Reincarnated as the Villainess’s Unlucky Bodyguard

Morning came reluctantly, pouring through the high, stained-glass window and spilling across the battered floorboards like liquid judgment. Liria woke in her old bed to the sound of hammers, the distant scrape of stone, and the sharp, medicinal scent of freshly washed linen. She blinked up at the painted ceiling still flecked with ancient celestial sigils, but now patched here and there with ugly, practical plaster.

A small crack, right above her head, snaked through a cherub's painted halo. If she turned her head, she could see her desk: scorched, the legs replaced with mismatched wood. Someone had tried to air out the room, but the only real result was the faint intrusion of cold, damp air, and the aftertaste of lavender soap.

Everything felt almost right. Familiar, but slanted, as if she'd stumbled into a well-rehearsed play with all the lines changed.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the old dust, the new soap, the subtle, lingering smell of ink, rosemary, and memory. She pressed her fingers into the quilt, worn soft by time and worry, and listened to the uneasy quiet of the castle in mourning and rebirth.

Through the door drifted muffled voices servants hurrying past, some talking quietly, some not talking at all. Footsteps quickened when they neared her room, as if afraid that pausing would allow her shadow to leak under the door.

She felt like a ghost in her own story. Or perhaps a villain sentenced to haunt the scenes she once called home.

Is this what victory tastes like? she wondered. A mouthful of guilt and cold sheets?

She doubted Enara had slept. The memory of those eyes red-rimmed, furious, luminous—haunted her more than any dream. Did Enara cry, afterward? Was she even capable of it, after all these battles, all this betrayal?

Maybe she had simply turned to ice, and Liria had frozen some part of herself, too.

She shook herself from her thoughts. Brooding in bed wouldn't help. There was no glory in hiding—if she wanted to be forgiven (or at least, not stabbed), she'd have to face the morning like the hero she never quite managed to be.

She dragged herself upright, cringing as her bare feet touched the cold floor. Her boots had been polished—someone's small mercy or cruel joke. She tugged them on, along with the plainest tunic she could find, and tried to look as nonthreatening as possible.

There was a knock on the door, quick and nervous, and two guards appeared, both young, both armed, both looking as if escorting her to breakfast was the last thing they'd ever imagined doing with their lives.

"Good morning," Liria offered, her voice lighter than she felt.

Neither replied. One of them blushed. The other stared at her as if expecting her to burst into song and violence at any moment.

They led her down the hall, past glances that flinched away, servants who vanished into closets and doorways, maids who scurried as though fearing contamination. Somewhere, Daena watched—Liria felt her gaze like a stone in her shoe. And just behind her, the spectral presence of regret trailed like an extra cloak.

They arrived in the great hall. Liria hesitated at the threshold, bracing for the onslaught of accusations, or perhaps rotten fruit. But the silence was worse. It was the silence of a storm not quite passed, of wounds still bleeding beneath fresh bandages.

Enara sat at the head of the table, posture regal and remote, her gaze fixed on a ledger she was not reading. Her hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, her jaw set, her eyes harder than any diamond.

At her left, Nyssara sipped tea, eyes narrowed in critical appraisal. At her right, Verida sliced bread with the nonchalance of someone who could as easily carve enemies. Daena brooded at the far end, arms folded, watching Liria with all the warmth of a glacier.

Kael, shining and oblivious as always, waved when Liria entered, nearly upsetting his own tea. He looked genuinely delighted, like a puppy discovering a new shoe to chew. Ananara, perched on a stack of books beside the jam, muttered something about "public executions" and "the decline of breakfast etiquette."

Liria cleared her throat, managed a bow, and made for the empty seat at the very edge of the table—close enough to be included, distant enough to be reminded she was not, in fact, forgiven.

She poured herself tea, the sound startlingly loud in the hush. The clink of her spoon echoed. She tried a smile, aiming for hopeful, but it dropped before anyone looked her way.

Nyssara fixed her with a cool smile. "I trust you slept well, Liria. Not all our guests receive such… robust security measures."

Liria glanced at the magical bracelet on her wrist and forced a shrug. "Nothing says 'welcome home' like enchanted restraints."

Verida's lips twitched. "It's for everyone's peace of mind. You understand."

Daena snorted, stabbing her fork into a piece of sausage as if it were a traitor's heart. Enara didn't look up.

