Reincarnated as the Villainess’s Unlucky Bodyguard

Enara stood in the training yard, boots planted in the cold, damp sand, and told herself she wasn't waiting for anyone. She was, of course, but telling herself otherwise was a vital exercise in dignity. The moon hung fat and opaline above the castle roofs, peering down like a nosy aunt who was determined to see how much family drama could fit into one evening.

Her fingers flexed. Her breath formed little clouds. She wore the oldest, most comfortable sparring clothes she owned soft cotton, scuffed at the knees and elbows, the faint memory of Liria's laughter still caught in the hem from a hundred midnight games of tag and poorly-choreographed duels. Sometimes, she could almost forget all the ways things had broken. Almost.

Why did I call her here? Enara wondered, pacing the edge of the torch-lit ring. It wasn't for an apology she'd never wanted those, not really. She wanted proof. Something real, something that couldn't be faked or conjured. She wanted to see if Liria still knew how to stay.

Part of her, the part that was still fifteen and hopeful, wanted to run as soon as she saw Liria's face. The rest the bruised, angry part that had grown up too fast wanted to land a punch hard enough to make her feel something other than longing.

Maybe both.

The wind carried distant sounds: laughter from the kitchens, the clang of someone (probably Kael) tripping over his own sword, the eternal grumble of Daena lecturing the night guards. Somewhere, a cat yowled at the moon in protest or love; Enara couldn't tell which. It was that kind of night.

She stretched her arms, shook out her hands. The sand felt familiar underfoot, the torches throwing golden light on the old stones. It felt, in its strange way, like home. Or as close as she'd let herself feel, these days.

When the gate finally creaked open, she forced herself not to jump.

Liria entered, hesitant, hooded cloak slung awkwardly around her shoulders, as if she'd forgotten how to wear her own skin. The guards had let her through no magic, no entourage, just Liria and the slight limp she tried to hide.

Enara stood straight, masking nerves with discipline. "You're late," she called, even though Liria was perfectly on time.

Liria hesitated, mouth twitching. "I got lost. It's been a while since anyone let me wander the halls unsupervised."

A familiar pang—affection tangled with resentment. "You made it. That's what matters."

They stood in silence, studying each other over the stretch of sand. Enara's heart beat too loudly. She refused to let it show.

Liria tried for humor. "Are we here for a midnight stroll or…?"

"Training," Enara said, as briskly as possible. "No magic. Just hands, feet, and whatever you've got left after two years of running."

Liria blinked, surprised. "No magic?"

"Think of it as trust-building. Or an opportunity for you to hit me without the Queens sending you back to exile."

Liria's eyes flickered, a storm of guilt and gratitude. "So, this isn't an execution?"

"Not unless you fall on your face. Or try to cheat."

A smile awkward, but real flashed across Liria's face. "You sure about this?"

Enara shrugged. "I can take a hit. Besides, I have to know you're not all shadow and betrayal now."

There was a moment a heartbeat when neither moved, just stood soaking in the absurdity of their own lives. Then, as if some secret signal had been given, they both stepped into the ring.

Enara raised her fists. "Ready?"

Liria mirrored her, looser, more cautious. "Always."

The first few passes were awkward, almost theatrical. Enara jabbed, Liria blocked, circling each other with the uneasy grace of dancers at a wake. The sand muffled their steps, torches flickering against the low walls.

Enara went for a quick feint, expecting Liria to counter with her old overconfidence. Instead, Liria sidestepped, using the momentum to push Enara gently off-balance. Enara grinned despite herself. "You've been practicing."

"I had a lot of time," Liria replied, panting. "Turns out exile is good for footwork."

They traded blows, neither going for blood but neither holding back. Enara found her rhythm, the thrum of muscle and memory taking over. It was as if they were children again sneaking out, pretending the world was smaller, safer, and always, always theirs to share.

Liria ducked a punch, swept Enara's legs. Enara hit the sand with a graceless thud and rolled, springing up with a laugh that felt foreign in her throat. "That's for last week," she gasped.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Liria shot back, already circling for another opening.

Enara lunged, determined, but Liria parried her easily too easily. The smile faded from Enara's lips as frustration bled in. Was Liria holding back? Or was she just that much stronger now? Rage mingled with admiration. She doubled down, landing a quick jab to Liria's shoulder.

"Not bad," Liria said. "Was that the royal technique?"

"No. That was for running away." Enara's voice broke at the edge.

Liria's expression softened. "You know why I left."

"You always have a reason. Doesn't mean I forgive you."

Enara pressed her attack—anger and longing blending into every strike. She wanted Liria to fight back, to prove she was real, not some echo of a girl who'd abandoned everything. Liria's defenses were tight, but not cruel; her counters careful, respectful, as if she feared breaking Enara more than being hurt herself.

"Fight me," Enara spat, shoving her. "Stop acting like you're sorry."

Liria's reply was a quiet, almost mournful, "Would it help?"

Enara snapped, swinging hard. Liria caught her wrist, twisting her gently, using Enara's own momentum to send her sprawling to the sand once more.

The world spun, gritty and cold. Enara stared up at the stars, her chest heaving, heart bruised and open.

Liria offered a hand. "You're stronger than before."

Enara slapped it away and scrambled up, face burning with sweat and defeat. "You're still impossible," she muttered.

They squared off again, but this time, Enara's fury faltered. She struck out half-hearted, desperate, a girl with nothing left to prove.

Liria caught her, held her by the shoulders. For a moment, neither moved. They breathed, matching each other's rhythm, old habits refusing to die.

"I'm sorry," Liria said again, so softly only the sand and the night heard.

Enara's head dropped, hair falling to hide her face. She tried not to tremble. "I hate you," she whispered. "I hate how much I missed you."

Liria didn't let go. "You're allowed. I missed you, too."

They stood like that, locked in silent battle, until Enara finally sagged in Liria's grip. "I give up," she muttered, trying to sound annoyed and only succeeding in sounding exhausted.

Liria smiled, sad and proud. "You never really do."

Enara stepped away, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, refusing to meet Liria's gaze. "You win."