I Am The Game's Villain

Alvara stood by the wide, arched window of her cabin, gazing out at the endless expanse of the sea. But her eyes seemed to look past it, lost in thought. It had been a week since she departed Sancta Vedelia, and now, at last, the shores of Utopia City could be seen.

The journey had been far longer than anticipated, despite the swift and well-equipped vessel that carried her. The delay was due to the resistance from Sancta Vedelia's forces. They had pursued the boat with a singular determination, their intent clear: to sink Utopia's prized ships.

Conflict was not confined to the seas; battles raged in Sancta Vedelia itself.

As an esteemed guest—no, a valuable asset—Durathiel Ruvelion himself had ordered the utmost precautions for her safety. The crew adhered to his commands with diligence, taking calculated detours through less-charted waters. These delays, though frustrating, were necessary to ensure her safety.

Her quarters aboard the ship were nothing short of opulent, a royal suite adorned with polished wood, gilded accents, and silk drapes that swayed gently with the rocking of the vessel. Yet the splendor around her did little to soothe her troubled heart. Alvara rarely indulged in the comforts provided, preferring instead to stand by the window.

A deep sense of nostalgia had consumed her these past days. Memories of her father's laughter and Leena's gentle touch haunted her waking moments.

But beneath the longing lay something darker—a foreboding she could not shake.

'I am going to die.'

The premonition had lingered since childhood—a deep-seated unease that her life would be tragically short. This feeling of an early death, had intensified since the war began, as if she were inexorably drawn towards a fateful end in this very conflict.

Yet she didn't seem afraid of death. She had not come to Utopia to yield to her elder brother's desires or to submit herself to Durathiel Ruvelion's will.

No.

Her purpose was something else. She had waited long enough, endured too much. The time for patience was over.

If Durathiel fell, the war would crumble with him. Her brother's grip on power would falter, and the other Houses would rise again, reclaiming their authority and dismantling Kendel's army. Sancta Vedelia, battered and imperfect as it was, would remain a haven for Humans, Halves, and Hybrids—a place fraught with danger but at least free from Utopia's.

Her mother would be released and Alvara could count on her to take care of Bryelle. Allen was there as well. She could only believe in his change to do something.

"Alvara."

A knock echoed through Alvara's room, breaking her reverie. She didn't answer, but the door creaked open regardless, revealing Lykhor. His audacity to enter unbidden might have once earned him a swift dismissal—perhaps even a forceful one—but today, Alvara merely regarded him with faint indifference. The weight of her thoughts dulled her irritation, as if some part of her had accepted that nothing trivial mattered anymore. The moment she'd been preparing for was fast approaching.

"We've arrived. You should prepare yourself," Lykhor said.

"I need no preparations," Alvara replied, rising from her seat. Without sparing him another glance, she strode past him and out into the corridor.

"That Durathiel should have had at least the decency to greet us himself," Lykhor muttered, trailing behind her with a scowl.

Alvara ignored him entirely. It was irrelevant when or how she met Durathiel. What mattered was that when the moment came, she would be ready.

Lykhor quickened his pace to match hers. "You must be anxious about this whole marriage arrangement with Durathiel. But don't worry, I won't let it happen—"

"Lykhor," Alvara interrupted him.

"Yes?" He perked up, mistaking her acknowledgment for interest.

Alvara glanced over her shoulder, her lips curling into a bored, sardonic smile. "Will you kindly shut your mouth?"

Lykhor froze, stunned into silence as Alvara continued her path toward the deck. But silence had never been his strength even more when it came to Alvara. He caught up to her once more, his thoughts brimming with misplaced conviction. This, he thought, was his moment—his chance to be the hero she needed.

"Listen, Alvara—" He began, reaching out to grasp her arm.

Before his fingers could brush her skin, a vine bristling with sharp thorns coiled around his wrist, halting him mid-motion.

"Ugh—!" Lykhor grimaced in pain as the vine tightened, its thorns biting into his flesh.

Alvara turned to face him, her icy gaze locking onto his. "Since when, did I grant you permission to touch me?"

"A–Alvara," Lykhor stuttered, his breath ragged as the vines tightened further, drawing thin drops of blood. "You… you know how I feel about you. All this time, I've—"

"Feel?" Alvara arched a brow, her expression shifting from disdain to something closer to pity. She sighed, as though addressing a foolish child. "Oh, Lykhor. Poor, deluded you. You should have known—there isn't a world where I could ever reciprocate your so-called feelings."

