Chapter 141
Arzeletta shook her head silently. Yoseph’s face twisted again.
“I-If he ever tries to hurt you, then I’ll…”
Yoseph lifted his tear-soaked eyes. His clenched fist looked as if he were gripping a knife in the slaughterhouse.
“I’ll… kill the lord, kill Ragnar… with my own hands—”
“No, Yoseph.”
Startled, Arzeletta quickly covered Yoseph’s mouth.
She then hurriedly looked around, even though she knew that no one ever came to the slaughterhouse. If anyone had heard Yoseph say that, he would’ve been dragged away and torn limb from limb, tied to a cart, right then and there. At least, that was how it happened in other territories.
Within the narrow, filthy fence, silence still lingered. Nothing remained there but the lost wind. Arzeletta let out a low sigh and met the tear-filled, innocent gaze of Yoseph.
“No matter what happens, you must never throw away your life because of me, Yoseph.”
“Arzeletta…”
“Promise me.”
“You are my life itself, Arzeletta…”
Arzeletta embraced the large, trembling man as he wept.
“Poor Yoseph…”
As always, her heart ached at his tears, and Arzeletta wept with him.
In the golden spring sunlight, the shadows beneath their feet appeared sharper than usual. All his life in this territory, Yoseph had been her shadow.
“My Lord.”
At the knight’s call, Ragnar looked up from where he sat in the study. As always, he was impeccably dressed in his sharp black uniform, not a detail out of place.
The one who entered, making his presence known, was his personal knight. The young, handsome knight wore a slightly more relaxed expression than usual. It was a subtle change from his usual tense demeanor when facing Ragnar.
Ragnar, noticing the shift, looked up at him questioningly. The knight placed what he was holding down in front of Ragnar.
It was a single flower, placed on a small tray.
“They said the second daughter of the Leopolds brought it.”
Ragnar reached out and picked up the flower. In that moment, even his cold eyes showed a faint trace of warmth.
“This year’s first Montbleu.”
The flower on the silver tray was whiter than the first snow. It shared the same pure silver-white hue as Ragnar and Theogrim’s hair.
When touched by moonlight, the flower’s fragrance and mysterious silvery sheen grew even more vivid, which is why people called it the Moon’s Flower.
At the center of the violet-like blossom, a shade of purple spread like spilled paint. It held all the colors most revered by Impellias. Because of that noble coloring, the Montbleu was regarded as a symbol of Impellias itself.
Montbleu symbolized luck, sanctity, and purity—everything sacred and revered.
Children who found Montbleu flowers would bring them to the castle and present them to the lord. For the children, it was nearly the only chance to approach the fearsome lord.
At the castle, the flowers picked by the children were woven into flower crowns. These were used by the goddess of the seasonal festival for that year.
“What was Leopold’s second daughter’s name again?”
“Right… yes, her name was Arina.”
“That’s a cute name. She must have come running with excitement.”
Ragnar’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The first Montbleuette discovered that year would have a purple ribbon tied around it and be hung at the castle gate. For the child who found it, it would be an incredible source of pride.
“Give the child coins and candy.”
Ragnar gave the order to the knight and moved to put the flower down again. Or rather, he tried to.
“……”
The knight silently looked at the lord who was gazing down at the flower. The knight’s loyal eyes blinked in confusion.
Still holding the flower, Ragnar began to walk.
Beyond the wide glass windows—windows that could only be found in the lord’s castle—lay the expanse of the land he had rebuilt with his own hands.
He looked out over the midday territory, watching the busy village where people came and went.
The village was full of life. His subjects moved about their day’s work in lighter clothing, embracing the warmth of the season.
Even the dry branches of the barren Derden mountains were covered in fresh green sprouts. The pale green was so tender and pure, it almost hurt the eyes.
The color of new buds, new shoots—soft, warm, and the hue of all things most lovely.
…It was also the color Ragnar had recently grown most sensitive to.
Yellow had crept into the sunlight that had remained pale all winter. Even the always dark and somber Rosenburg lord’s castle felt slightly warmer.
The breath of spring in the world was vivid.
“……”
And in that moment, Ragnar felt a strange sensation of unfamiliar emotion.
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