Come Take Your Woman Back

“Come take your woman away, why don't you.”

She'd come again.

I'd lost count of how many days it had been running.

Four in the morning.

The exact window when the ducal estate's security was at its loosest, when the night guards fought off sleep and counted the minutes until shift change.

I didn't need to look to know who it was.

There was exactly one lunatic in this entire castle who would walk into this damp, mold-smelling dungeon cellar of her own free will.

“...Sir Knight.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not a knight. And my lady, isn't your attendance rate a little *too* good? At this point I should be giving you a perfect-attendance award—sorry, though, I don't have any paper to write the certificate on.”

I answered without even opening my eyes, leaning against the wall.

Clank.

The mana-suppression shackle biting into my wrist let out a sour metallic ring. A chill cold enough to reach the bone climbed up through me, but by now even that unpleasant sensation felt like just another part of daily life.

Roselyne stopped in front of my bars without replying. The light of the small lantern she carried cut through the darkness and fell across my knees.

I cracked my eyes open, and studied her face.

Hm. Still in terrible shape today, I see.

Pale to the point of turning bluish. Bruised, hollow eyes. Her breathing the moment she'd entered was as fragile and shallow as a fish pulled out of water.

She looked far worse than the students in my past life shuffling into class after an all-nighter during exam season.

“What, who's tormenting you today? You've got the face of the kid ranked dead last in the whole school receiving his report card.”

At my jab, Roselyne slowly shook her head. Through the bars, she stared at the red brand etched into my arm and exhaled, very slowly.

“No one is tormenting me. Everyone is... excessively kind. But there are bones inside that kindness, and I couldn't breathe.”

“Kindness with bones in it. Very literary metaphor. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Would've earned you extra credit in language arts—shame ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this is a prison, though. Spell it out for me. Who threw what kind of garbage at you, and how.”

Roselyne hesitated for a moment, then gripped the bars. The tips of her slender fingers went white from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pressure.

“The maids... stop talking when I pass by. They bow their heads as if nothing happened, but in that brief silence, I feel like I can hear a thousand unspoken words. The knights look at me with pity every time they see me. The air at the dinner table is always cold as ice. My father... says nothing at all.”

“Not even insulting you to your face—somehow that's worse. Is aristocratic society just inherently specialized in backhanded jabs? They've picked exclusively the most inefficient ways to torment someone.”

I clicked my tongue, then pushed myself up and moved close to the bars. The chains dragged across the floor with a noisy clatter.

Roselyne didn't flinch at the sound. Instead, her eyes sparkled as she focused on my every movement.

“Hey, Roselyne.”

“Yes... Sir Knight.”

“You're cowering like that because you think of yourself as the victim, right? Everyone looks at you like something to pity, so you can't stand pitying yourself either.”

Roselyne's shoulders flinched. Like a child caught dead to rights, her eyes wavered wildly.

“That's... not...”

“Not what? It's written all over your face. *'I am the wounded, pitiable young lady.'* You know what? The reason they treat you like an easy mark is because you *look* weak. If you look like prey, you get bitten—that's the survival law of this world. If you hate it, the first thing that has to come alive is your eyes.”

I kept going, staring straight into her eyes.

No soft comfort mixed in. That kind of thing belonged in a counselor's office, even back in my old life. What she needed right now wasn't mental care. It was practical advice.

“The maids go silent on you? Then stare right back. With a look that says *'go on, keep talking.'* The knights whisper about you? Then walk even prouder. Did you commit a crime? No, you didn't. Get your subject straight. You did nothing wrong, so why are you acting like a criminal?”

Roselyne stood blankly for a long while at my answer. Her breathing, carried through the bars, was slowly, gradually finding a steady rhythm.

Strange as it was, the moment she stood before me, this girl's breathing always steadied.

Well, she can't exactly see anyone else down here.

Her complexion had come back a little compared to before. Regaining her calm in this damp, dark underground, listening to a barbarian warrior's lecture thick with the smell of blood and sweat.

No, seriously—why does it have to be me?

There'd always been a student like this in my old school too. One who paid no mind to brutal criticism or mockery, whose face actually *brightened* every time she corrected her mistake log.

Roselyne was in exactly that state right now. Every time my venom poured out, she seemed to feel a kind of release, like the fog in her head was being sorted into order.

“...Sir Knight.”

“I told you not to come. Are you telling me you can't hear me? Want me to clean your ears out for you?”

“No. Really... I feel like I can live a little now. Because you said all that, Sir Knight.”

Roselyne accepted my instructions as if they were the golden rule of a textbook, nodding slightly. Her expression was far clearer than before—a faint but unmistakable resolve shining through it.

Practical advice over emotional embraces. What Roselyne needed wasn't a warm embrace but a hard frame of logic to hold her up so she wouldn't collapse.

She carefully drew a pouch of dried meat from her basket. The rich smell of good meat pushed back the musty air of the cell.

