The Final Task of the Forsaken Saint: A Command to Marry the Barbarian Count - Chapter 1

“Your Highness Emilien, Lady Rafiné, Saint of the Healing Waters—congratulations on your engagement!”

Wasn’t I supposed to be engaged to that prince?

Attending the war victory commemoration ceremony, I, Rubel Saint, held my beloved staff close as I watched the charade unfold. Applause thundered through the hall as the proud figure of the prince—Emilien, the second prince of Lumienst and the supreme commander in the recent war—stood beaming. Always one for grandeur, this victory must have delighted him to no end.

Beside him stood Rafiné, a delicate woman with pale golden hair and sky-blue eyes. It was said she tended to the grievously wounded soldiers in the rearguard with her own hands, giving them hope and strength. Her compassion had earned her the reverence of many soldiers, who called her the “Saint of Mercy.”
Rafiné came from a prestigious marquess house, a pure-blooded noble through and through. It was easy to see why he would discard a common-born saint like me for such an impeccable match.

When Emilien suddenly announced his engagement to Rafiné during the award ceremony, the attendees were nothing but celebratory. When it had been me, I’d only heard whispers of “how inappropriate” and “what cunning maneuvers she must have used.”
Emilien caught my gaze and smirked, a look brimming with smugness and spite. Ah, yes, the same face he’d worn when sending me to the frontlines.

The congratulatory atmosphere was still vibrant as the ceremony resumed.

“Saint Rubel, step forward!”

As my name was called, a hush spread across the crowd like ripples on water. A tension hung in the air, as if they’d only just remembered my existence.

The noblewomen in their dazzling gowns and the men in their elaborate court attire turned their attention to me. The women, upon recognizing my saintly robes, frowned. Well, this kingdom of Lumienst prized art and opulence, so my formal attire might have seemed too austere for such a grand occasion. But as a saint, it was only natural I came dressed as one.

The palace maids had done up my fiery red hair into a loose updo and applied light makeup, so I wasn’t entirely plain. But, standing next to the elegant young ladies of the court, I did look frail. I was small, thin, and my skin was tanned from the sun.

But competing with debutantes was not my purpose here. I held my staff, with its large orange spirit crystal, and walked steadily to the center of the hall, ignoring the prince and Lady Rafiné on their elevated platform. I met the king’s eyes, knelt on one knee, and bowed deeply.

“Rubel, Saint of the Sun’s Wheel.”

For a moment, I didn’t realize he was addressing me. Right, that was my title. I was more accustomed to other names. It was so named for the orange crystal in my staff and the surrounding ring that resembled a solar disk.

“Your valor in vanquishing Hajur and securing victory for our kingdom has been exemplary. As such, I bestow upon you the title of Viscount and grant you the lands of Carbunculus.

From this day forth, you shall be known as Rubel Saint Carbunculus.”

A murmur of shock spread through the room. It wasn’t congratulatory—only filled with pity and relief.

Receiving a title for wartime achievements was not uncommon; saints had often been granted such honors in the past. A viscountcy with land was a significant leap in rank, but…

Emilien smirked and made sure I could hear him.

“The Forest of Death in Carbunculus is infested with formidable beasts, a place no ordinary human dares to tread. But as a saint loved by spirits, possessing unparalleled magic, surely you can tame it, Rubel?”

In other words, he was assigning me a desolate, dangerous land with no revenue to speak of. But that wasn’t enough for Emilien. He continued, his voice dripping with faux benevolence.

“However, as a saint, you may find managing a territory difficult. Thus, I have arranged your marriage to the Margrave of Lostork, Theodric de Lostork!”

Ah, only when it suits him, he uses the title ‘saint.’

The audience gasped. Emilien, basking in the attention,
elaborated with a grin.
“The Margrave of Lostork battles the beasts descending from Carbunculus. Yet, perhaps due to his distance from the capital, he has preserved a rugged, unique culture. He is said to be obsessed with wealth, and his visage alone is enough to make faint-hearted nobles swoon in horror. Many fiancées have fled, and he is known among refined circles as the ‘Barbarian Count.’

Isn’t it fitting? The ‘Scarlet Saint’ and the ‘Barbarian Count’—a perfect match.”

To publicly deride a vassal, even one’s own, was a display of sheer arrogance. But one glance at the impassive expressions of the nobles surrounding the king told me everything. They’d expected this from the start.

“A final order, a reward for your service. This match suits you well, don’t you think? After all, a woman like you wouldn’t find another husband.”

I had anticipated harassment, but not pettiness this childish. Emilien had forced our engagement during wartime and issued relentless, reckless commands that took credit for my successes. I hadn’t cared about recognition—it was just work to me.

But just this once, I allowed myself to indulge. I looked up at Emilien’s triumphant face and said:

“Understood.”

“A reward for serving me well. Go, live with the beasts!”

Emilien’s smirk froze as I stepped up and closed the distance in an instant. My fist sank into his smug face.

The right hook sent him sprawling unconscious. Gasps erupted as the dignitaries froze in shock. I glanced down at the prince’s fallen form.

“You wretched excuse for royalty. I’m done cleaning up your mess.”

Rafiné fainted at my military-bred curses.

It wasn’t enough to settle the score, but it’d do for now. I’d promised my subordinates that I’d strike this fool who started an unnecessary war for his own glory.

“Ah, that felt good.”

Before the guards moved to restrain me, I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling wonderfully refreshed.