Ascension Of The Villain

It was quiet. Unbearably so.

The kind of silence that didn't comfort, it suffocated.

A soft breeze stirred the drapes as pale morning light spilled gently into the room, illuminating the still figure by the window.

Iyana stood there, her platinum hair catching the sun, eyes distant and glassy as they followed the movements below.

The clashing of swords from the courtyard below echoed faintly. Knights sparring, their blades ringing with strength.

Gods, how she missed sword training.

How she missed the feel of a sword hilt wrapped in her fingers, the satisfying weight of it, the grounding strength it gave her.

Ten months—it had been ten long months since she last held a blade. Eight months in months. Two months locked in this luxurious but empty room. And… one year since she had last seen him.

Vee.

The name alone was enough to make her chest ache. The tightness settled like a stone just beneath her ribs, pressing down, heavier with every breath. A part of her wanted to cry. But her eyes had grown too tired of tears, and her heart was too stubborn to break all the way.

He had disappeared right in front of her, on the day of Althea's coronation. Vanished, like mist swallowed by the sun. One moment there, the next... gone.

Had he died that day?

No.

No.

She couldn't… she wouldn't believe that.

If something had happened to him, she would know. Somewhere deep in her bones, in the invisible thread that had tied their souls together long before they dared speak it aloud, she'd feel it if that bond had snapped. Wouldn't she?

Unless…

She shut her eyes for a second, drawing in a shaky breath.

Unless she was just in denial.

That damned novel Leila had read—its cursed prophecy said he would die that day. It was supposed to be the end. Maybe fate couldn't be changed. Maybe it didn't matter how hard you fought, how desperately you prayed. Some deaths were just written in stone.

Her throat tightened.

"No, Iyana. Don't think like that. He is okay."

Her own whisper barely reached the walls.

Maybe his spell had gone wrong. Maybe he hadn't died but been pulled somewhere else. Lost in time. In space. In some realm between here and nowhere.

Yes. That had to be it. It had to be. Because if it wasn't… if Vyan wasn't alive somewhere…

She swallowed down the scream rising in her throat.

It was the only thing keeping her sane, clinging to the hope that he was out there. Injured maybe. Powerless. Alone. But breathing. Still breathing.

And gods, how long could she keep doing this? Pretending to be strong in a foreign country where she knew nobody, where nobody knew her. Waking up every morning in a bedchamber that wasn't hers, where she was merely locked up, unsure if the man she loved was even alive to remember her.

Every second dragged like an eternity.

It was fucking hard.

And what made it worse, what truly carved out her soul with a blunt blade, was—

Knock knock.

Her spine straightened. Her eyes narrowed sharply. Ice replacing the quiet ache.

Him.

The door creaked open.

Iyana didn't need to turn to know who it was. The subtle whiff of expensive cologne, the languid stride, the arrogance that always entered the room three seconds before he did.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," came the smooth, unmistakably smug voice.

She closed her eyes briefly, as if praying for the wind outside to carry her somewhere far, far away.

Then, with a sigh of absolute exasperation, she rolled her eyes and turned her face away, choosing to admire the knights in the courtyard instead. Anything was more pleasant than looking at him.

"Oh?" he said, tilting his head. She could hear the smile in his voice. "Ignoring me as always, mademoiselle?"

"What else do you expect me to do," Iyana answered coolly, "when a strange man enters my bedchamber without so much as my permission?"

His low chuckle was soft but grating. That brand of flirtation she found more irritating than charming.

"But I'm hardly a stranger," he said, a teasing lilt in every word. "You've known me for a year now, mademoiselle."

"And for a year," Iyana snapped, "I've wanted to sever that pompous head of yours from your shoulders."

He laughed. As if her words were poetry and he was a delighted reader. "I must say," he replied lightly, "you might want to lower your voice when you say that. The guards outside wouldn't take kindly to you threatening their future emperor so carelessly."

A thinly veiled threat. Laced in charm, wrapped in silk, but a threat nonetheless.

Iyana scoffed, her lip curling with disdain. "And here I thought emperors weren't threatened that easily. My mistake."

