The Masochist's Stolen Letter
Theorad, desperate to survive, looked down at the elf wearing an inscrutable smile that sent chills down his spine. It was like a mouse cornered in a dead-end alley facing a cat. The situation terrified him so much that even breathing felt burdensome.
But if he showed any sign of it here, it would confirm the elf's suspicions. Fiddling with the brooch at his throat, he cleared his throat as casually as possible.
"Ahem."
Of course, inside, he was screaming. His inner self had splintered into dozens of versions, each racing around like a mad mage who had accidentally activated a world-destroying magic circle. It was utter chaos.
Yet he was born into a prestigious noble house, trained in countless arts of survival. No matter the hardship or adversity, he had to think calmly.
Why on earth did the elf deliver the letter?
He had told Habid to send it, so Habid should have been the one to deliver any reply. Habid surely knew that. For the elf to bring it instead meant...
She intercepted it midway...?
Habid checked the mailbox every morning. Normally, he would have brought the letter tomorrow morning. For the elf to have it now meant she had opened the mailbox on her own initiative, without anyone's permission, and taken the letter.
Three possibilities emerged.
She broke the mansion's rules on purpose to get punished by me.
First hypothesis. The elf was appealing to him by breaking the rules, hoping for punishment. That smile wasn't from knowing the truth—it was anticipation of the beating to come.
Or she sensed I was trying to return her.
Second hypothesis. She had peeked at the letter meant for him and grasped the situation. That smile might be her happily pondering how to kill him.
Or possibly both.
Third hypothesis. He hated to think it, but maybe she stole the letter to get flogged and accidentally discovered it was from the slave trader. In that case, he was utterly doomed to be her plaything.
Calm down first.
All three were nightmarish scenarios that shouldn't happen, but the event had occurred—they had to proceed somehow. Standing silent wouldn't improve things.
If the worst was the third, the next worst was the second, and the best was the first. Praying for the first, he examined the letter's seal.
No tears or breaks... none.
The sealing wax not only indicated the sender's rank or house but served primarily as security. Anyone unauthorized trying to open it would leave traces. Yet this seal was pristine. She definitely hadn't opened it by hand.
He glanced sharply at the elf, then back to the letter.
Could she have used magic to peek inside?
He'd never heard of scrying spells for paper, but a near-certain archmage like her surely had her own magical system. Peering through paper would be trivial if she wanted. But scrying wasn't omnipotent. With the letter folded in multiple layers, the text tangled—could she even read it?
Exactly. Near impossible.
Even if possible, deciphering would take ages. She wouldn't have brought it straight here. Guessing from the seal was unlikely too. The emblem of a galleon and dolphin didn't denote any house or rank—just a disposable seal for closing the letter.
So the first hypothesis fit. She had simply stolen it to get flogged. No other motives... he hoped.
"Was there no mention of who it was for?"
He tossed out a probe, and the elf nodded with innocent eyes.
"Y-Yes, Master. There was a letter in the mailbox, so I brought it."
"I see."
Whether it was a lie, he decided to believe it for now. It was good for his mental health. Time to read it.
Turning his back to the elf, he broke the seal with trembling hands and unfolded the letter.
To the great and dignified Lord Theorad of the renowned Deharm Viscountcy.
My lord. I have read your letter well. I can clearly see the predicament you are in. Regrettable as it is, a return at this stage? Out of the question.
You called it an unfair contract—where is the unfairness? I graciously answered your questions. Was I wrong?
Had you even hinted, "Is an elf over 250 years old dangerous?", I wouldn't feel so wronged. And orphaned, you say? Sorry, but my parents are both hale and hearty. Whereas your parents... my deepest condolences.
Oh, and don't bother chasing me down. I've paid enough for my deeds and am starting anew in Mahkan Duchy. Surely you won't pursue me across borders? It might spark discord between empire and duchy, earning you a scolding from His Imperial Majesty.
The days grow cold. Even the witch glares at me unhappily, so I'll cut this short. May you live peacefully and joyfully with your beautiful elf.
With deepest regret from Jobilara, the utterly lowly slave trader compared to the esteemed Lord Theorad.
A vein bulged on his forehead.
This... this bastard...!
He was ignoring him! No, mocking him! What did this slave trader take him for? He was the head of the prestigious Deharm Viscountcy, trusted by Count Leoberg with deputy viscount duties—a noble among nobles...!
"Master?"
...Reduced to a pathetic wretch tormented by a deranged elf slave.
"Ahem."
He coughed hollowly, crumpled the paper, and tucked it into his pocket. Turning, he saw the elf trembling.
Her feigned anxiety over committing a grave error was top-tier acting. So the first hypothesis was right? Even if not, she clearly craved punishment now.
But punishing her for merely stealing and delivering one letter felt insufficient. No fitting flogging came to mind. For other servants, he'd just warn them and send them off.
After a moment's thought, he grabbed her hair.
"A slave rummaging the mailbox on her own—insolent wretch."
"I-I didn't know it was wrong..."
"No backtalk from you, impudent bitch!"
He barked, yanking her hair upward.
"Kyaaah!?"
She rose on tiptoes, squeezing her eyes shut. Grimacing in pain, tears welled up. It was working! Good. Time to escalate.
"Your filthy hands soiled my letter—my disgust is beyond words. How will you make it up to me?"
"S-Sor... sorryyy..."
"Do I look like someone who wants an apology from a worthless slave like you?"
Trembling in mock terror, she half-opened her eyes and looked up. His scowling face reflected in her teary red eyes. She grasped his wrist with both hands and whimpered.
"Y-Yes, this filthy sow deserves punishment from Master. I'll gladly take any penalty, so please let go... it hurts so muchhh..."
...Huh?
This wasn't the script he wanted. He planned to flog her more, then snap, "I can't even look at you—get lost!"
She wants more punishment here?
It was thunder from a clear sky for him, who had no flogging method ready. Sending her away now risked his life and his household's. He needed a creative punishment.
His mental abacus whirring, a sudden idea widened his eyes.
Sealing wax!
And the letter. Used cleverly, it could satisfy her.
"Very well."
Faking a wicked grin, he released her hair.
"If that's what you want, so be it. Follow me."
*
Through generations, the study had been sacred. Only the family head could enter, and without permission, no one else—instilling awe. One wall bore portraits of ancestors who led the Deharm Viscountcy, evoking tradition.
"Come in."
"Y-Yesss..."
There, he became the first head to bring a slave into the study—a naked one at that.
"It's embarrassing..."
She shuffled in, hands covering her breasts. She hadn't bothered hiding her privates, drawing his gaze naturally.
To clarify: he hadn't ordered her to strip. She did it herself when he said punishment. Madwoman.
Staring at the absurd elf, he approached the desk. There lay sealing wax beads, a melting spoon, neatly arranged. Quill too. Fortunate. This might get him through the day peacefully.
Even so...
The materials were here, but defiling the sacred study? Guilt stabbed him; he couldn't start. Cold sweat beaded, hands shook. He couldn't even glance at the portraits.
No choice, though. Telling her to leave now was suicide.
Sorry, Father. Sorry, ancestors.
Swallowing tears inwardly, he turned to face her. Beneath moonlit red eyes gleaming pure, a frightened expression. Yet her faintly smiling lips held anticipation.
No helping it.
"Let the sexual torment begin."
To survive, he had to humiliate this elf.