How He Repays the Favor (2)
—Hahaha! —Hohoho! Amid the laughter that forced its way into her ears whether she liked it or not, Isel huddled against the wall, plugging her ears with her hands. But those sounds seeped through like water through a frayed cloth no matter how tightly she pressed her fingers, gnawing relentlessly at her heart. It felt as if they were mocking her. Mocking her, the one who had saved the kingdom.
In this cruel twist of fate—where those who were saved laughed, and the savior wept—Isel swallowed her tears with grim determination. She wanted to keep her promise to her master. She had sworn not to cry, that she would only weep in his arms when the urge struck. And so, even amid her fear, Isel no longer shed tears. No... now, even crying felt unjust. The resentment and misery made her refuse to cry anymore. Unable to comprehend why she of all people had to weep, Isel endured, dredging up the rage she had left behind in the underground dungeon, holding on and holding on.
"It'll pass... It's just a passing breeze..."
She had endured far worse tortures than this. This level of humiliation was merely a fleeting moment. Isel lowered her hands from her ears. The noblemen's boisterous hahas and hohohos pierced her heart unfiltered, but she leaned her head against the wall with a detached expression. Then she clutched the green glass vial in her hand. It was a vessel filled with her master's affection, like a talisman. It felt like gaining a sturdy shield in the midst of a battlefield where she had been thrown naked and defenseless. Without this small vial, she might have been lost in even greater terror right now.
Isel hugged the vial tightly to her chest. "Master..."
But then—a knock echoed, and the embers of fear she had desperately smothered roared back to life in flames of despair.
Knock knock. Two curt raps. It was unmistakably Head Butler Gellion's knock.
* * *
Two sets of footsteps echoed through the quiet nighttime corridor. Just as when she had first arrived here, Isel followed behind Gellion. Her eyes, clouded with despair, trembled faintly, and her clasped fingers twisted in a mirror of her chaotic heart—like livestock being led to the slaughterhouse. It felt as if a new terror, one that had never existed in this world before, had come for her.
Gellion spoke to her softly. "...This is just an old man's precaution, but the family head is opening a path of atonement for you. So please, don't do anything to cause him harm."
Understanding his meaning all too well, Isel nodded. She had never intended to anyway. She knew full well that if she vented her rage, it would all rebound onto her master, Rosel.
"...Yes."
"Good. It will be over quickly."
They soon reached the entrance hall. As if giving her time to steel herself, Gellion paused and glanced at her before opening the door. Silence fell over the garden at once, and Isel's head drooped. How could a sinner dare lift her chin proudly? And even if ordered, she couldn't. The gazes that would turn on her the moment she appeared would be filled with mockery, persecution, and contempt—it was obvious. Those eyes terrified her too much; Isel couldn't raise her head.
Step by step. Even the sound of footsteps on the garden grass rang out grandly in the chill hush that blanketed the garden. Isel followed only the tips of Gellion's shoes, trembling violently.
"Ah~ here she comes. The traitor herself. Hahaha!"
Brikal's voice rang out, and Isel's legs buckled. That unforgettable voice tore open the buried horrors with savage glee. It was so terrifying she wanted to flee right then and there.
Soon, Isel drew close enough to the dais to feel Brikal's breath. Her throat tightened uncontrollably from the shaking, her clenched molars on the verge of cracking. Tears of pure terror welled in her eyes, and the fear etched into every cell twisted her guts.
"Hahaha! Yes, yes, you're terrified. A perfect posture for a traitor. Excellent."
She had endured the dungeon by swallowing the bitter humiliation alone. But now, with the kingdom's nobles gathered in force, being degraded before them would bring a humiliation on another level entirely. Terror gripped her madly.
"Heh heh heh. Excellent. Sregon's handiwork is impressive as always. Now, raise your head. Show your filthy face to these gathered nobles. Hurry up."
"..."
Veins bulged on her slender neck as she fought the fear. When Isel only trembled without looking up, Brikal bellowed again.
"Hey! I said raise your head!"
At his enraged command, Isel finally had to lift her gaze. And her eyes met those of Sregon, grinning ferociously down at her from beside Brikal.
In that instant, strength drained from her quivering legs. The 65 days of terror flooded back, reignited by Sregon's eerie smile. Frozen in shock, Isel lost control before the crowd and wet herself.
Not from shame or humiliation, but from sheer, overwhelming terror.
* * *
"Hahahaha! As expected of you, Sregon—your work is masterful. Pissing herself like a frightened mutt the moment she sees you! Hahaha!"
Drip... drip...
Brikal and Sregon, thoroughly drunk, laughed as if watching some absurd play. Their voices were the only sounds in the silent garden. A few male nobles stared in curiosity at the sight of the former hero soiling herself, but none laughed. Even as a traitor, she was the one who had saved the kingdom. Witnessing her abject degradation firsthand was no pleasure.
