’t that the kind of transport often used by gypsies?"

The old man turns to him, eyes sharp. "That is correct."

Sera’s heart pounds. Lira grips the edge of her cloak.

"They are wandering witches," the old man continues. "And the last time they left, they did so by caravan more than a few days ago."

A few days.

Gordon’s expression hardens.

"That means..." he murmurs.

"They are already far away," the old man cuts in calmly.

Silence falls.

The dust in the room seems to move again, swirling slowly, like time itself mocking them.

"Do you know where they went?" Gordon finally asks, though hope has already drained from his voice.

The old man shakes his head. "I do not."

Noel lets out a heavy breath. Sera closes her eyes. Lira bites her lip.

The old man continues, his voice flat, almost philosophical, "No one ever knows where gypsies are headed. What is certain... is that they are always searching for a new place to live."

The word new sounds wrong.

Not safe.

Not peaceful.

But... unreachable.

Outside, Demian has already walked away from the pink door. The night wind snaps his cloak, his hair moving in the direction of his now unmistakable path.

He does not look back.

But in his mind, one conclusion begins to harden cold and undeniable:

If Valerie left with wandering witches... then she did not merely leave the castle.

She left the world Demian could control.

And for a Duke accustomed to commanding lands, armies, and the fates of others that is a challenge that cannot be ignored.

This hunt has just changed its shape.

Gordon stands a few steps behind Demian.

The study is silent. Candles burn low, their shadows stretching along the stone walls. Demian faces the window, his back straight, hands clasped behind him the posture of a ruler who appears calm, yet is far too still to be stable.

"I’ve told you everything I know, Your Grace," Gordon says at last. "About that place. About the witches. About the caravan."

Demian does not turn.

"So in your opinion," he says quietly, "Valerie left with them."

Gordon nods. "Yes, Your Grace."

Silence falls again.

Demian closes his eyes briefly. Not for long just enough for one heavy breath. Then he opens them, his gaze hardening.

"Then," he says low, "it means she knew."

Gordon frowns. "Forgive me, Your Grace... knew what?"

Demian smiles faintly.

Not a smile of relief.Not a smile of anger.

But the smile of someone who has just realized the wound was intentional and therefore deeper than he expected.

"She knew about my marriage."