Chapter 42
Her original sin—the scar inflicted upon the face of Theogrim, someone worth hundreds or thousands of times more than someone as lowly as herself. The proof of that sin.
Ragnar’s gaze was relentless. His eyes thoroughly scanned each and every scar on Arzeletta’s back—scars that still looked unhealed, as if rotting.
What stood out especially was the strange, 11-shaped wound near both of her shoulder blades. It looked as if something had been cut out. No matter how one looked, it was an unusual scar.
“My lord!”
At the timely shout, Arzeletta’s shoulders jolted.
Ragnar, who had been standing motionless for quite some time, turned toward the source of the voice. His expression remained completely composed.
Arzeletta let out a silent breath. She wasn’t sure whether it was awe or fear.
The rumors were true.
In the gaze and breath of that great Holy Knight examining her body, there was not the slightest trace of lust.
The retainer, who had come running after spotting the lord from afar, only halted when he noticed Arzeletta up close. The momentary hesitation was clear.
“This woman—”
About to speak, the retainer shut his mouth. But Arzeletta already knew what words would have followed.
A lewd and filthy woman.
A cursed woman.
The one who scarred the face of Del Rose…
The young and handsome retainer revealed open disgust toward Arzeletta.
With a face full of unrefined contempt, he scanned her tattered clothes, her servile submission, and, above all, the terrible, grotesque scars that covered her back.
But that, too, was only for a moment.
As if even the time spent looking at Arzeletta was a waste, he turned his gaze to Ragnar. The upright, noble face bore a clear expression of blind loyalty toward Ragnar.
“A letter has arrived from the royal capital. It’s another request for reinforcements.”
At the retainer’s report, Ragnar nodded indifferently.
“Let’s return.”
Ragnar turned away with a clean finality, like a blade’s sharp edge. His steps were firm, as if he had completely forgotten Arzeletta’s presence.
The retainer trailing behind him merely cast Arzeletta a brief, mocking glance.
Only after the two had walked away did Arzeletta raise her head, which had been bowed so deeply it hurt.
“……”
Her body was still trembling.
Those violet eyes—so much like Theogrim’s that they could have been those of a true parent and child—were unbelievably cold.
Arzeletta knew well how gentle Theogrim’s gaze could be, how much warmth it carried. That made Ragnar’s eyes all the more unbearable.
Was a man like that truly the agent of God? Then what kind of being was God?
That merciless gaze, which seemed capable only of judgment and evaluation, without a trace of compassion or warmth, still clung to Arzeletta’s body.
Having grown used to lust-filled eyes that clung to her with unrelenting desire, this was the first time she had experienced a gaze that stripped her down with such cold detachment.
Arzeletta gathered up her fallen garments and covered herself.
At the very least, it seemed she had succeeded in diverting attention from the matter concerning Exion.
The lake was peaceful and beautiful once again today. Or so it seemed.
Sunlight sparkled over the wide, blue waves, and Arzeletta, sitting on a bed of green grass with her pale body, looked as beautiful as a sculpture.
But the twisted back hidden beneath that image, the pollution settled at the bottom of the lake, the ominous lies and scent of blood drifting through the air—only Arzeletta knew of them.
‘Kill me.’
Arzeletta pressed her white fist against her heart.
The command of Theogrim seeped into her heart and caused it to bleed. Thump, thump—it pounded in her ears painfully.
In a dark room, Ragnar lifted a goblet resting on a long dining table.
What filled the goblet was hot blood, not yet cooled.
Holding the goblet, Ragnar stared straight ahead.
Laid atop a silver tray was a freshly severed head.
It was a red bear.
The beautiful and valiant red bear had been offered today as a sacrifice to this great Holy Knight.
A creature born a beast, now granted the most glorious death.
As Ragnar drank the hot blood freshly drawn from the bear’s heart, he gazed at the head placed on the silver tray.
It was an act of victory. A ritual to affirm his dominance over the beast.
It was not simply a matter of taking life and consuming its flesh and blood—it was a symbol of perfect subjugation of the being.
A declaration that the only entity capable of ruling over all things on earth was man—endowed with reason and faith.
A great authority granted solely to humans by God.
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