The words struck Lykhor harder than the vines that bound him. His wide, wounded eyes met hers as he choked out, "B-But, Alvara… I love you."

"Spare me this pathetic display," Alvara said with a light, mocking laugh. She turned her back to him, dismissing him as effortlessly as one brushes away a speck of dust.

"Alvara, wait! I'm the only one who can save you!" Lykhor cried, almost despaired. He struggled against the vines, wrenching his arm free with a pained gasp before lunging toward her again.

This time, Alvara's patience reached its limit.

-BAM!

A surge of force struck Lykhor, sending him hurtling down the corridor. He crashed against the opposite wall with a sickening thud, collapsing in a heap.

Alvara looked at him coldly, her expression utterly devoid of sympathy. Her tolerance for him had been solely due to his usefulness during her time at Trinity Eden, but that time had passed. Now, he was nothing more than a nuisance—a foolish, expendable distraction she could no longer afford.

To begin with, Alvara would have never tolerated Lykhor if not for his usefulness in dealing with Humans. It wasn't loyalty or respect that kept him by her side—it was pragmatism. She despised his baseless hatred toward other races, his crude prejudices born of ignorance and fear.

Alvara's own disdain for Humans—and, truthfully, all other races—was absolute, but it was not baseless. She considered herself superior to them in every way and believed her hatred to be entirely justified. Unlike Lykhor, her loathing stemmed from scars carved deep into her being, not hollow rhetoric.

This difference in conviction was also why she had aligned herself so completely with Kendel's plans. She understood him. He, too, bore the weight of witnessing horrors that would shatter weaker minds. He had been there that day. He had seen Leena defiled, much like Alvara herself, but with a cruel twist—Kendel had been forced to watch, beaten and powerless to intervene.

Alvara and Kendel's hatred set them apart. Their pain forged a bond that no one else could replicate, least of all their younger brother, Allen. Since that day, Alvara had kept her distance from him. He hadn't been any different from Lykhor in her eyes—ignorant, inexperienced, and woefully inadequate in his understanding of their suffering.

Allen had been fortunate. He had survived that day unscathed, hidden within the castle, shielded by the arrival of Tanya, who had driven out the invaders and saved him. He hadn't endured even a fraction of what she and Kendel had suffered, yet he dared to act as though he shared their pain. His attempts to emulate their hatred had always struck Alvara as pathetic—a childish effort to earn their approval.

But recently, Allen had become more tolerable. His demeanor had shifted after a traumatic encounter with Amael, and for the first time, Alvara saw a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. It wasn't enough to bridge the chasm between them, but it was a start.

Without sparing another glance at Lykhor, who remained crumpled in the corridor, Alvara stepped onto the deck.

"Your Highness," a dozen knights greeted her in unison, bowing respectfully.

She ignored them, her gaze immediately drawn to the monumental structure dominating the skyline—the Tower of Utopia.

"Please follow us," the leading knight instructed, gesturing toward the stairs leading down to the harbor.

Alvara descended, entering the capital of Utopia. The city was nothing like Elyen Kiora or the islands of the Blood Elves and Dark Elves. Where those places were showing each of their tradition, Utopia exuded raw power. Its streets were teeming not with merchants or artisans, but with seasoned knights. It looked more like a military city than anything else.

This was the heart of the Utopian Alliance—a city built not for beauty or comfort, but for dominance.

Below, leaning lightly on a polished cane, stood an elderly High Elf.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet the renowned Teraquin Celestial Princess in person," Grukel said with a gentle smile. "I must say, the rumors did not exaggerate in the slightest regarding your beauty and regal bearing." He chuckled softly.

The knights flanking them remained silent, but their expressions said a lot about their thoughts. Alvara was every bit the celestial presence she was rumored to be—a figure revered as a Goddess in her homeland, much like Freya in Utopia.

Alvara, however, was unbothered by the flattery.

"Where is Durathiel?"

Her casual reference to him drew visible frowns and whispered murmurs among those present, but Alvara didn't care. Their disapproval was meaningless to her.

Grukel however kept his smile. "His Majesty is currently indisposed," he replied, bowing his head just enough to maintain an air of diplomacy. "In the meantime, allow me the honor of introducing you to Utopia. There is much to see."

With that, he turned around as he gestured for her to follow.