Inside one of the rooms at the manor, Isabelle sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a thick blanket. Her black hair fell loose around her face, unwashed and tangled. Dark circles sat under her emerald eyes.
She hadn't slept properly in days. Every time she closed her eyes, the same images came back. The alley. The hooded men. The cold hand that struck her cheek.
And Lucian, standing between her and them, holding nothing but a knife.
She pulled the blanket tighter.
The last thing she remembered clearly was being scared. Completely, uselessly scared. Frozen against the wall while her little brother bled for her.
"Pathetic," she whispered.
Her fingers found the knife on the nightstand. She picked it up and turned it slowly in her hands. The silver blade caught the dim light, and the small crimson gem at the end of the handle pressed cold against her thumb.
She remembered how he swung it without hesitation. How he screamed at her to run. How he grabbed the man's ankle and refused to let go even when they hit him.
And she just ran.
"It's my fault," she said quietly. "I should've stayed."
Her throat tightened.
"That should've been me."
She sat for a moment, the knife resting in both hands, her thumbs pressing against the handle. The room was silent except for the wind pushing against the window.
"How can I even face Mother?"
She couldn't stay in her room anymore. The walls felt too close and the silence was too loud.
She stood and walked down the hall, the blanket still draped over her shoulders like a cloak. Her bare feet were cold against the floor.
She stopped in front of the old study. Lucian's room. The one he spent most of his time in, reading, writing, thinking about things she never cared to understand.
She pushed the door open.
Everything was the same. Books stacked on the desk. Notes scattered across the table in his small, careful handwriting. A half-finished letter tucked under a paperweight.
She picked up one of the notes and read it. Then another. Plans, ideas, questions about the world, lists of things he wanted to learn.
"Lucy… what should I do?" she whispered, running her finger along the edge of the paper.
She tried to think about what he would do. If it were her who was taken and him who was left behind. He wouldn't sit in his room crying. He wouldn't freeze. He'd think. He'd find a way.
She spent a long time in the old room, sitting in his chair, surrounded by his things.
When she finally stood to go to her mother's room, she noticed a man through the door.
Roswell, dressed in his coat, walking across the courtyard with a serious look on his face. He had just come from Mother's room.
She moved toward the door, wanting to catch him, wanting to ask if there was any news about Lucian.
But she stopped halfway down the hall.
Do I even have the right to know? It's my fault he's gone.
She stood there, hands at her sides, watching Master Roswell's back disappear through the gate.
Then something shifted.
She couldn't keep standing still. Crying didn't bring him back. Guilt didn't bring him back. She needed to be stronger. Strong enough that next time she wouldn't freeze. Strong enough to find him herself.
But how?
Then she remembered. Uncle Duke's offer. The one Father had turned down a few weeks ago.
But Father hadn't come home since that day. He was out there searching for Lucy.
She looked at Roswell's trail one more time.
The blanket fell on the floor as she decided to follow him.
…
A few miles north of Linberg, there was a small castle called Castle Bale. The stone walls were marked by cracks and slashes, showing their age. Inside, you'd find a couple of houses and a training yard with some targets and weapon stands.
On the surface, it was just a base for monster hunting or exploring the mountains, but there was more to it. Under the castle, behind a four-meter-tall, sealed iron door guarded by knights, lay a dungeon where they held criminals and carried out executions.
Roswell headed down the stairs. The deeper he went, the colder and darker it got. The only light came from torches on the walls. At every corner, an armored guard stood watch or patrolled the halls, saluting him as he passed. As Roswell got closer to the cells, he started hearing all sorts of shouting and begging from the people locked up.
"I'm innocent!" "Please! I never killed anyone!" "I know the Count! Let me talk to him!"
Usually, only a few people were locked up here. But after the young master was taken seven days ago, every cell was packed. Linberg's guards had swept through the port, shops, and alleys, leaving no stone unturned. Merchants, beggars, even a few nobles had been investigated or ended up in chains.
Roswell kept blaming himself for not being there. It felt like the same mistake as before. Back then, Count Luke had been his senior at the academy and was someone Roswell respected. He'd gotten injured protecting Roswell during a mission, an injury that changed everything. Later, when Count Luke asked him to guard his children, Roswell saw it as a chance to finally pay him back.
As he walked, he muttered, "It's my fault again. I should've done more." That old guilt came back now that the young master was missing.
The farther he went, the quieter it got. The last cells were replaced by solid rooms with heavy iron doors, each marked by strange symbols and stained with blood or charred black.
