BVIB 26

Chapter 26

“I’m planning to teach this technique to the craftsmen soon,” Cherty remarked, glancing at the dagger in her hand. “Expand the production; maybe even turn this into a business.”

Roselyn remained silent, her gaze still fixed on the delicate inscription on the blade. Sensing something was off, Cherty tilted his head and called gently, “Roselyn?”

She blinked, as if surfacing from deep water, and finally looked up. “Ah—sorry, I was lost in thought.” She hesitated, searching his face. “Father… If you’re not in a hurry about all this, could I ask you a favor?”

Cherty’s brow furrowed in concern. “A favor? What kind?”

Her grip tightened around the dagger, knuckles white. “About the craftsmen. Could you hold off on hiring anyone new for now? I’m just… worried. What if someone leaks your technique to another house?”

He let out a dry chuckle, trying to brush away her concern. “Roselyn, I’ve already poured a small fortune from the family treasury into this project. It’s time to see a return. And the craftsmen—well, they’re all people I trust. We’ve worked with them for years.”

Roselyn shook her head, her voice growing firmer. “Even so, you can never be too careful. The money will work out.”

 Soon, she’d be exporting from the Norlang mine anyway.

Cherty’s eyes softened as he watched her—this wasn’t a business request, he realized, but something closer to a plea. “You want me to talk this over with your grandfather, too?”

She nodded, earnest. “Yes. Please be thorough. Just… don’t rush into this.”

For a moment, he simply stared at her, surprised by the seriousness in her tone. Roselyn met his gaze, her expression unwavering.

When she added, almost in a whisper, “Please, Father. I’m asking you,” something shifted in Cherty’s features. He cleared his throat—a little too loudly—and with a reluctant, but genuine, smile, nodded.

“Well, if it’s my daughter’s first real request… I suppose I have no choice. I’ll put things on hold. At least for now.”

Seeing the earnest seriousness on Cherty’s face, Roselyn hesitated for a heartbeat—then, all at once, she sprang to her feet and began ushering him toward the door.

“If things go well in Kaluta, I might be able to bring back a ‘Yuseok’ craftsman myself,” she said quickly, nudging him along with determined hands.

“Roselyn?” Cherty blinked, caught off guard as his daughter all but pushed him out of the room.

“Yes, Father. I’m just… tired. I’d like to get some rest now,” she replied, her voice calm but her movements betraying a certain urgency.

He caught the door before it closed, concern flickering in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

She offered him a perfectly painted smile—a little too bright—and answered simply, “I’m fine.”

Before he could protest, the door thudded closed with a decisive thunk.

Cherty stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, a thousand unspoken questions hanging in the silence.

But Cherty didn’t move. He didn’t call after her, either.

He could still sense his daughter just beyond the door.

Those who possessed the Abyss were always sensitive to such things—able to feel the presence of others, even without sight or sound.

“…Why?”

A small, uncertain voice floated through the door.

Cherty stood perfectly still, not budging an inch, waiting until Roselyn’s presence finally drifted away from the threshold.

Only then did he allow himself to exhale, the silence in the hallway pressing in around him.

Roselyn felt nothing for her family. It wasn’t that she blamed her parents or resented her lineage, as other children sometimes did.

No—not exactly.

The truth was, when she was seventeen, she had been that way.

She’d compared herself relentlessly to others, always measuring her life against those with warm, harmonious families. She envied them, wondering constantly why she couldn’t have the same.

Whenever someone criticized her or tried to wound her, she never managed a word in response. Instead, she’d tilt her chin high, glare fiercely, and hurl whatever was in her hand across the room.

She dismissed every act of kindness as nothing more than pity, recoiling from it with a harshness that grew sharper by the day.

She believed that if she acted strong, perhaps she would become strong. That if she repeated “I’m fine” often enough, maybe, one day, it would be true—even as the words wore her thin.

She thought her struggles were the hardest in the world.

Crying, she had decided, was weakness—so she’d swallowed her sobs, held back every tear, until in the end she’d forgotten how to cry at all.

She told herself that leaning on someone, relying on anyone, was proof of their weakness. So she forced herself to endure, driving herself harder and harder, never letting herself rest, never letting herself falter.

She’d thought growing up meant being alone—so she made herself alone.

Unable to admit she was lonely, Rosalyn wandered for years, lost in that denial.

She didn’t know how to feel grateful for the small happinesses that came her way, nor did she ever thank anyone for their quiet kindness.

Now, sprawled across her bed, Roselyn raised the dagger in her hand, lifting it toward the ceiling. She traced a fingertip over the neat, elegant script carved into the blade.

