From the Tip of the Tongue of the Lowliest Maid - Chapter 4
That was what he thought, but it was not something he could involve himself in.
Neatly setting aside his emotions, Ianes followed after Theogrim.
Clip-clop.
Until the moment the sound of those light hoofbeats disappeared, Arzeletta held her breath and chased after that sound with her ears.
Theogrim did not look back even once.
“Hmph.”
Once Theogrim disappeared, the onlookers quickly lost interest in tormenting Arzeletta.
After spitting toward her once, the people dispersed as if nothing had happened.
Arzeletta waded out of the water in her pitiful state.
She gathered the laundry she had ultimately failed to finish and placed it into the basket.
Arzeletta, having passed through the stares filled with contempt and envy, walked along the paved stone road, water dripping from her.
The path back to the castle felt endlessly far.
“Oooh.
“Looking good today, too.”
“Shall we meet somewhere else, Arzeletta?”
Avoiding the men who trailed frivolous whistles while glancing over her wet body, Arzeletta lowered her head and walked barefoot, step by step, without a word.
A sharp crescent moon hung over the spire of the castle.
Having finished his meal, Ragnar rose from the ornate, lengthy table.
The legs of the luxurious gilded chair scraped against the cold marble floor.
On the dining table, only a silver plate and a silver cup were left.
What Ragnar now faced directly was the head of a peacock placed atop the silver plate.
One meal a day, facing the eyes of a beast and consuming its heart and blood—
This was the cruel penance decreed by the laws of Impellias.
The freshly extracted, still-throbbing heart granted the power to read the divine life force scattered across the earth, and the fresh, hot blood in the silver cup delivered the energy of spirituality flowing through the entire universe.
Impellias was the extremist sect to which Ragnar had devoted his body.
Though its influence was small compared to the national religion, Mando, once the great holy knight Ragnar had rebuilt the Rosenburg territory—tainted by fairies—with transcendent divine power, the sect’s power rapidly expanded.
The laws of Impellias demanded harsh penance from its believers, and taught that only through extreme suffering could one reach the divine.
The most faithful knight of their god and the teacher of all believers—
That was Ragnar von Rosenburg.
He was an exemplary believer, a holy knight who received the touch of the divine from the closest reach.
Everyone in the territory revered him, followed him, and also feared him.
“My lord.”
Just as he finished the rite, a shadow approached him from behind.
Ragnar, who had been looking down through the window, moved only his eyes to glance back.
They were priests.
The aggressive, sharp lines of his features made Ragnar’s gaze even more intense.
The luxurious black uniform, accented with gold, clung tightly to his knightly, solid frame.
Ragnar gave a slight nod toward the priests.
“Today’s rite is prepared.”
“And my successor?”
“He has not returned yet. Shall we search for him?”
“Leave him be.”
Ragnar spoke lowly, his eyes turned toward the darkened window where the moon had risen.
“He is not the type to abandon his duties. He will not be late.”
“Understood.”
Ragnar’s gaze fell to the area beneath the lit spire.
As if to display the power closest to the divine, the higher the place in the castle, the brighter the light.
Staring at the deepening darkness of the castle’s valley below, Ragnar heard a priest speak behind him.
“Sir Theogrim truly resembles you, my lord. In character, in deep faith, and even in noble dignity. It’s hard to believe he is not of your blood.”
“Is that so?”
“Would it not all be divine arrangement? It was you who recognized a successor that was essential to both Impellias and our territory.”
White cloths fluttering in the dark valley came into view.
Ragnar, devoid of expression, nodded as he fixed his gaze on the cloths fluttering white under the moonlight.
He thought, perhaps it was some lazy servant hanging the laundry only after sunset.
“…Compared to that, young master Exion is truly lacking.”
At the name suddenly brought up by the priest, Ragnar’s neatly shaped eyebrows twitched.