Ananara piped up, loud enough for the ceiling to hear: "At least she didn't wake up chained to a rock. Progress! Next, perhaps, breakfast with actual conversation."

Kael, beaming, slid into the seat beside Liria, his armor clanking. "Morning, Liria! You look… er, resilient. Battle-worn in a heroic way."

She rolled her eyes, unable to keep a grim smile off her lips. "That's one way to describe a face full of sleep and existential dread."

He poured her tea, nearly spilling it in his eagerness. "I was saying to Enara just last night only someone truly brave could come back here after all that's happened. I mean, I've seen courage, but you well "

Enara's hand froze on her cup. The jawline tightened; the tea nearly sloshed over.

Kael barreled on, undeterred. "You know, you have a certain dangerous beauty. Like a thunderstorm. Or a wild hawk. Or—"

Ananara interrupted, deadpan: "Or a curse with a particularly nice haircut. Kael, perhaps you'd have better luck flirting with the walls. They can't run away."

A snicker traveled down the table. Daena hid her grin behind a napkin.

Liria caught Enara's eye just for a second, a flare of something raw and unspoken between them then the princess looked away, chin high, eyes frosted over.

Wonderful, Liria thought. If cold shoulders were currency, I'd be queen by now.

She reached for bread, only to find Kael's hand already there. Their fingers brushed. He blushed so violently Liria wondered if he might combust, then cleared his throat.

"So, I was thinking, since you're… back, you might like a walk in the gardens later? I could show you the new ward-stones. We've had some trouble with well, with things, but I'm sure you'll like it. Just us. No guards. No… danger."

Enara's fork scraped across her plate with the finality of a guillotine.

She looked up, eyes sparking. "Kael, I think that's a terrible idea. Liria's not cleared for unsupervised walks. For all we know, she could be planning to curse the roses."

Liria nearly laughed. "I've never cursed a rose in my life. Maybe a few marigolds, once."

Nyssara arched a perfect brow. "We're all doing our best to rebuild trust, Kael. Let's not test the limits so soon."

Kael deflated a little. "Oh. Right. Of course. Sorry."

Enara shoved her chair back so hard it squealed. She stood abruptly, eyes flashing at Kael, at Liria, at herself, before storming out, the doors slamming behind her. For a moment, the silence was so complete Liria could hear her own heart beating, somewhere near her boots.

Ananara broke the tension. "Congratulations, Kael. I think that's the fastest anyone's ever cleared the dining hall without actual fire."

Kael wilted. "I was just trying to help."

Liria resisted the urge to pat his arm. "You have a good heart, Kael. It's just in the wrong story."

Daena grunted, but there was a grudging note of approval in her gaze.

Breakfast ended in awkwardness and the faint, unshakable sense that she was only one clumsy word from exile (or at least, a second breakfast alone in the dungeon). She excused herself, the guards trailing after, and found a quiet corner behind a half-repaired colonnade.

System, she thought, desperate for perspective, remind me why I came back. Apart from a death wish.

[Clearly you missed the castle's charm. That, or you developed a taste for public humiliation.]

I didn't ask to be adored. I just want to fix things.

[Then stop trying to strangle the local hero. Or at least, try not to glare at him when he brings you tea.]

If he calls me beautiful again, I'm moving to the sewers.

[If you do, at least the rats will have better conversation than this lot.]

Liria snorted. I'm not sure how to win them back. It's like every word I say makes it worse.

[Reputation is a hole, not a ladder. You fill it in, one apology at a time. And maybe stop making jokes about marigold curses at breakfast.]

Duly noted, O Oracle.

[At least prison had less awkward silences. But on the bright side, no one's stabbed you since last night. That's progress.]

She let her back rest against the cold stone, breathing deeply. The castle hummed with purpose, the sounds of rebuilding a backdrop to her doubts. She'd failed before; she might fail again. But she was here. She would face the day, one humiliation at a time.

She returned to her room after midday, the light sharper, the silence even more profound. She found a note slipped beneath the door, written in Enara's careful, decisive hand.

If you want to prove you're not a traitor, meet me at the training yard tonight. Don't bring Kael. Don't be late.

No flourish, no warmth, but no threat either.

Liria smiled, surprised at the hope flickering in her chest. She'd come home. She'd been bruised, humiliated, confined, and still… here she was.

She wants to see me, Liria thought, folding the note with trembling fingers.

[At least she didn't ask you to bring your own shovel for the grave,] the system mused. [Progress!]