"Heh heh heh! This party's truly entertaining! I spared you because the saintess said harming you would bring doom to the royal family, but it's been worth it, hahaha!"
Staggering drunk, Brikal cackled. Sregon gazed at Isel appreciatively, as if admiring his creation, urine trickling between her legs. Brikal swung a wine bottle and flopped into the chair his advisor had prepared.
"Puhuhu... Emilia—no, Isel, was it? Now recite your crimes to those noble lords over there."
His eyes, lost to drink, ignored the chill in the garden. Only his amusement mattered. Gulping more wine, he hurled the bottle at Isel's feet.
Crash! It shattered, shards grazing her slender ankle. Blood welled, but Isel only swallowed her sobs.
"Hurry! Dare you defy my command?! Guards! Sregon! Is your handiwork broken?!"
As Brikal berated Sregon—who glared and started descending the dais—Isel finally turned tearfully, choking back sobs.
"Hic... hic..."
Through tear-blurred vision, she saw the crowd staring. Among them was her master, Rosel, standing with a somber expression as if swallowing rage in her stead. His gaze alone differed from the garden's multitude—filled only with sorrow.
The owner of that gaze, Rosel, ground his teeth and glared at Brikal.
'...'
His heartbeat quickened. Murderous intent gleamed in his eyes. And dark mana began to coil faintly in his fist.
Of course, he knew it wasn't time to bare his fangs yet. Revolution didn't end with just removing the head. But for Rosel—who had staked every plan and future on Isel—she was paramount. If Brikal or Sregon laid a hand on her, he would kill them on the spot. Without protecting Isel, all plans were meaningless.
Rosel maintained peak tension, eyes like a beast's, ready to unleash his mana.
"Hic... I-I am a traitor..."
At that moment, Isel pitifully confessed before the crowd, stuttering through hiccups. Revulsion surged in Rosel, but he held back. If it could end like this, he prayed desperately for it to.
But Brikal, bereft of reason, had no intention of stopping there. He lurched from his seat toward the dais's edge, aiming a kick at Isel's back.
"Can't you speak louder!?"
Rosel compressed the mana at his fingertips, poised to strike Brikal in that life-or-death instant—
Suddenly, a scream shattered the garden from one side.
"Kyaaah—!!"
* * *
The garden, lit by dim torchlight, fell into abrupt silence at the unexpected scream. Brikal, mid-kick at Isel's back, and Rosel, mid-mana surge—both froze and turned toward the sound.
The garden's east side, where the noblewomen clustered.
"Who screamed?"
Brikal withdrew his foot irritably and sprawled back in his chair. At his words, the crowd parted like the Red Sea toward the scream's source.
"Ah... it, it's that... This wretched brat spilled wine on me... I-I'm sorry, Your Majesty."
At the center stood a boy and a noblewoman—none other than Count Lubran's wife, her face drenched in wine. Lubran's face paled upon seeing her. He sobered instantly, rigid with dread at the cost of interrupting the tyrant's fun.
"S-Sorry...! My foot slipped... It was my fault...!"
The boy who had fallen before her sprang up and bowed frantically to Brikal. His oiled hair, parted neatly—it was Roden, who had earned handsome tips from the noblewomen today.
Brikal beckoned Roden. At the impatient gesture, Roden bolted to the dais, pale with fear.
"So, you're the one who ruined my fun?"
"S-Sorry...!"
Roden broke into cold sweats. He had done it deliberately for Silia, steeling himself for punishment, but facing absolute terror made his legs quake madly. It was too cruel for a 13-year-old.
"Hmm..."
Brikal hummed, staggering up to perch on the dais and pat Roden's head.
"If you serve us well, you must do good work at the estate too..."
"S-Sorry...!"
"If you're sorry, you must pay the price. For ruining my fun."
"A-Anything... I'll take it gladly...!"
Roden bowed his head. Brikal held an empty wine bottle in his right hand. In the breathless hush, he suddenly gripped it by the neck upside down and raised it as if to smash Roden's skull.
"Puhuhu... Fine, then. Take whatever punishment the slave deserves, in her place."
Whoosh! The bottle swung down with a sharp whistle. Its thick base—if it didn't shatter—would pulverize the frail boy's skull first. Horrified, the noblewomen cried out and squeezed their eyes shut.
But oddly, no impact sounded. Puzzled, they opened their eyes. The bottle, plummeting toward Roden's occiput, hung frozen in midair.
Brikal's wrist, about to strike—had been seized by Rosel, who had approached unseen. Even the king's guards hadn't noticed his speed.
"...You've had too much to drink, Your Majesty."