I’m a Villainess in a Historical Novel

Elizabeth POV

So.

Today is the 20th day of Thawmoor.

That means... 8 days left.

(Eight. Just eight. Eight freaking days before Arthur crashes the Empire's party and drops bodies like rose petals.)

I already cleared my name from the tavern incident, which—thank goodness—was actually just a misunderstanding and not an actual "Elizabeth destroys a tavern for fun" situation.

(Thank you, original Elizabeth, for at least not punching someone that day.)

Now, finally, I can breathe.

Now, finally, I can focus on what really matters:

Surviving the Blood Ballroom Massacre.

I need a plan.

No—scratch that.

I need a Plan 101.

Step one:

Don't die.

Step two:

Don't let Arthur think I'm the snake who betrayed his mother.

Step three:

Get that talisman.

Now, you may be asking: "What talisman?"

Well, dear imaginary voice in my head, let me tell you something about this world.

This place doesn't have "magic" like mana or spell scrolls or flashy fireballs.

Nope.

What it does have is something worse:

Superstition.

The terrifying thing?

Most of them are real.

Ghosts? Real.

Cursed wells? Real.

Dragons sleeping under mountains? Yep.

A spirit that watches over coin purses? Definitely. (His name is Jeffrey, apparently.)

Not all of them are real, of course.

Like the one about wearing a black shirt to funerals or you'll get cursed—total nonsense. I checked. Twice.

But talismans?

Talismans are very real.

Some are for health. Some are for love. Some keep angry forest spirits from crawling into your shoes.

But there's one I remember from the novel. A specific one.

The Talisman of the Iron Serpent.

Said to protect its bearer from mortal danger once just once. Then it crumbles into ash.

In the book, a minor character bought it from the black market. He used it to block an assassin's blade and survived.

That character… died two chapters later.

But not because of a sword.

Because he choked on a grape.

(So I'll just avoid grapes. Easy fix.)

Anyway, that talisman?

I need it.

Because unlike original Elizabeth, I'm going to the ballroom.

Why?

Because I have to meet Arthur.

And not just "oh hey, pass the wine" meet him.

No. I need to prove to him that I'm not the enemy.

That I'm not the same villainess who stood silent when his mother was executed.

That I'm not the one who sold his mother out.

I need him to see me. Trust me. Spare me.

Because if I don't?

He'll kill me in Volume 3.

And not the "tragic misunderstood death" kind of kill.

The "public execution while the rebellion cheers" kind of kill.

(No thanks. I have enough trauma already.)

So here's the breakdown:

📜 Plan 101: Survive the Ballroom Massacre

Day 20-24: Investigate the black market. Locate seller of Iron Serpent talisman. Try not to get kidnapped or stabbed.

Day 25-26: Rehearse court etiquette. Practice looking cool and terrifying but also not evil. (This is hard.)

Day 27: Dress up. Write emergency will.

Day 28: Attend the ballroom. Meet Arthur. Stay near exits. Look useful. Do not die.

Now, to make all of this work?

Step one: Sneak out of the estate.

Easier said than done.

The Shelberg estate wasn't just a house. It was a fortress in disguise. Wrought-iron fences. Guards at every corridor. Servants who acted more like spies. One wrong step and someone would report me to my father faster than you could say, "Your Grace, the lady escaped again."

I peeked out my bedroom door.

Two maids. One guard. And Maria hovering like a mother hawk on caffeine.

(Okay. This is fine. I've seen enough historical dramas. This is just a stealth mission.)

Ten Minutes Later…

"Why… is this window barred?"

I stared in horror.

Not just one bar. Three iron bars. Bolted. Welded. Like someone was trying to keep in a particularly fancy vampire.

(Are you serious?! Who bars a second-floor window?! What kind of lunatic noble prison did I get reincarnated into?!)

I paced. I panicked. I nearly screamed into a pillow.

Then an idea.

The servants' corridor.

Yes.

There was a narrow hallway between the eastern greenhouse and the kitchens. I remembered it from Elizabeth's memories. A forgotten service path once used for sneaking in late deliveries of wine and scandal.

I sprinted across the room, flung open my door—

"—My Lady?"

Maria blinked, standing right outside, holding a tray of fresh fruit.

I froze.

(Okay. Crisis. Panic. Think. Improvise.)

"Ah! Maria!" I said, too loudly. "I… need some air!"

She frowned. "In… that cloak?"

"Fashion statement," I said, clearing my throat. "I was inspired by... um, a dream."

(Please stop talking. Please stop talking.)

"I saw a goose wearing a cloak in the dream. And I thought, wow, I need that. So now I have that. See?"

Maria stared.

Silence.

Then she slowly stepped aside.

"…Please don't get caught, My Lady." she whispered, eyes darting left and right.

(Wait. Did she just… help me?)

I blinked. "Maria?"

Her voice dropped to a hush. "If you really are different now… then be careful. You're not the only one being watched."

Before I could ask what she meant, she turned and walked away.

(Okay. That was suspicious. That was very suspicious. But also?? Kind of heartwarming. Thanks, Maria?)

I tightened my cloak and slipped into the shadows.

…

Shelberg Estate, Eastern Wing – Secret Corridor

The air was colder here.

The torches dimmer. The walls narrowed. Cracks in the floor creaked under my boots.

But I remembered this path.

Down the hall. Left at the barrels. Past the wine cellar. Lift the loose plank. Out through the garden gate.

The exit.

A little wooden door hidden behind a rotting rose trellis.

I pushed it open—

And the cold night air hit my face like freedom.

