The Final Task of the Forsaken Saint: A Command to Marry the Barbarian Count - Chapter 21

Salia Quialan, a maid at Neige Castle, was a true daughter of Rostorc. The barren, unforgiving land with its biting winds—even outside of winter—made mere survival a challenge. Adding to the harshness were the ever-looming threats posed by fearsome magical beasts growing rampant in Carbuncus. Yet, the people of Rostorc lived without fear, shielded by the noble line of Rostorc, whose leaders had always been the first to face and fend off these monstrous adversaries.

Rostorc was both a severe guardian and a source of pride—a final bastion protecting its people.

Salia took pride in her lineage, one that had faithfully served the house of Rostorc for generations. Without needing persuasion from her parents, she chose to work at the castle, rising to the level of maid recognized even by the housekeeper herself. She dreamt of the day she would serve the household’s future matron, fueled by hope and expectation.

Until she encountered the delicate nobility from the capital.
Serving these city-born ladies who dismissed Rostorc’s customs as savage and barbaric planted seeds of frustration in Salia. Disdain she could tolerate; coercion was never intended, especially not to avoid the tragedies that had once plagued the late Lady of the house. But one noble in particular sealed Salia’s discontent—a young lady who had met Dirk in the capital and spoke warmly of his monster-slaying feats.

“She was different,” Salia thought, recalling the lady’s radiant smile. But soon, that smile twisted with indifference.

“After marriage, we can simply move to the capital. There’s no need to stay holed up in such a dreary, dangerous place,” she had declared to her maids, with a carefree tone that stung like a slap.

Salia’s blood simmered. She knew Dirk’s loyalty to Rostorc and saw that this woman had no desire to make it her home. For Salia, Rostorc was an identity woven with pride. Any bride to the lord should embrace it wholeheartedly.

So, Salia and her fellow servants decided to put these nobles through Rostorc’s rites early on. This approach birthed a prejudice that only deepened when they witnessed the ladies recoil and depart. By the time the king’s chosen bride was declared, there was already a simmering resentment among them.

The Holy Maiden, equivalent to a princess in status and beloved by the spirits with unmatched magical prowess, was next. Yet Salia assumed she would be no different from past city-dwelling ladies. The marriage couldn’t be undone, but perhaps the Holy Maiden would simply return to the capital after fulfilling her duty.

It wasn’t until it was too late that Salia realized her mistake. Her actions had crossed a line into offenses severe enough for dismissal: defiance, injury to the Holy Maiden, and, above all, almost tarnishing Rostorc’s pride.

Yet Salia remained a maid. Because the Holy Maiden, Rubel, was… unusual.

“Salia! I need your help!”

Rubel’s cheerful voice snapped Salia to attention. She turned to see the red-haired girl, barely past her youth, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. Rubel, who had gained recognition on the battlefield alongside Hajur, was unlike any maiden before her.

Salia had expected her valor to stem from the protection of others, but she was wrong. Rubel, younger and more formidable than Salia, proved her mettle in combat, outmatching four knights with raw skill. That was the moment Salia’s assumptions began to crumble.

“What can I do for you?”

Salia approached, noting the map spread out before Rubel, filled with scribbled notes:
“Territory of Wind Wolves” “Detour Recommended” “Beware of Bandits” “Habitat of Horned Boars”

Where had she gathered such knowledge? Perhaps from the knights she’d spoken to, Salia surmised. Rubel’s hopeful eyes turned to her.

“Are there any specialties in the towns from Rivière to Carbuncus?”

“Specialties, you ask?”

Salia’s gaze lingered on Rubel, who wore Rostorc’s traditional attire with ease. Unlike the city nobles, Rubel accepted Rostorc’s harsh ways with a genuine, hearty interest. Moreover, Rubel had shown forgiveness when Salia and the knights faced punishment, something Salia had doubted as genuine until Rubel spoke plainly.

“It’s better not to hide things from me. It makes it uncomfortable,” she had said, placing Salia’s guard down.
Rubel welcomed Salia’s presence, regardless of the lingering hostility. However, acceptance wasn’t universal. A maid who disrespected Rubel by carelessly making her bed was swiftly dealt with.

“A poorly made bed won’t kill, but an insubordinate underling will be a fatal flaw in a crisis,” Rubel had declared, cold but correct.

No matter how much malice she faced, Rubel remained resolute and honest—a rarity even among the people of Rostorc. When Salia saw this, shame pricked her conscience, and she resolved to truly serve this strange Holy Maiden.

“Also, Salia, your help is the best,” Rubel had once said. It wasn’t pride that made Salia happy hearing it.

Throwing away her bias, Salia realized Rubel was fierce, even by Rostorc standards. This girl, who joyfully learned monster dissection and trained alongside knights, wore Rostorc’s garments with pride and voiced her thoughts to the lord unflinchingly. She was looking at them—all of them—with unwavering respect.

Was this not exactly what Rostorc needed?

No, Salia thought, too early to draw conclusions. For now, she would give everything she had to serving.

“Well, the processed meats made from magical beasts are popular, varying with each village’s unique spices. For your route, Horned Boar dishes stand out.”

“Meat!!” Rubel’s face lit up, radiating delight.

“Carbuncus lies southeast, warmer with rare farmlands. They’re known for their bread, and spirits made from rye and oats. The people of Rostorc practically drink beer in place of water. Would you like to try it?”

“Hmm, I haven’t had beer before. I’m old enough, but Holy Maidens shouldn’t be drunkards, they said. I’ve only tasted wine on the battlefield once.”

“Then you must try it. They say it’s a delight for those who love it. Although… the harvest isn’t always steady.”

Salia’s expression darkened slightly, touched by a familiar shadow. Rostorc’s land had no spirits, leaving its soil barren and yields unreliable.

Salia, even as a nonbeliever, clung to the old teachings that forbade reliance on magic. Yet Rubel’s powerful spells had reshaped Salia’s understanding. Seeing the knights practice with newfound hope, she wondered if spirits aiding their magic were returning to favor them.

Was Rubel a herald of change? The thought was daunting and thrilling.

“Is the harvest really unstable?” Rubel asked, blinking with amber eyes.

“Ah, don’t worry. For now, enjoy the fall’s mirabelles and plums,” Salia responded quickly.

“Fruit?! Wait, what’s a mirabelle?”

Salia chuckled and explained as Rubel’s curiosity ignited. Why, she wondered, was Rubel so interested in what lay beyond the capital?