BVIB 18

Chapter 18

Since the Emperor himself had requested her presence, Roselyn knew she had no choice but to attend the banquet.

Suppressing a sigh, she sat down and quickly penned replies to the two letters that required her attention.

Knock, knock.

Just as she was about to rise, a gentle rapping sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Roselyn called.

The door opened, and Dean, the butler, stepped inside. He was a remarkably capable man—trusted by the Duke not only for his impeccable service but also for his impressive combat skills.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Dean greeted her warmly.

“You missed breakfast this morning. The household was rather concerned,” he added.

“Is that so?” Roselyn replied succinctly, nodding.

“So, what brings you here?”

“The master is asking for you. He requests that you join him for tea. Will you be available?”

“Of course,” she said without hesitation.

Roselyn followed the butler out of her room, having already guessed why she was being summoned. There was no reason to delay.

They made their way to the private drawing room reserved for the Duke of Bellion—a space used for receiving important guests or, on occasion, for private family conversations. The room was thoroughly soundproofed and secure, with walls lined in soulstone to ensure that no Abyss powers could be used within.

“Please, go in,” Dean said with a kind smile.

Roselyn entered without protest.

Inside, the Duke lounged on the wide sofa, today’s suit a riot of embroidered flowers spilling boldly across the fabric. His hands, resting on the stem of his wine glass, bore glimpses of intricate tattoos that curled up his fingers and disappeared beneath his sleeves. The smile at his lips made him look almost mischievous.

“You’re here, my girl,” he greeted, his tone light but his eyes sharp, flicking over Roselyn as if to size her up.

“Good afternoon,” Roselyn replied, keeping her posture politely straight.

“You haven’t graced us with your presence for two whole weeks. What brings you here today?” The Duke’s words were teasing, but there was a keen edge beneath the playfulness.

Roselyn managed a small, practiced smile. “I thought you might have something you wished to discuss.”

She stopped a few steps from the sofa, hands clasped before her, and waited. The Duke cocked his head at her, faintly amused by her formality.

“Sit, sit,” he said, waving a tattooed hand toward a seat across from him.

“Thank you,” Roselyn murmured, only sitting once invited. The Duke watched her settle, his brow knitting in faint puzzlement.

She acts like a guest, not family, he mused, one thumb idly tracing the ink along his knuckle.

He cleared his throat and leaned forward, the bright flowers on his lapel catching the light. “It’s about that Norlang Mine you mentioned.”

Roselyn’s eyes brightened just a fraction. “Did you manage to win the bid, Grandfather?”

He nodded, satisfaction flickering across his face. “I did. Your advice was invaluable.”

“I’m glad,” she replied smoothly, meeting his gaze.

The Duke swirled his wine, his rings clinking softly. “And—though it’s not public knowledge yet—there’s word that what they’re mining there isn’t just amber.”

Just as she’d predicted.

Roselyn crossed her legs and studied the Duke, who looked every bit the villain, grinning wickedly from his seat.

Devon Bellion.

These days, the only people who truly knew him were the Emperor and a handful of aging nobles. But back in his twenties, Devon Bellion had ruled the city’s underworld—a godfather to the darker side of society.

When the former heir to the Bellion dukedom died in an accident, plunging the family line into crisis, the previous Duke had been forced to bring Devon—his illegitimate son—into the fold. With no direct heirs left and ambitious relatives circling ever closer, there was no other option. The old Duke, determined to preserve the purity of the main bloodline, had finally legitimized Devon, who wasted no time in seizing control of the family.

At least, that’s the story I heard from Gueron, Roselyn mused, eyes never leaving the man before her.

A ruthless butcher. That was the only title people dared to attach to this man in his ridiculous, flamboyant suit and ever-present sunglasses.

Now, like a toothless tiger, he lounged back with a lopsided grin, a cigar perched between his lips. He slid off his sunglasses, revealing a gleam in his pale eyes as he smiled slyly.

“So, granddaughter,” Devon began, a trace of mirth in his voice, “have you perhaps become an Abyss?”

His piercing, slightly wild gaze locked onto Roselyn, the smile never quite reaching his eyes.

Devon Bellion placed great importance on family.

It was a tradition that ran through every generation of the Bellion line—nothing mattered more than the “direct bloodline.” For its sake, no sacrifice was too great.

That was why the previous Duke had ignored Devon, his own illegitimate son, for years—he’d wanted to keep his only legitimate heir out of harm’s way. But when that heir died unexpectedly, the old Duke had brought back the very son he’d once cast aside, all in the name of preserving the main family’s blood.

Better to entrust the Bellion legacy to a half-blood raised on the streets than let it fall into the hands of a distant relative, no matter how devoted those distant branches had been.

In his youth, Devon Bellion had known loneliness. He never denied that he’d sometimes envied those with ordinary families. Desire was what had driven him forward—raw, honest ambition that had paved his way from the shadows to where he stood now.

His need to belong was why he’d conquered the underworld and gathered so many to his side. Building a family of his own had always been Devon’s dream.

