From the Tip of the Tongue of the Lowliest Maid - Prologue (Part 1)
Moonlight seeped through the sharply rising stained glass. As it passed through the red-colored panes, the light was dyed blood-red and shattered across the cold floor.
“Haa, ah…”
Ragged breaths scattered over the black marble where the red light had broken.
The soft, muffled sound of a wide and luxurious bed sinking deeply mixed discreetly into the stillness.
The master of this sacred and chilling space was Ragnar.
The greatest Holy Knight in the history of Impellias, and the lord of Rosenburg’s castle. The ruler of everything within this domain. The emissary of God, and the one closest to Him upon the earth.
His Holy Knight’s uniform, perfectly fitted to his imposing frame, added to his overwhelming presence. The noble black fabric contrasted sharply with his cold silver hair, making the color distinction all the more striking.
Everything in this space gleamed in black—the walls, the floor, the high ceiling, even the darkness itself, and the bed as well.
This pristine black, almost blinding to the eye, was a color permitted only to Ragnar, the sovereign of this land.
The man raised his hand.
Always kept strictly hidden within a glove, Ragnar’s hand was large and distinguished. His long, knotted fingers extended outward—just as they had for the countless others who awaited the blessing of the Great Holy Knight.
“Hhup…”
But the place that hand reached was a pale, slender body curled beneath his own.
The woman’s bare form, revealed under the crimson moonlight, was thin and delicate.
A maid.
A maid named Arzeletta.
A maid of the slaughterhouse.
The lowest, most miserable place in the entire domain. A place everyone turned away from—closing their eyes, plugging their ears, retreating before quickly erasing it from memory.
Yet supreme beauty, born from the most debased place, had ultimately placed this lowly maid upon the altar of God.
In the end, it was that very beauty that bound Arzeletta in eternal chains.
Like a butterfly caught in a spider’s web because of its dazzling wings.
“…Ah!”
Ragnar’s large hand seized Arzeletta’s thigh, which gleamed like a pearl beneath the moonlight.
“Ah, ah… it hurts…”
Red handprints quickly bloomed on her white skin beneath his rough grip. Arzeletta slowly blinked her wet eyelashes.
Her eyes, framed by long lashes, were a pure shade of light green. In this space, they seemed to be the only thing with color. Those eyes were filled with moisture.
With effort, Arzeletta raised her hand. Her neatly aligned fingertips covered her mouth—so that not even a whisper of a plea would escape.
This man… had never been someone who caused her pain.
Even with a face cold and composed to the point of fear, he was a man who delivered a gentle touch, at least when he held her in his arms.
…Until the moment he found out that she had been betraying him all along.
Arzeletta’s thin, emaciated feet twitched faintly atop the black sheet.
Around her pale and slender ankles were bound golden shackles.
These were restraints used only in the Grand Temple, reserved solely for confining the wicked beings of heresy—and yet, in this moment, they were fastened around two fragile ankles as delicate as flower petals.
Without Ragnar’s prayer to release the restraints, Arzeletta could not take even a single step on her own.
And here, in this bed, the legs and feet of a maid who could not walk served but one function.
“Spread your legs. Arzeletta.”
At Ragnar’s command, Arzeletta’s eyelashes trembled once again.
“Like that time.”
“Huht…”
“When you acted as sweet as candy in my arms, when you clung to me, begging me to come inside.”
She pressed her lips shut more firmly to keep even her breathing from escaping.
“…Just like when you deceived and betrayed me, Arzeletta.”
“Hhhk…”
At last, a sob escaped from Arzeletta. She bit her lip, as if to brace herself.
She must not cry.
She was not the one who deserved to cry.
Arzeletta looked up at the man who never once shed a tear.
The one who showed her eyes wounded countless times because of her, and yet had never once faltered at the final moment—his violet eyes.
“Ah, my lord.”
The man’s hand slipped between Arzeletta’s white thighs and pried them open.
The two legs bound in shackles spread weakly before him.
It was a body as delicate as a crystal shard.
The kind of body that felt like it would shatter if held even slightly too tightly—so much so that each time his fingertips touched her, Ragnar found himself tense.
That unrealistically beautiful maid’s body was, in this moment, laid bare before Ragnar’s chilling gaze as if dismantled.
His unrelenting stare reached the space between her spread legs.
“-!”
The Holy Knight’s firm fingers pushed into Arzeletta’s exposed entrance.
As his strong joints pried open her small, tight hole, Arzeletta’s hips flinched. Even that wasn’t easy, thanks to the shackles binding her ankles.
“Uht, my lord, ah…!”
“You are no longer a maid, Arzeletta.”
“Hhhn…”
“You’re not even a subject of my domain anymore. As you are now.”
Schlick—the wet sound tickled her ears.
The moisture that flowed out from her tender gap soaked the man’s fingers.
Arzeletta shook her head, burying her face in her disheveled hair.
It was too shameful a sound to be created by the fingers of such a pure man, too disgraceful to be spilled in a room filled with all manner of holy relics.
“This is the result of the miracle I performed.”
“My lord, ah…!”
“…You are my creation, my possession, Arzeletta.”
Arzeletta’s fingertips, stained rose-pink, gripped the black sheets.
The scent of the red lily, which Ragnar no longer extinguished for her, now ruled Arzeletta’s entire body and tainted her small heart like poison.
This red lily fragrance, secretly produced in the Grand Temple of Impellias, had the power to corrupt even the soul of a Saintess with just a single breath.
In the hands of the unclean, its aphrodisiac effects would surely be used only for crime and depravity.
But in Rosenburg Castle, the meaning of this fragrance was different. It was a symbol of Ragnar’s greatness—something far beyond the reach of ordinary humans.