The man before her—Élliot Von Ténsenia—stood in the same room she breathed in, and yet felt like a stench she couldn't get rid of. Crown Prince of the Tensene Empire. The so-called victor of a battle she refused to acknowledge as legitimate.

Thirty-something years old. Sharp in his tailored uniform, his navy blue hair impeccably styled, those golden eyes glinting like they knew things they shouldn't. He carried himself with the arrogance of a man born in a palace and raised to believe the world would bend for him. And maybe, to many, it did.

But not to her.

Never to her.

Because this man—this snake—had been the one to defeat her. Not in fair combat, no. There had been no honor in that fight. His soldiers had attacked her base during a monster attack, striking when her forces were fractured and exhausted. It hadn't been a battle; it had been an ambush.

Fighting monsters back to back for forty-eight hours straight with no break, already bleeding and injured, she had been forced into a duel with him.

And though she wasn't one to make excuses, gods know she wasn't, even she had to admit: in a fair fight, she'd tear him limb from limb.

Just saying.

She didn't flinch as he stepped further into the room. He came closer, closing the space between them like he had every right to.

Still, Iyana didn't move from the window. Her arms remained crossed, her expression detached as her gaze followed a young knight's precise footwork below.

The sun hit the glass just right, casting soft shadows across her face, and yet there was no warmth in her expression.

Just that sharp, cold pride—the same one she wore into every battlefield.

Let him talk.

Let him gloat.

She wasn't listening. She wouldn't be affected.

"You know," Élliot began, his voice laced with false warmth, "I could allow you to train with the sword again... if only you'd accept my proposal."

Iyana didn't react.

"I could give you more freedom," he went on, stepping closer. "You might even be allowed to take walks in the garden. Breathe fresh air. Be free."

Her tone was flat. "Yeah, no. I'll pass."

He chuckled. "You could entertain the thought, at least," he mused. "Surely you're feeling lonely by now. I hear your fiancé is still missing."

Her jaw tensed.

The muscles locked.

But she said nothing.

Control, Iyana.

He took another step, and then, too close. A gloved finger brushed against the side of her face, gliding slowly down her cheek. She froze, not out of fear, but from the icy rage that settled beneath her skin.

"I bet you wouldn't care about him anymore if you—"

Snap.

In a blink, Iyana spun and seized his wrist, twisting it sharply behind his back. The crack of bone and sinew echoed as he let out a strained yelp.

"Ah! Ah! Mademoiselle—!"

"If I what?" she growled, voice low with pure venom.

"If I sleep with an old, pathetic man like you, you'll give me freedom? Is that it?" she hissed near his ear. "Do you seriously believe I'd forget the man who means the world to me just because you would let me take a walk in your stupid garden? Do you think holding a sword matters more to me than my fucking self-respect?"

She twisted his arm harder. He gasped.

"I can live without ever touching a sword again," she snapped, eyes burning, "but I will die before letting a rotting, power-hungry, perverted bastard like you have me in bed."

There was steel in every word. In her stance. In the way she stood tall, spine straight, gaze unwavering, despite being a prisoner in a foreign land. Despite having nothing left to protect her but pride.

"So do yourself a favor," she added coldly, "and stop coming here just to embarrass yourself. Get a prostitute or something to satisfy your desperation. Because I'm not giving in. Ever."

She shoved him back. Hard.

He stumbled a step, clutching his wrist.

But there was no rage in his golden eyes.

There was a flicker of something far more dangerous.

Desire.

Amusement.

Obsession.

Élliot's lips curved slowly, like a man who had just been entertained. As if her defiance was a dance, and she had just performed flawlessly.

He straightened, his voice low, almost amused.

"I could send you back to the prison, you know?"

Iyana scoffed, disgust etched into her expression. "Be my guest. I'm not afraid." She went toe to toe with him. "I swore to sacrifice my life for my nation the day I became a knight. So don't try to scare me with petty things like that. Starve me, chain me, torment me, put me on the guillotine, just know that I'll never bow my head and beg from someone like you."

Élliot stared down at her, eyes dancing with dangerous interest. His breath came slower now, not with restraint, but intrigue. There was no bruised ego. If anything, he looked…

Enthralled.