“Please eat. I... put extra care into it today.”

“You didn't make it yourself, though. Anyway, still not listening to a word I say. I'll eat it since you're giving it to me, but starting tomorrow, really, *really* don't come. I have a private life too, you know.”

I bit into the jerky and chewed. Watching me work at the meat, Roselyne at last let a faint smile touch her lips.

“Then... rest well. See you tomorrow, Sir Aiden.”

“Didn't you say that yesterday too?”

Despite my answer, she left a light bow and disappeared into the darkness with her maid.

Creeeak. Bang.

The iron door shut, and silence returned. Then, all at once, a strange unease settled over me.

...Hold on.

I turned over what had just happened. The air when Roselyne entered, and when she left. The sound of her footsteps. The way the guard's expression grew stranger and stranger each time he looked at me was no coincidence either.

My contact with Roselyne inside the ducal estate is already being noticed.

This was no longer a safe secret meeting. The seeds of rumor had already sprouted in every dark corner of this castle.

And above all—Roselyne was off.

I dug up my memories of The Lady Is Consumed by Loneliness. The description had gone something like this:

God, rereading it, that prose is insufferably sentimental.

If a student had turned that in as a language-arts assignment in my past life, I'd have wallpapered the page in red ink. *Lacks concrete action.* *Excessive adjective abuse.* *The protagonist's passivity destroys credibility.*

But romance-fantasy had its own grammar. Only when the heroine was ground down this low did the stage finally set for the *radiant male lead* Ruines to appear.

Chapter eight of the original, I think. The scene where Ruines climbs the ducal estate's wall and appears on her terrace was a veritable festival of clichés.

Just dragging those lines out of memory made the back of my neck itch. Classic eighties sensibility, or a screenplay written by a terminal case of chuunibyou. Nutritionally void comfort with zero cost-efficiency to be found anywhere.

And yet the original Roselyne had wept at that cringe-inducing line and thrown herself at him.

“...Ah, it's you. The one who would come find me.”

That was where the saga of salvation began.

Instead of learning to stand on her own, Roselyne shifted her entire weight onto a new support structure named Ruines. And the result? The birth of an *obsessive heroine* who spiraled into anxiety-fueled madness the moment he stepped away for even a short while.

Salvation was a pretty word for it, but in practice she'd simply traded in one master for another—no different from slavery.

And what about now?

I overlaid the hazy Roselyne of my memories with the Roselyne who'd just come by and tossed me a pouch of jerky.

Original Roselyne = cries in bed all day. One hundred percent passive. Addicted to Ruines's comfort.

Current Roselyne = perfect attendance at 4 a.m. Copies down my snark like it's her mistake log. Complexion's bad, but her eyes are alive.

Conclusion = Ruines's slot has been deleted entirely.

He's screwed.

The spot where Ruines was supposed to storm onto her terrace and deliver his flower-scented lines—she's spending it down in a moldy dungeon, getting her head straightened out by a barbarian's verbal abuse.

This... goes way beyond 'minor deviation.'

The agent of her salvation had changed, and the method had gotten far rougher and cruder. Where Ruines fed her sweet opium with *'I shall become your world,'* I was dousing her with cold water: *'You did nothing wrong, so why are you acting like an idiot?'*

The problem is that this cold water works suspiciously well.

Roselyne may have already become someone who can't be satisfied by Ruines's flower-scented comfort anymore. Sharper criticism, colder analysis, and the strange sense of stability that my existence apparently provides. She'd refused to become a broken doll, choosing instead to endure stubbornly under my discipline.

If the original Ruines saw this scene, he'd probably faint dead away. The heroine he was meant to save, shyly saying *'see you tomorrow'* to a barbarian prisoner.

No, now's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not the time to laugh.

The original protagonist losing his place meant the main scenario of this novel was being blown apart, whole. I'd stolen Ruines's role, and the price would fall squarely on me.

Because the arrowhead of that deranged obsession the original Roselyne once aimed at Ruines was, right now, being precisely recalibrated onto me.

“Damn it, where the hell is Ruines and what is he even doing? Hurry up and come take your woman back.”

The Ruines in my memory had been so handsome, so radiant—and here I was, a beast chewing jerky behind filthy bars.

This... isn't going to end prettily.

I swallowed dryly in the dark.

I have to cut this off.

Nothing good can come from getting tangled up with that girl. Really.

Tomorrow... tomorrow I'll truly be colder.

“Don't come tomorrow. You've said your thanks plenty by now.”

The muttering that slipped out echoed hollowly through the cell. The image flashed through my mind—Roselyne's face draining, her breath shortening.

It already felt like I could hear that faint footsteps coming at dawn tomorrow, and I shut my eyes with a hard scowl.

I have to cut her off, and yet—it might already be too late.

There's really only one thing left to do now.

“I have to run.”

I heaved my heavy body up.