(Yes! I'm out! I'm free! Han So-Young: 1, Imperial Overkill Security: 0!)

Now… to the black market.

…

Arthur POV

The moon hung low over the rebel camp.

Fog rolled through the trees like a shroud.

Inside the stone chapel they had claimed as headquarters once abandoned by the Church candles flickered weakly against the cracked stained glass. Shadows across the altar, now covered in maps and stolen scrolls.

Priest Vince stood with his back to me, cleaning the barrel of his pistol with a bloodied cloth.

A holy relic an iron cross tied to a rosary dangled from his neck. The same rosary that once marked him as a man of faith.

Now, it marked him as a revolutionary.

He turned, eyes sunken, the scar above his left brow twitching as he spoke.

"Arthur… we are close to the day. The day the revolution begins."

I nodded, staring down at the blueprint of the Citadel ballroom.

"I know."

He stepped closer, placing the cloth aside.

"Like Captain Reine said… there's no going back."

"I never planned to."

I clenched my fists. The bones in my fingers ached from the hours of sword drills. My blade was worn. My uniform threadbare. But my resolve?

Sharper than ever.

"You once told me, Priest… that the prophecy spoke of someone born in fire. Someone who would lead the forgotten toward hope."

I looked at him then. Steady. Burning.

"That's me, isn't it?"

"Yes," Vince said. "And now… the prophecy grows."

He stepped away from the table, eyes flickering with something more than faith—something older. A whisper from beyond.

"I envisioned something. Someone."

"Someone?"

"Not a warrior. Not a king. A guide."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"The prophecy child will not walk alone," Vince said slowly. "There is a second thread—intertwined with yours. Someone who can change fate's shape, Arthur. Someone who shouldn't be here… but is."

A chill ran down my spine.

"Who?"

The priest gave a quiet, mirthless smile.

"You'll find her at the black market."

"The black market?" I echoed, stepping around the table.

It wasn't coincidence. I had already planned to go.

"I was going there anyway—to retrieve my sword. And the mask. For Zero."

Vince's gaze sharpened.

"Then the threads are aligned."

"The guide will be there. You'll know her not by her power… but by her eyes. Eyes that do not belong to this world."

I paused.

A single thought echoed like thunder in my chest.

(Not of this world…?)

…

The scent of soot, sweat, and sizzling meat filled the air.

Elizabeth Portalf Shelberg—shortened to Elizabeth Port Shelberg for her own mental sanity—stood at the edge of the underground market.

It was nothing like the polished halls of the Shelberg estate. The black market was a different world entirely. Loud voices bartered in whispers. Hooded men traded jewels for blood-soaked scrolls. Caged creatures snarled in the dark corners. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting crooked shadows on stone.

Elizabeth pulled her hood lower and stepped forward, boots echoing softly on the damp cobblestones.

People didn't bow here. They didn't care who she was.

Which was perfect.

(Elizabeth Portalff Shelberg... let's do this…)

She took a deep breath, her gloved hand tightening around her coin pouch. She had memorized this path from Elizabeth's memories—fragments, really—of the original's past dealings in forbidden places.

It was said that in this district, everything had a price. Even luck. Even survival.

Especially survival.

"Talisman… talisman… where was it again?" she whispered to herself.

Past the merchant selling snake bones. Right at the booth with the wingless raven. Down the alley marked by red thread.

She turned sharply.

The alley was narrow, and for a second, she hesitated.

Then her heels clicked forward.

And that's when she saw him.

A man stood at the end of the alley, wrapped in a coat that looked stitched from shadows. His face was obscured by a fox-shaped mask white porcelain, cracked near the left cheek. He leaned casually against a wall lined with ancient charms and whispering scrolls.

His voice was smooth. Unhurried.

"Looking for protection… or escape?"

Elizabeth froze.

(Who—)

He gestured toward the rows of talismans. Dozens of them. Some shimmered faintly. Others buzzed with cursed heat. But one stood out.

A single talisman marked with a serpent eating its tail.

The Talisman of the Iron Serpent.

Her talisman.

Before she could speak, the man tilted his head.

"Don't look too long, noble girl. Things that look back… might follow you home."

(He knows…?)

She reached for her coin pouch. "I want that one."

He studied her silently. Then, in a voice laced with strange amusement, he said:

"…You don't belong here, do you?"

Her hand twitched. "Excuse me?"

His eyes though masked felt sharp. Piercing.

They pinned her like needles to glass.

"Your hands. Your posture. The way you keep checking the exit behind you," he said coolly.

"You're either very stupid... or very desperate."

(Okay. Both, probably.)

His voice was strange. Not mocking. Just... amused. Like he'd seen people like her a thousand times before and yet, somehow, she was still interesting.

He tilted his head.

"...And yet," he continued, stepping closer, "you're not here for power. You're here for protection."

He held out the talisman.

It hung from a crimson thread, its metal etched with the symbol of a serpent devouring its own tail. The Iron Serpent.

"Take it."

"But be warned, this charm saves you once. No more, no less. Choose the moment wisely."

Elizabeth hesitated.

Her fingers brushed the metal. It was warm. Almost pulsing.

Like it knew her.

Like it had been waiting.

She took it.

(This is it. My insurance policy.)

She clutched the charm close, nodded, and turned to leave. Her heart was still racing from his words, from the truth he saw in her without even asking her name.

But just as her boot touched the edge of the alley, the man spoke again low, like a whisper woven with smoke:

"Destiny..."

"...can be fascinating."

To be continue