The Final Task of the Forsaken Saint: A Command to Marry the Barbarian Count - Chapter 8

Dirck, the Margrave of Rostock, sat in his study, contemplating the situation at hand. He had been waiting for a breakthrough with the marriage to Rubel, the Saintess. She had arrived in his land at the behest of the king, as a token of gratitude for her services in the war. He knew the marriage was a royal order, but part of him had hoped she would accept it with some semblance of warmth. However, after witnessing her initial reluctance and the awkwardness between them, doubts began to creep in.

He thought for a moment, then sighed, his hand resting on the desk. What if she fled because she didn’t want this marriage after all?

The thought was unsettling. After all, Rubel was a saint, a hero revered by many. It would be no surprise if she wanted to be free, especially given that this was a political union with little to offer her personally. But Dirck quickly dismissed the idea. The king’s command was clear, and Rubel couldn’t just walk away, no matter how much she disliked the arrangement.

Seriu, his ever-loyal steward, broke his reverie with a quiet voice. “My lord, we still haven’t received any reports of the Saintess leaving the castle. We have searched the grounds thoroughly.”

Dirck’s brow furrowed, but he wasn’t about to let his hopes rise just yet. “Is it possible she left quietly before dawn? Find out if she managed to leave the city safely. I want answers.”

Seriu hesitated but nodded. “Understood, my lord. I’ll ensure it’s taken care of.” The tone of his voice shifted, as he added more seriously, “Frankly, there are those in the castle who do not approve of the Saintess, especially with her use of magic. If she has indeed left, it might be for the best.”

Dirck nodded thoughtfully, but the weight of the situation pressed down on him. He had hoped that Rubel—strong, unyielding, and perhaps even a little like himself—would adapt to the rough, unforgiving life in Rostock. But then again, he knew this land had a way of driving people away, especially those who had never faced its harshness before.

He sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “It would be a shame, though. I’ve been hoping for something different… something more from this marriage.”

Seriu, sensing the shift in his lord’s mood, spoke carefully. “But my lord, this is your chance, isn’t it? The final opportunity, perhaps, to solidify your position and bring the land under your control.”

Dirck’s eyes narrowed. He understood what Seriu meant. The marriage was royal in nature, a political alliance disguised as a union. But it was also his only hope for securing his future. He couldn’t afford to let it fail, even if it meant dealing with Rubel’s reluctance.

Before Dirck could voice his thoughts, the door was suddenly knocked upon with urgency.

“Enter,” he called, his voice tinged with impatience. The door swung open, and a young servant, Mark, stood in the doorway, his face pale with anxiety.

“My lord, there’s something… strange,” Mark stammered, his voice trembling.

“Spit it out,” Dirck commanded, his tone sharp.

Mark’s eyes flickered nervously between his lord and Seriu. “The Saintess… she’s returned. From the service gate. But…” His voice faltered. “She’s carrying the head of a dragon.”

For a moment, Dirck was struck speechless. A dragon’s head?
He exchanged a bewildered glance with Seriu, who appeared equally stunned. The thought that Rubel could have killed a dragon, let alone returned with its head, was unthinkable.

“Say that again,” Dirck muttered under his breath, trying to make sense of it.

Mark hurried to clarify, his words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s true, my lord! She’s holding the head of what looks like a wyvern—a dragon species! And she’s come back through the service gate, like it’s nothing!”

Dirck’s mind raced as he hurriedly followed Seriu toward the service gate. The news was too surreal to process, but his instincts drove him forward.

When they reached the gate, a crowd had already gathered. The servants, upon seeing Dirck’s approach, quickly parted to clear a path. And there, standing casually amid the onlookers, was Rubel.

Her travel-worn garments were stained with dirt and blood, but she carried herself with an air of indifference. Her staff, the one she had used throughout her journey, was firmly in her grip, the crystal at its tip still faintly glowing.

And beside her, floating in the air, was the massive head of a wyvern, its mouth gaping open in death.

For a moment, Dirck’s mind went blank. The sight before him was nothing short of impossible. A creature of this magnitude, defeated by a single woman, and casually carried into his castle?

Rubel glanced up as Dirck approached, offering him a casual bow.

“Ah, good morning, Lord Margrave. I’m terribly sorry to just show up like this, but… is it alright if I leave this head here?”

Dirck blinked, stunned, then quickly recovered. “Yes, this area is used for processing large game. It’s fine.”

Rubel’s face lit up with relief as she set the wyvern’s head down with a heavy thud. The servants, still reeling from the shock, kept their distance, though a few couldn’t help but stare.

Dirck couldn’t contain his astonishment. “You… killed this wyvern?”

Rubel gave a nonchalant shrug. “The territorial disputes were keeping me awake. So, I took care of them. One got away, but I don’t think it’ll be bothering us again. As for this one… it was a bit too heavy to bring the whole dragon back, so I just brought the head.”

The shock in the air was palpable. Wyverns were some of the most dangerous creatures in the land. They were renowned for their strength, speed, and the fact that even seasoned warriors struggled to bring them down. For one person—one unarmed, fragile-seeming woman—to defeat not one, but two wyverns was nothing short of miraculous.

Dirck stood there, mouth agape, as the servants gawked. The silence stretched, broken only by Rubel’s voice, as she lightly gestured to the fallen head.

“Do you think this could serve as a dowry?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious.

No one responded at first. But Dirck, finding his voice, couldn’t help but laugh. It was the first genuine laugh he had had in days.

“This is more than enough. Thank you,” he said, his tone full of gratitude. “If you could show us where you found it, I’ll send a recovery team.”

The wyvern’s parts were invaluable; every piece could be used for something—from its scales to its bones to its meat. And the head, with its valuable horns and teeth, was the most prized part. Rubel understood its worth.

“Good,” she replied. “Glad to be of help.”

Dirck, still in awe of her abilities, asked with genuine concern, “Are you hurt?”

Rubel blinked, as though surprised by the question. “No, I’m fine. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”

She gave a small, innocent bow. It was an unassuming gesture, but one that left an impression on Dirck.

She hadn’t fled. No, she had merely gone out to silence the source of her frustration. A dragon’s roar had disturbed her peace, and she had done what needed to be done. There was no fear, no hesitation—just a quiet determination to solve the problem.

Dirck felt a warmth spread through his chest. For the first time since he had met her, he allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, this marriage was not such a disaster after all.