Chapter 61
Daphne hadn’t been wrong.
To the rigid and austere faith of Impellias, anything captivating was dangerous—and fairies, above all, were far too alluring.
“That fairy gave its entire heart to the master who traded it,” she said. “Not as a metaphor—literally.”
And they were seductive too.
“That’s different from love, isn’t it?”
“That is exactly why they are heretical beings, Lady Daphne,” Ragnar replied calmly. “Love is something only humans under the grace of Impellias are allowed to possess. It is different from temptation, different from desire. Love, as permitted by God, is an act of mutual respect built solely upon cold reason.”
“They say that once a vow is made, the soul remains bound to that person forever,” Daphne said, gently swinging her feet where she sat. She was no longer too young to grasp the meaning of such words. In fact, she might have understood their implications more precisely than anyone else.
“They’re such strange creatures,” she continued. “So beautiful, yet unable to control either body or heart as they wish.”
“That is why they cloud reason,” Ragnar said again.
It was the strongest curse the fairies placed upon themselves. They were too weak to use their beauty as a weapon, and like butterflies with brilliant wings or rare birds with exotic feathers, they were hunted precisely because of that beauty. Their existence provoked desire in humans.
So why was it the fairies who were deemed wicked, and not the desiring humans?
The law treated them as one might treat a narcotic. Yes, using the d**g was bad—but even worse was the existence of the d**g itself, something capable of unraveling the human will. Because they could not prove their existence through reason, fairies were labeled as heresy. They resembled humans far too much to be called beasts, and yet they were too fantastical to be considered human.
Impellias had essentially built its religion by denouncing the beauty of fairies as vile and rising to power on a foundation of that hatred.
“Even someone like you,” Daphne said, looking at Ragnar curiously, “would you lose your reason if you saw a fairy?”
The question, asked as though daring him, made Ragnar’s brow twitch.
“That’s a dangerous question if overheard,” he replied. “I’ll act as though I didn’t hear it.”
“Have you never loved anyone before?” she asked.
“Daphne.”
“Never been tempted? Never faltered or collapsed? Never met someone who lifted you higher than your god?”
Ragnar turned away from her. The questions were laced with sacrilege. The Grand Duchess, who had once been just clever and slightly impish, was now a noblewoman capable of embedding blades into her words.
Normally, Ragnar would have reprimanded such audacity. But when it came to Daphne, he was forgiving. She was necessary—for his dreams, and for the glory of his chosen successor.
“You’ve never fled before barbaric heretics,” she said with a quiet chuckle, “but now you’re fleeing from me.”
Ragnar walked away from the terrace, leaving her voice behind him.
“Make sure the Grand Duchess is treated with utmost care,” he instructed. “She must not experience the slightest discomfort.”
“Understood,” came the reply.
“Make sure to have tea time with Del Rose at least once a day. However, that must never result in any breach of etiquette.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
After giving instructions to the butler, Ragnar turned around.
“Have you never loved anyone?”
But Daphne’s question lingered persistently, trailing him.
“Never felt temptation, never wavered or crumbled, never met anyone who lifted you higher than even your god?”
“God above.”
Shaking his head as if to rid himself of her words, Ragnar immediately placed a fist to his chest and prayed. Just recalling such irreverent questions made him feel as though he had sinned.
Ragnar began walking. The sound of clinking tableware, the laughter of the knights on guard—he passed through the corridor of the castle, which felt more animated than usual, and headed out beyond the walls.
He thought of the offering that would be waiting for him in his chamber. Sacred and beautiful beasts—creatures who, even today, would prove his devotion to God through death for the glory of the Holy Knight.
But recently, Ragnar had been hesitating to partake in the act of drinking blood.
That sacred ritual, as defined by law, had begun to shake him.
The ritual purification through the drinking of beast blood was stirring him in an unsettling way. It made his heart race and aroused parts of him that had never been stirred before.
“You, who never fled even before savage heretics, now flee from me.”
Daphne’s mocking voice echoed again in his ears. He walked firmly, without faltering.
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