If she had one regret—one thing Rosalyn wished she could change—it was that she’d never know if her name was engraved on the dagger in her original world.

She could never know if the Roselyn who’d lived there had been loved, even a little.

Her father in that world was dead. Her grandfather, gone. Her uncles, all lost. And Roselyn herself—dead, too.

There had been a time when she hadn’t wanted to live.

She’d lost count of the nights she regretted ever being born, and when she realized she could die, she felt a kind of wild exhilaration.

Yes.

To be honest, it wasn’t until she’d left the shadow of the ducal house that Roselyn even considered blaming her family.

Only then did she truly feel the weight of the walls that had surrounded her for so long.

By the time she was twenty-seven, she no longer resented them. She’d stopped comparing herself to others and stopped envying what she didn’t have. She’d finally grown up—grown enough to see things differently.

But now, at twenty-seven and suddenly seventeen again, Roselyn found herself able to look back at the life she’d been given.

There was so much she hadn’t seen before. Too busy just trying to breathe, to survive. But now she could see it clearly, and it left her with regrets.

Regrets and questions she would never be able to ask—questions that would linger on her tongue forever, with no one left to answer them.

I always thought I was just a nuisance, that I was only ever resented.

She’d had no Abyss, had always been frail and unremarkable—never exceptional at anything. All she’d known was how to lash out, to make trouble.

She’d convinced herself that was why she was unloved.

But if her name had been engraved on the dagger in that world—if, after all, her father had made it for her, and Lady Carmel had simply kept it a secret…

Did I hurt him without ever realizing it?

The thought stung. Roselyn slowly closed her eyes, then opened them again, the weight of what might have been pressing down on her chest.

“…”

It felt as though someone had driven a fist straight down her throat—tight and aching.

But her eyes stayed dry.

She let out a brittle laugh, rubbing at her gritty eyelids. “Even a broken doll would be better than this.”

“Welcome, Red Cat.”

Roselyn almost smirked at the title as she stepped inside.

The ‘Underground Auction’ began at eight in the evening and typically ended around midnight. For the select few, however, the real buying started early—at five o’clock sharp.

There were rules, of course: Arrive in a mask with a black veil that covered every strand of hair and the entire face. Only one companion allowed, usually a bodyguard. No weapons permitted. And the mask’s color wasn’t up to you—the hosts assigned it in advance.

Simple enough.

A red cat mask? You were called Red Cat. A blue dog mask? Blue Dog. Each guest was addressed by their mask’s color and animal, like a pseudonym for the night.

Tonight, Roselyn wore the red cat mask.

She wasn’t here for art or trinkets—she’d come to buy a person.

“Is there a particular item you’re interested in this evening?” the attendant asked politely.

“A slave,” Roselyn replied curtly.

The man before her, face hidden behind an expressionless white mask and draped in a pitch-black robe, simply nodded.

“This way,” he said, voice thin and professional.

The underground auction truly was a labyrinth—twisting corridors and branching passages that reminded her of an ant nest. Without a guide, she imagined, it would be all too easy to get hopelessly lost.

Roselyn frowned, her unease growing as they wound deeper into the maze of tunnels.

It’s the perfect place to make someone disappear, she thought, glancing warily over her shoulder.

The bodyguard her father had assigned walked silently at her side, his face hidden behind a blank black mask.

“This is the room where you’ll find the merchandise you’re looking for,” the attendant announced.

Following him through the cramped, winding corridor, Roselyn entered a large chamber lined with iron cages.

Inside those cages were people—half-dressed in tattered scraps, their faces all bearing the same look of resignation. Not one of them met her gaze.

She wasn’t the only one browsing. All around her, others prowled the aisles, appraising the slaves with crude, unpleasant comments. Some didn’t hesitate to tear away what little clothing the captives wore, inspecting them as if they were livestock.

Disgusting, Roselyn thought, clucking her tongue silently in contempt.

“Is there a particular age or gender you’re interested in?” the attendant inquired.

“A boy, preferably in his teens,” she replied coolly.

“In that case, you’ll want to start with this section.”

Roselyn followed as the attendant led her past the rows of cages. She had a very specific target in mind—a twelve-year-old boy. He was to be her bargaining chip in Kaluta.

She hadn’t gone far when she abruptly stopped.

There, crouched in one of the narrow cages, was a boy glaring up at the world with fierce, cat-like green eyes. He sat, lips pressed tightly together, silver hair falling over his suntanned skin. Around his neck and wrists were heavy shackles, and a bold red tattoo—painted in a jagged line—ran from his forehead, across his left eye, and down to his jaw.

Found you, Roselyn thought.

He was the second prince of the King of Kaluta.