Chapter 63
“Please…!”
“What kind of bride wears something this black?”
As soon as the woman finished speaking, she pulled the string tied behind Arzeletta’s back. Like unlacing a corset, the black bustier that had been meticulously crossed and tied came undone in an instant.
“We’ve prepared something more fitting, here.”
“N-no…!”
As Arzeletta’s clothes were pulled from both sides, the black fabric split open, revealing her white skin. And at the same time—
“Ugh, disgusting!”
“Still creepy, even after all this time.”
From within the ring of people surrounding her, Arzeletta’s scars were revealed as if being put on display. They were darker than the blackest night.
Her long, black hair fell over both her white shoulders, parting like a curtain. Between the black of her hair and the black clothing slipping off, Arzeletta’s translucent back and twisted scar stood out even more starkly.
“The scar looks bigger, doesn’t it? Did Yoseph feed it something to make it grow?”
“Monsters love perverts, after all.”
At someone’s comment, the group began laughing gleefully, one after another. Arzeletta, caught in their stares, couldn’t resist as her clothes were stripped away. She bowed her head.
“You can’t hide the scar your groom likes. Come on.”
“Ugh…!”
“We made you a bridal dress, try it on.”
“Yeah. No need to thank us.”
Her hands desperately clutched at the clothes that had fallen. Arzeletta, barely able to cover her front, shook her head.
“What, you’re not going to listen?”
Someone grabbed a fistful of Arzeletta’s hair. Her face, which had been lowered and hidden from their gazes, was revealed under the torchlight.
Her face was pale, drained of color. Her beautiful light-green eyes trembled, filled with tears.
It was a pitiful sight.
Hidden in the shadows, Ragnar watched the sorrow tremble in the eyes of a lowborn, weak woman.
Though she had endured countless ordeals, it seemed pain and sorrow never became something one could get used to.
“N-no…!”
Arzeletta’s clothes were completely taken from her. Her white, clean body was exposed under the stares of those surrounding her. The sneering eyes of the men who had been snickering moments ago now gleamed with savage lust.
Arzeletta sat on the dirt floor, abandoned, knees drawn together. The only thing covering her was a piece of cloth so small it could hardly be called undergarments.
She crossed her slender arms over her chest. In the rough light of the torch flames, the curves of her body stood out even more starkly. Her navel, her collarbones, the soft b*****s barely concealed at the edges, the tightly pressed-together thighs, and the deep hollow between them were all steeped in a darkness as thick as shadow.
As the torches burned, it felt as though the darkness burned with them.
“Please, stop…!”
Two women roughly grabbed and tore at her arms. Arzeletta’s body was laid bare under everyone’s gaze without anything to hide behind.
Low gasps and sinister laughter spread in a murmur through the darkness.
Her b*****s, white and soft like premium flour dough, trembled. Her n*****s, taut from fear, were flushed an almost lascivious red.
And yet, her face—soaked in fear and sorrow—was so pure and clean that those who looked upon it felt a chill they couldn’t explain.
A woman, guilty of nothing, being forced to bare herself before a crowd—her sorrow was not the true spectacle. It was the pleasure taken in that sorrow by those in power that was the real game here.
“Oh my, isn’t that Madame Florentain’s lace?”
“When would we ever get to wear something like this?”
The surrounding women laughed uproariously. As soon as Arzeletta’s body was revealed, their laughter became fiercer, clearly emboldened by the gleam in the village men’s eyes.
“Ugh…!”
A piece of tattered lace was draped over her naked, pale body—exposed like a peeled egg.
You couldn’t even call it clothing. Even if each fragment was undoubtedly made of high-class lace Arzeletta could never have even hoped to lay eyes on.
They looked like scraps cut off after tailoring—beautiful individually, but still just torn bits of fabric haphazardly sewn together.
It was like a slip purposely designed to show everything beneath. Something you’d find in the brothel quarters of a big city, not in a place like Rosenburg. The kind of thing a woman would wear not to hide her body, but to expose it.
It wasn’t clothing—it was rags crafted to humiliate the one wearing it. To strip her of dignity, to instill shame. That disgraceful thing was now draped over Arzeletta’s beautiful body.
Ragnar watched silently, his breath held, as that luxurious insult was forced upon the innocent maid.
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