The man tilted his head, murmuring softly to the butterfly, then raised his hand. Obediently, the butterfly fluttered up and landed on the curve of his index finger. His gaze was gentle, despite his black and white priest robes resembling funeral attire. That gentleness, that considerate demeanor, couldn't possibly be a pretense.
Perhaps sensing someone watching, the priest turned his head to glance in the direction of Dialan's location.
Only when viewed from the front could one realize how terrifying his eyes were, rusty blood red like iron. Yet his features remained refined and carried the innocence of recent adulthood.
"(Unknown language) Who's there?"
His eyes were clearly on Dialan, but the rusty-red pupils reflected the lush greenery of the trees, perceiving without seeing anyone.
Though she couldn't understand the language, Dialan knew what he meant: he was questioning if someone stood there.