But to do that, he needed a safe haven—a walled garden where his loved ones could thrive. And for that, he needed power.

If only any of the children had turned out normal, he thought with wry resignation.

Still, in his own way, Devon Bellion cherished his children.

Devon had never truly loved the wife arranged for him by the previous Duke—their marriage had always been a calculated alliance, and both of them had understood that from the start. Still, he cared deeply for the children she bore, loving them in a way he’d never managed for their mother.

He respected his wife as the partner he was fated to build a family with and did his best by her. Because of that, their relationship had never been hostile.

Within his own family, Devon Bellion was surprisingly generous—at least by his own standards. Whether it was violence or dabbling in forbidden substances, he was the sort of man who would laugh such things off when it came to those he cared about.

Of course, having been raised in rough circumstances, he was notorious for his sharp tongue and heavy hand. For a time, he’d believed raising his children was a matter of stern words and a strong fist.

His eldest son, whenever the mood struck him, liked to joke that the reason the younger children turned out the way they had was entirely Devon’s fault.

Even so, the youngest, “Cherty Bellion,” was always Devon’s weakest spot—a constant source of pain and worry.

Cherty had awakened his powers the moment he was born, accidentally poisoning his own mother and causing her death. As the years passed, just when it seemed Cherty might finally open his heart to someone, he’d shown up one day covered in blood, a newborn in his arms, and locked himself away in the basement for months on end.

Everyone except the family and Din, the butler, feared Cherty.

From birth, he’d lived under suspicion and blame for things he couldn’t control. Bullied by the second eldest and ostracized by others, Cherty had learned to isolate himself.

His looks were almost wasted on him.

And his mind—so fragile beneath that handsome exterior—was even more of a liability. Cherty had grown into adulthood and even parenthood with his guard up, bristling with thorns on all sides.

Just when it seemed he’d finally met someone able to soften those edges, disaster had struck again.

Fearing he might harm his own child—or worse, that the child would one day hate him for it—Cherty kept his distance for over a decade, pushing his own flesh and blood away.

As a result, Roselyn, too, had become a quiet, reserved child. Every time Devon tried to speak to his only granddaughter, she’d press her lips together and ignore him, making it clear she wanted nothing to do with his attention. After years of this, he’d all but given up trying.

But things have changed.

It wasn’t long ago that news of Roselyn’s suicide attempt sent Cherty into a frenzy. He’d lost control, and in the chaos that followed, several people had died before the situation was finally contained.

From that day on, Roselyn changed.

It was as if something inside her had shattered—she became distant, almost indifferent, and more honest than ever before. It was a dryness, as though she’d stripped herself of all attachments.

And eventually, she tried to leave their grasp altogether.

Devon Bellion was endlessly tolerant—at least, when it came to his family. Anyone who dared harm them faced his ruthless retribution, but the fate of outsiders was none of his concern. Still, within the walls of the “garden” he’d built, he cared for those who belonged to him.

Even the staff and confidants who tended the garden were personally chosen, handpicked one by one to ensure his family’s safety.

But if there was one thing Devon Bellion simply couldn’t tolerate, it was being left in the dark about his own blood.

Especially when someone tried to leave his carefully tended “garden” without his permission.

He knew well that a streak of obsession and a need for control ran deep within him. That was why the recent incident involving Ian Bellion and Makluksa, as well as Roselyn Bellion’s announcement that she intended to leave the family, had both come as such blows.

“Roselyn?” he called gently when too much time passed in silence and she didn’t answer his earlier question.

“Yes, Duke—Grandfather,” Roselyn replied, catching herself.

“Could you just call me Grandfather?” he asked, a faint, almost vulnerable note in his voice.

“Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable for you?” she countered, watching him closely.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… Technically, I’m not really a Bellion. I’m illegitimate, after all.”

“…Hmm.”

Devon paused, a frown creasing his brow.

The truth was, Devon was impatient by nature, which made it hard for him to understand his youngest son’s slow, cautious ways. He’d realized there had been a misunderstanding some time ago, but Cherty insisted he’d explain things himself, so Devon had waited.

And yet, he still hasn’t said anything…

The sheer frustration of it—of waiting and waiting, of not knowing—was threatening to drive Devon mad.

She’s not some bashful girl anymore, he thought. Why is this so difficult?

He clicked his tongue inwardly, then spoke.

“So what if you’re illegitimate?”

“…Pardon?”

“What matters is that you carry Bellion blood.”

He gave a short, dismissive laugh.

Illegitimate? That hardly mattered to him.

After all, he himself had been born out of wedlock. For Devon Bellion, the only thing that counted was whether someone carried his blood—half-blood or not, that was enough.

“And for the record, you’re not illegitimate. I’ve kept quiet because the youngest insisted on telling you himself, but knowing his personality, you’d probably be waiting years for him to spit it out…”

He clicked his tongue again, knocking the ash from his cigar into the tray. But as his eyes drifted to Roselyn’s face, he suddenly fell silent.