Roswell entered one of the rooms. Inside were one guard and three men, half-naked, beaten, sitting in their own filth. In the corner was a headless, grotesque corpse.
He asked, "What happened?"
The guard replied, "He started changing."
Roswell nodded, not pressing for more details. "Leave them to me."
"Sir!" The knight did not hesitate and left the room.
Roswell looked at the three men for a moment, then grabbed a bloodied leather apron off the hook and tied it around his waist. He pulled a pair of shears from the wall, sharpened the blades, then turned to face them.
He looked the three prisoners over and asked, "Do you know why you're here?"
One of the men, shaking, said, "It's a mistake, my lord. W-we didn't do anything. We don't know anything, please."
Another man, trembling, shouted, "It's the drug's fault!"
"Please, I'll tell you everything. I swear."
Roswell's face didn't change. "I know," he said, his voice flat.
The men kept talking and begging, but Roswell didn't care. He got to work, silent and cold. Their screams mixed with the others, echoing through the stone walls.
…
A few hours later, in one of the rooms at Castle Bale, Roswell knocked on the door.
"Come in," Count Luke said.
Roswell stepped inside. "I have the report, my lord."
Count Luke sat at his desk, looking exhausted. Roswell could see it in his eyes as he read through the document.
After a moment, without looking up, he asked, "How are Arian and Belle doing?"
"Lady Arian is always cleaning the young master's room, and the young lady is in her own room, refusing to come out," Roswell said, concern in his voice.
Count Luke only grunted, still focused on the document.
"My lord, you should rest and go back to the manor," Roswell suggested.
Count Luke ignored the suggestion and asked, "What did the prisoners say?"
Roswell answered, "They admitted they're part of the mountain bandit group, supplying goods to the base here. They said they sold the last batch of children to the Faction of Desire Lunatic. Most likely, those kids were shipped to the Republic of Carpio in the far north. Also, the two prisoners turned out to be Fairy Class, both obsessed with drugs."
Count Luke read through the report for a moment.
"It seems they took their chance to enter Linberg since the Demon Faction is gone," he said.
"That seems likely, my lord," Roswell replied.
"Send the information about Lucian to the Republic of Carpio and increase patrols at sea."
"Understood."
"Also, send a letter to my brother requesting authority to investigate and execute suspects related to this case."
"Yes," Roswell continued. "People in town understand and are relieved that we're cleaning out criminals, but some merchants and others are worried because so many people have been arrested."
"We'll address that later," Count Luke said quietly.
Suddenly, a scream came from outside the door.
"Arghh! Put me down!" Belle shouted, resisting. "I'm not gonna run!"
The door opened, and two guards dragged Belle in.
"Belle?" Count Luke said, startled.
"My lord, we found Lady Isabelle climbing on the wall," one of the guards reported.
Belle ran over to Count Luke. She was shivering, her coat too thin for the night air. The skin under her eyes was dark and swollen.
"Thank you, you can leave," Count Luke told the guards.
"Sir," they said, and left.
"How did you get here? It's dangerous," Count Luke said.
"I-I followed Master Roswell," Belle replied, wiping the dirt from her coat.
Count Luke glanced at Roswell.
"Forgive me, my lord," Roswell said, bowing slightly.
"Why are you here?" Count Luke asked Belle.
"Yo-you're not coming home, so I-I came to say something."
Count Luke realized then how hard he'd been working, rarely going home, barely seeing Belle or his wife. He'd been chasing leads, buried in paperwork, thinking only about the search. Seeing Belle here, he just felt relieved that at least she was safe.
"I'm sorry, little princess," he said, pulling her into a hug. "What did you want to talk about?"
Belle stuttered. "I-I want to accept Uncle Duke's offer."
"What? Why?" Luke and Roswell both looked shocked.
"I want to be strong," she said, her voice steady. "A-and be-because of me, Lu-" Belle's voice cracked as she tried not to cry.
Count Luke knelt and hugged her tighter. "Shh. It's not your fault, baby."
"B-but I froze…"
"Don't worry. We'll find him," he said, gently rubbing her hair.
Count Luke stood up while carrying Belle and looked at Roswell.
"I trust you to handle things here. We're going home to talk about this."
"Yes, my lord," Roswell replied.
As Count Luke opened the door, he paused. "And deal with the mountain bandits," he said, his voice calm.
Roswell nodded. He understood the weight behind those words.