Reincarnated as the Villainess’s Unlucky Bodyguard

One of the many underappreciated benefits of exile is that you don't get physically assaulted by your adoptive demon grandmother within five minutes of arriving anywhere. Unfortunately, the reverse is also true. Because just as I crossed the threshold of the great hall, the universe or perhaps the part of it devoted to poetic justice delivered Daena directly into my path.

She did not look pleased. Her horns, those great curling monuments to maternal wrath, were tipped with a fresh polish and her eyes glowed with that specific shade of violet reserved for family disappointments.

"Liria," she growled, voice rolling over me like a thunderclap.

"Grandmother," I replied, careful to keep my hands visible and my posture meek. "It's lovely to see you. You're looking terrifying as ever."

She didn't bother with a reply. She just well, moved. One moment, I was upright and unpunched, and the next, the world was a dizzying kaleidoscope of floor, ceiling, and demon muscle.

My back hit the flagstones with a thud, my dignity going down in flames. Daena loomed above me, arms crossed, mouth set in a line of ancient disappointment. Enara, instead of offering any support, let out a peal of laughter so undignified I'd have blushed if I wasn't already seeing stars.

Kael, on the other hand, looked positively stricken. He darted forward, sword half-drawn, then faltered under Daena's glare. "Is she—did you—should I ?"

"She'll live," Daena pronounced. "She's sturdier than she looks. Aren't you, little villain?"

"I try," I managed, still on my back. "Is this a family tradition? Because if so, I'd like to opt out next time."

As I dragged myself upright, the doors flew open and Enara's parents entered, their presence grand and unmistakable Queen Verida in deep crimson armor, gold eyes dancing with mischief, and Queen Nyssara gliding at her side in silver and midnight-blue, her expression somewhere between relief and resigned amusement.

They took in the scene a battered me, a grinning Enara, a panicking hero, and a gloating pineapple bobbing behind everyone and burst out laughing. The sound filled the ruined hall, echoing against broken stone and scaffolding.

"It seems our runaway has returned!" Verida called, a teasing lilt in her voice. "And received a proper welcome."

"I told you she'd survive her grandmother," Nyssara added serenely. "Though I do hope the floors are still under warranty."

Before I could muster a response, a guard stepped forward, holding a gleaming metal circlet.

"Your Majesties," he said, bowing, "the containment bracelet."

"Ah yes," Verida said, reaching for it. "Just a precaution, Liria. Until we know you're truly yourself."

She snapped the bracelet around my wrist. I felt my magic constrict instantly, the world narrowing, as if I'd been packed into a box that smelled of lavender and judgment.

"Lovely," I muttered, flexing my fingers. "Now I'm both disarmed and unfashionable."

Nyssara patted my shoulder as if I were a troublesome puppy. "You'll manage. Come along now, let's get you settled."

I was briskly shepherded up the grand staircase (still mostly standing), down a corridor lined with half-hung tapestries, and finally into a small, tidy chamber that bore the faint scent of dust, ink, and oddly rosemary. The door clicked shut behind me. I slumped onto the bed, feeling the weight of two years and a lifetime of mistakes.

It was only then, when the rush of confrontation had faded, that the truth sank in: I was home. Or as close to it as I could ever hope to get.

Idiot, I thought. Two years of running, scheming, betraying, and now what? I'm a prisoner in my old room, a cautionary tale for children and would-be heroes.

The walls seemed to close in, lined with old memories some bright, some sharp, all impossible to forget.

And then, with the drama only a magical fruit can muster, Ananara burst into the room.

Or floated, rather, his leafy crown glistening with actual dewdrops of sorrow. "You—" he hiccupped, "you left me! For so long! I thought you were dead, or worse, boring!" He hurled himself at my chest, which for a pineapple is both more adorable and more dangerous than one might expect.

"I missed you too," I managed, half-laughing, half-suffocating as he wept sticky pineapple tears onto my shirt.

"If you ever abandon me again," Ananara sniffled, "I'll curse you with permanent frizz."

"That's cruel," I replied, untangling him from my collar. "Even for you."

He began to launch into a full lecture about my personal failings when the door swung open again no knock, no ceremony, just Enara, her hair wild, her expression carved from granite.

"Out," she ordered Ananara.

The pineapple, for once, did not protest. He gave me one last, dramatic sob and floated past Enara, sniffling as he went.

The door clicked shut. The silence thickened.

I stood, uncertain, heart pounding. "Enara—"

She moved so fast I barely saw it. Her palm cracked against my cheek, the sound ringing in the air, the sting sharper than any magic.

I didn't flinch. I deserved worse.

"How could you?" Her voice was raw, angry, and shaking. "How could you betray us? Attack us attack me even before Azael took your mind?"

I swallowed. The room was spinning. "Because," I said, and the word came out ragged, "because two years ago I thought it was a good choice. I thought I was clever. I was angry and lost and so, so stupid. I wanted—" I stopped, the shame burning hotter than any wound. "I wanted to matter. I thought I could find purpose with her. I thought I could change everything. I was wrong."

Enara stared at me, jaw tight, eyes shining with fury and something that hurt even more betrayal.

"I loved you," she said, voice breaking on the word. "We all did. But you chose her. You chose her over everything. Over me."

My throat closed. I shook my head. "I didn't know what I was doing. I wanted power, control, something I could call mine. I was so tired of being afraid. So tired of feeling like your shadow."

Enara's hands trembled. She took a step forward, her anger palpable. "You were never my shadow. You were my equal. My " She broke off, biting her lip, fighting tears.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, knowing how useless it sounded.

She slapped me again, softer this time more grief than rage.

"Why did you come back?" she demanded. "After everything, why now?"

I tried to answer but found myself choking on all the words I'd never said. "Because…because I finally realized what I'd lost. And I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand not seeing you again, even if it meant you'd hate me. I'm not asking you to forgive me, Enara. I just want you to know I never stopped caring."

She stared at me for a long, shattering moment. The anger in her eyes flickered, replaced by something unbearably raw. Her breath caught. Her lips parted, as if to speak. But no words came.

We stood, silent, gazes locked—each of us searching the other for answers, forgiveness, absolution.

I reached for her hand, but she flinched away, blinking hard.

Then, in a whisper so quiet I almost missed it, she said, "Why do I still love you?"

And before I could reply, she turned and fled the room, leaving the door open, her footsteps fading down the hall.

I slumped onto the bed, every muscle quivering, shame and hope warring in my chest.

[Well,] the system said after a long pause, [if you're looking for new and exciting ways to self-sabotage, I'd say you've reached a personal best.]

Not now.

[You know, Liria, regret is useful. But only if you learn from it. Otherwise, it's just more baggage. And frankly, you're running out of hands.]

I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, my cheek still burning from Enara's slap, her words echoing in my heart.

She still loved me. Even after everything.

And for the first time in two years, I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or beg the universe for just one more chance to get it right.

Maybe all three.