From the Tip of the Tongue of the Lowliest Maid - Chapter 81

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

Since dedicating himself to God, this was the first time Ragnar had ever experienced hell.

Hell did not come in the form of pain and fear as he had imagined. It came in a form as sweet as sugar, as intoxicating as liquor, and dragged him into the mire.

With a muddled head, he tried to think.

What on earth is that woman… thinking?

Ragnar couldn’t understand. There was nothing impure in the green eyes of the maid who followed him.

Did she desire him? Did she love him? Or did she covet the power he held?

What was reflected in Arzeletta’s eyes was a feeling that could not answer any of those questions. She followed him as though she were following God, chasing after him without expecting anything in return.

It resembled the purest faith Ragnar had spent his life cultivating.

And at the same time, it was a sentiment he had never once received from any of the subjects who lived under his protection.

“Even someone like me, who dared to leave a scar on Del Rose… who bears an unwashed sin… I want to know if I, too, could receive the blessing of God.”

Arzeletta’s whisper scraped through Ragnar’s mind. Not once since stepping onto the path of God had he experienced such confusion.

At that moment, he recalled the maid’s clear gaze, her slender neck like a flower stalk, her black hair.

The image of her white body, covered with his cloak and laid out like a spectacle before everyone’s leering eyes, clouded Ragnar’s vision like an illusion.

Even the sensation of her collapsing into his arms from atop the horse, after gripping his shoulder, remained vividly in his memory.

“……”

Ragnar let out a low breath as he felt the now-familiar stirrings within his body.

Arzeletta. Arzeletta. Arzeletta! Even her name now sounded like a wicked incantation.

It felt as if the parts of his mind and heart stamped with that name were slowly charring black. Just like the woman’s blackened, ruined back.

“Lord Ragnar.”

At someone’s call, Ragnar flinched and turned around.

“…Carmen.”

Emerging from the darkness with eyes sharp like a serpent’s was his loyal priest.

“What are you doing here? It’s time for the ritual.”

At Carmen’s question, Ragnar turned his gaze without answering. By now, the feast of blood prepared only for the lord must have been set upon his table.

Lately, he had noticeably been avoiding the blood rituals.

The sweetness felt within the lukewarm blood of beasts was consuming him. It was impossible, and yet he could smell her scent. The scent of the woman who pulled out the hearts of beautiful beasts in the slaughterhouse for his sake. The scent of the woman’s tears, of her hand that had likely caressed those dead hearts—everything was vividly clear.

“I was looking at a painting.”

“Ah.”

“A scene from the life of Saint Beckelus.”

The priest shifted his gaze to the wall, following Ragnar. The moment of miracle performed by the great saint of Impellias, Saint Beckelus, was woven into the tapestry.

“…It’s not a story frequently cited in the temple,” the priest began quietly.

Among the golden tapestries depicting the stories of the saints, some were hung deep within the sanctum where ordinary people could not easily view them. One of those was the tale of Saint Beckelus. Though he was one of the most beautiful and great saints among the eight of Impellias, his name was not often mentioned despite his fame.

There was a reason for that. None of the priests of Impellias ever referenced him in their sermons. He was both the most charismatic and the most troublesome figure among the saints.

Moreover, in the oppressive and ascetic temple of Rosenburg Castle, the tale of a saint who subjugated heretics with masculine charm and prowess was virtually treated as taboo.

Many priests and theologians had long wrestled with interpreting the story of Saint Beckelus behind the strict walls of the temple, but none had been able to present a definitive explanation.

The most widely accepted interpretation was…

“That even Impellias, in the end, did not reject human flesh and desire—it is a metaphor for that,” Ragnar murmured to himself.

It was the orthodoxy. A universally acceptable truth that left little room for criticism.

At the same time, it was a diluted interpretation, devoid of any novelty.