"You really are something else," he murmured, not bothering to hide the way his eyes lingered on her.

"You know," he added, almost playfully, "it's that fire in you that keeps me coming back."

She said nothing.

His smirk deepened, as if her silence was yet another challenge he looked forward to unraveling.

He turned casually toward the door.

"Don't serve her any food or water today," he called lazily to the guard outside, as though denying her a meal was part of some flirty punishment.

Then he looked back at her, one last time, his voice low and teasing.

"Starve a little, mon cœur. Let's see how long that fire burns."

And with that, he walked out.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Iyana released a breath she didn't know she was holding.

Tears stung her eyes.

She blinked fast, refusing to let them fall..

"Don't fall weak. This is nothing."

Weakness was a luxury she couldn't afford in a place like this.

Get up. Move. Breathe. You have to survive.

She dragged her feet toward the marble-tiled bathroom and locked it properly. There was no lock on the room's door from the inside, so she had to be careful of that pervert marching in as he wished.

He had entered her chamber far too many times in the last month in the middle of the night for her not to be on alert all the time. She couldn't even sleep properly because of him. He was so persistent that it was honestly scary.

She didn't know how long she could deflect him without any weapons at her disposal.

If push came to shove, she was ready to kill herself.

"But… I don't want to die, though…"

Her fingers trembled as she turned the taps. Warm water spilled into the tub, steam curling upward like silent ghosts.

"Compose yourself, Iyana."

She took a few deep breaths, undressed slowly, and lowered herself into the bath.

The water welcomed her like an embrace she didn't know she needed.

And soon, sleep came to her. This was the only place she had come to let herself relax.

She didn't know how long she napped there—minutes, hours, maybe more.

By the time she woke up, she was breathing heavily, sweating. She just had a terrible nightmare. It was a mixture of everything she feared.

It took her a few minutes to calm down from it. After that, she had finally noticed that her skin was pruned and soft, the water long gone tepid.

Eventually, she forced herself to rise. Her limbs felt heavy. Too heavy. She managed to pull on her bathrobe, loosely tying it around her waist, but her legs buckled as she stepped onto the floor.

And then, she dropped.

Just like that.

Collapsed onto the cold bathroom tiles, knees pulled up, arms limp, hair wet and clinging to her skin. The silence cracked.

Her eyes blurred with tears. Just like before, she held them back. But there was only so much she could hold back.

She curled up into herself, silently letting the tears fall.

She cried for the ache in her bones, the emptiness in her heart, the man she loved, the sword she missed, the homeland she grew up in, and the subordinates who respected her as a person.

She didn't know how long she stayed there. But then—

A knock.

From outside the room.

She didn't respond.

Then, a soft, feminine voice filtered through the door.

"Madame, je vous ai apporté votre déjeuner." (Madam, I brought you your dinner.)

Dinner? Is it already evening?

Iyana lifted her head from her knees, voice hoarse as she called back, "Why have you brought dinner for me? I'm not supposed to have any food today."

The maid answered politely, "Je ne sais pas. On m'a juste dit de vous l'apporter." (I don't know. I was just told to bring it to you.)

Iyana stared blankly at the bathroom wall. She hesitated, then muttered, "Alright… just leave it on the table."

She heard the door to her chambers creak open, the soft footsteps of the maid entering.

"Madame, vous prenez une douche ?" (Madam, are you taking a shower?)

"Yes," Iyana replied sharply.

Then, gently, "Vous n'avez pas l'air bien." (You don't sound okay.)

Iyana's breath hitched, irritation flaring to mask the vulnerability.

"It's none of your business."

But the maid didn't leave.

"Laissez-moi vous voir, s'il vous plaît." (Let me see you, please.)

"No, just leave," Iyana began, voice fraying, "I don't—"

The door swung open.

"What the hell?!" she shouted, stumbling back. "I told you to—"

But the figure in the doorway shifted. Like smoke bending in the wind. The maid's silhouette shimmered—hair shortening, shoulders broadening, body growing taller. The uniform unraveled and twisted into black male attire.

Her breath caught.

Her heart stopped.

Wine-red eyes met hers.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, "Vee?"