The Princess and The Queen Want me as their personal Slave?
Chapter 44: Karina Life? {1}

Chapter 44: Karina Life? {1}

I continued to scramble through the thoughts in my mind, tracing every lead, every detail. It had already been three days since I arrived in this strange, cursed village—and in that time, I had nearly memorized the entire layout of the old church. Every stone, every broken pew, every shadowed crevice was embedded in my memory.

The townsfolk whispered often about a girl—Karina. A crying girl. They said she was the last person to enter the church.

And ever since that night, the doors had remained locked. Sealed. In the days that followed, strange, lifeless dolls began appearing, moving on their own... and killing.

The village, once lively marketplace, had turned into a ghost town. I spent days poring over symbols etched into the walls, studying the seaweed-covered paths, watching for any sign—any clue.

Tonight, I stood beneath the pale crescent moon, its silvery light washing over everything like a silent blessing... or a warning. I tilted my head back, squinting up at the sky, when I noticed something strange.

The moonlight was reflecting off the seaweed in a particular way—ripples and symbols seemed to dance across the blackened growth, forming faint shapes. The reflections shimmered through the village, as if pointing at something.

My heart pounded.

Wait... were those patterns?

I ran toward one of the patches of seaweed, watching as the reflections merged and shifted. Then it appeared—an unmistakable shape: a digging symbol. Simple, but clear.

It all clicked.

My eyes widened as everything I had pieced together over the last three days came rushing in at once. The church. The dolls. The locked door. The missing girl. The clues weren’t above the ground—they were beneath it.

i turned and sprinted toward Carl’s home.

When I reached him, I was breathless but determined. "I know how to solve it," I told him, explaining everything I had discovered, the symbol, the reflections, and my theory. "We need to gather everyone. Tomorrow morning."

Carl listened intently. His normally tired eyes lit up with hope and purpose.

"Alright," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "I’ll gather them all."

He was smiling. Not just politely—but genuinely. Hope was returning to his face, to his voice. And he wasn’t the only one.

—

The Next Morning

Hours passed. The village remained quiet, eerie even, but when Carl rang the old iron bell, people began to gather.

At first, many hesitated. Skepticism lingered in their eyes, fear anchoring their feet. But then they saw me. Saw the tired shadows under my eyes from sleepless nights, my hands still stained from scraping walls and peering through rotted corners.

They had seen me trying. Trying to solve what none of them could. Trying, even when no one believed. Even when death was lurking outside.

And now... maybe they were ready to believe. Or at least—hope.

Mixed emotions spread through the crowd—fear, doubt, curiosity. But beneath it all, something stronger: desperation. If they did nothing, they would die. Hiding inside their homes wasn’t safety anymore. It was a slow sentence.

No adventurers had come to help. The reward they’d posted—clearly too small, in hindsight—hadn’t drawn attention. And worse, the path to the village was covered now in black seaweed, once lush and green, now dark and sickening, like veins of death creeping across the land.

The seaweed wasn’t just lifeless—it devoured light. It made everyone hesitate, lose their will to move, like it was sapping their strength the closer they got.

But now, as they stood gathered, waiting for my words, there was a flicker of hope in their eyes.

I stood before them and raised my voice.

"Dig down," I said, steady and clear, "at the back of your houses. Beneath the soil, you’ll find a key. Each of you. Take that key... and bring it to the church."

The villagers glanced at each other, uncertain—until the first shovel hit the earth.

Then another.

And another.

Within minutes, one of the homes echoed with a cry of disbelief. "There really is a key!"

Then another voice, and another. Soon, everyone was holding a key—shiny, old, some rusted, but unmistakable. Their eyes turned to me, filled with gratitude.

Five minutes later, we gathered at the church.

Each person walked forward, solemn and silent, placing their key into the circular carvings on the stone door. One by one, they clicked into place. And when the last key turned...

The door creaked open.

The village held its breath.

No one moved.

Except me.

I stepped forward alone, heart pounding, eyes sharp. What waited inside... surprised me.

There, at the center of the dim chapel, surrounded by fading light from a shattered stained-glass window, was a coffin.

And inside it... was a child.

A little girl, no older than ten. She was beautiful—strikingly so—with flowing blue hair and gentle, delicate features. But a deep scar ran across her cheek, marring her innocence with a silent story of pain. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful... yet weary.

Strangely, small scales dotted her cheeks—not enough to be fishlike—but there was something else. Something odd. A horn?

She wasn’t of a fish race. At least, not entirely.

I raised a hand and touched the transparent lid of the coffin.

In that moment, the world changed.

Time stopped.

