From the Tip of the Tongue of the Lowliest Maid - Chapter 62

This work contains scenes of sadistic coercion and hardcore depictions of BDSM. Reader discretion is advised.

Hiiing.

As he entered the stables, the horses sensed his presence in the darkness and welcomed their master. Ragnar untied one from its reins and swiftly mounted.

Kicking against the dark ground, he rode out beyond the castle.

In the darkness, he raced across the land he had rebuilt, purified, and raised anew.

Countless fairies had been slaughtered on this land, and their blood had once drenched the earth, poisoning the crops.

What he had done was righteous.

For good to exist, there must also be evil. For purity to exist, there must be the impure.

Only by standing united against impurity could the people be easily brought under the order of Impellias.

To Ragnar, reason was the only thing that mattered—and only humans who possessed reason were of value. Long ago, primitive humans had worshipped beasts as gods, and fairies or spirits dulled the clarity of human reason.

They were all heretical beings. Beasts were meant only to become meat for humans. Fairies and spirits, who dared to wear human faces, were even more wicked than animals.

Everything he did was for the sake of God and human reason.

The lives lost in that process were great sacrifices.

Ragnar’s faith was unwavering.

He rode for a long while. Past the edge of the Derden Mountains—where traces of past fires still remained, though the green had since returned in abundance—he reached the lake beyond the castle.

Hiiing.

The horse let out a quiet whinny, as if in response to the tranquil scenery. With cold eyes, Ragnar gazed at the peaceful-looking lake.

He looked over the view that held the lake bathed in moonlight and the surrounding mountains.

Beneath the surface of this beautiful lake lay sediment from soil once polluted. It was beautiful, yet impure. Peaceful, yet ominous. In Ragnar’s eyes, dangers like this lurked all throughout the land he ruled.

“I didn’t want to be punished, and I didn’t want to commit sin on Your Lordship’s devout land, so…”

“……!”

Suddenly, a woman’s voice came back to him. Ragnar drew in a sharp breath.

“Damn it.”

He ground out the curse under his breath.

Now he understood why he had been unconsciously drawn to this place.

…It was where he had encountered that maid, Arzeletta.

The moment he recalled her, the memory of that day crashed over him in an instant.

The lowborn woman had crouched on the ground in worn, shabby clothes, her whole body curled in submission, her head bowed. Those green eyes had looked up at him as if gazing upon a god.

And just below the nape of her neck, that glimpse of pale, translucent skin—soft and full like a pearl.

“I wanted to be closer to Your Lordship, to be somewhere near…”

Blood rose in Ragnar’s eyes. The more he tried to escape her image, the more her presence clung to him.

That was when it happened.

“……?”

Ragnar furrowed his brow. It hadn’t been a mistake.

Not far off, a light was flickering.

It was well past the permitted hours for leaving the castle, and this was a lake so ominous that even during the day, people stayed away.

Ragnar pulled the reins. Sensitive to its master’s slightest signal, the black horse moved with hushed steps toward the source of the light.

The flickering red flame drew closer.

Standing atop a steep rise, Ragnar looked down at the group gathered at the base of a low hill.

“……!”

His brow tightened as he saw what was happening.

“Come here, come here!”

“They say the hunchback got himself a monster bride.”

“A perfect match, huh.”

“Let’s hold the wedding night here.”

Ragnar’s eyes, watching from within the night’s darkness, sank heavily.

Curled up at the center of a circle formed by a dozen or so of his subjects was a hunched figure covered in a black rag—and…

“Wear the bridal gown! Come here!”

“Ugh…!”

Arzeletta. Arzeletta.

The very woman who had haunted his thoughts all night.

The crowd was not small. Their faces were the same ones he’d seen earlier that day—those who had come out into the streets in their finest outing clothes to greet the Grand Duchess’s procession and scatter flower petals.

They had thrown fragrant petals toward the noble Grand Duchess and the Holy Knights who accompanied her, and had their children sing songs.

There had not been a trace of darkness in their eyes as they looked up at the Grand Duchess’s carriage—only pure, sunlit reverence.

Yet now, those same citizens of Rosenburg—those who had been the most devout in the daylight—wore savage expressions Ragnar had never seen before.