My body froze, but my consciousness floated free. I was no longer in the church—I was somewhere else entirely. Like a soul drifting in another memory.

Before me stood the girl... alive. Awake. Looking right at me.

Then the memory began.

She was younger now—smaller, more afraid. I saw a woman—scaly, monstrous, cruel. Her mother? A fish-woman, tall and harsh, dragging her by the arm and yelling incomprehensibly.

The girl flinched at every touch. Her eyes welled with tears, but no sound escaped her lips.

I watched, helpless, as she was locked into a dark room with only bones and rotting food for company. Alone. Always alone.

More memories flickered—the villagers turning their backs, her mother pretending everything was fine, even smiling in public.

But the girl... was breaking. Little by little.

And I stood there, a ghost in her pain.

My fists clenched.

The memory wasn’t just tragic.

It was rage-inducing.

She was crying out—not with words, but with silence. She had buried her pain deep beneath the village, and no one had listened.

Until now... no one had truly seen her.

And then, her life continued before my eyes—memories playing like shattered fragments of a dream. Painful, haunting.

That’s when I realized why she had horns.

Why her mother despised her.

Karina was not born of a single bloodline. Her mother was a proud member of the Fishfolk—a race of the sea, graceful and proud. But her father... her father was a Dragonkin. A being of rare and immense power, rarely seen in these waters.

It was an unlikely love. A fleeting one.

Her mother had once journeyed to the surface—to the land of men and dragons. There, she met him. Fell for him. Or perhaps she was merely swept up by his charisma, his strength, his promises.

But dragons are creatures of the sky and flame—not of the sea.

When the time came, he could not follow her home. He could not live in the depths. He vanished, just as quickly as he had arrived—leaving her behind.

Alone.

Pregnant.

She knew, deep down, that it was inevitable. Understandable even. But what broke her wasn’t the distance—it was the silence. The way he left without a word. No goodbye. No farewell. No visit. Nothing.

And worse... she later discovered he had moved on. Taken another mate. Started another family. Like their story had meant nothing.

She never told her daughter any of this.

But the truth lived in her eyes. In her hatred.

When Karina was born, her mother looked at her and saw him. The horns on her head, the deep blue eyes that shimmered like stars, the faint hints of draconic blood that lingered in her breath and aura—it disgusted her.

It made her sick.

So she punished Karina for existing. Day after day.

But Karina... she still loved her.

Even after the scars.

Even after the cold meals and locked rooms.

Even when her own mother wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Karina had never once stopped loving her mother. Not even when the abuse became unbearable.

She just wanted to make her happy. She believed, deep down, that if she was kind enough, obedient enough, if she just smiled through the pain—maybe, just maybe, her mother would finally look at her... and not see him.

But the village children were no better.

They wouldn’t play with her.

They pointed at her horns, laughed at the scar that marred her beautiful face. They whispered cruel things. Called her a monster.

She had no one.

No friends. No family.

Just herself.

And a fading dream—a distant, childish hope that maybe, maybe, her father would return someday. That he would take her hand, lift her into the sky, and whisper: You were never a mistake.

But he never came.

And in that emptiness, something else came instead.

A presence.

Cold.

A being that fed not on flesh... but on emotions.

It wore the face of a god. The villagers believed it to be the Sea God. Their protector. Their savior.

But it was no god.

It was something else entirely.

An Emotion—an entity

It saw Karina. Saw her emptiness. Her broken heart. Her longing. And it reached out.

It whispered to her in the dark, when no one else listened.

Tired? I’ll help you.

Hurt? I can numb it.

Alone? I’ll stay.

And Karina, desperate for someone too rely and be able too rest welcomed the voice.

Unknowingly, she let it inside.

It turned her into a puppet. Her body slowly frozen in time, placed in a coffin by the entity—its nourishment.

And the village?

They had become fuel.

The dolls. The nightmares. The illusions. All of it—meant to feed the creature and maintain the sorrow Karina had carried for so long. Her sadness was like a well that never dried.

The "god" had used it. My disgust in the Emotions Grew even more

I watched, breathless, unable to look away as these truths unfolded in the endless memory.

The weight of it all crushed my chest.

She had been just a child.

A child who loved too deeply, trusted too easily, and suffered because of it.

And now?

She was trapped in eternal slumber. A prisoner not of chains, but of emotion—abused, abandoned, and devoured by the very sorrow she never deserved.

My soul trembled.

Before i knew it Tears welled in my eyes. I hadn’t realized it, I was crying.

I stepped closer to the coffin.

Karina’s image flickered before me again—this time, standing silently, as if waiting.