I sat at the vanity, towel slung heavy around my shoulders, wet strands of white hair sticking to my neck. Every joint in my body ached from the previous wolf-wrestling, so I didn’t bother arguing when Seren positioned herself behind me and started towel-drying my hair like it was some holy duty. I could barely lift my arms, let alone waste energy shoving her away.

The strangest part? She wasn’t trembling. No flinches. No stammered apologies. Just quiet, focused care. She'd gone from terrified servant to personal devotee overnight—and I couldn’t tell if that was a pleasant surprise or a red flag.

“You don’t have to do this,” I muttered, not turning around.

Seren hummed lightly behind me, hands still working through my damp hair. “But I do, my Lady. It’s my job,” she said, tone annoyingly bright. “We can’t have you catching a chill just because you let your hair drip.”

“I’ve got hands,” I said, reaching up—but she batted them away like I was a toddler grabbing at knives.

“No, my Lady,” she said firmly, tone tightening. “You were injured. You should rest.”

I exhaled hard through my nose. Arguing with her was like arguing with a decorative vase—polite, unmoving, and somehow always there. Fine. Whatever. My gaze shifted to the mirror.

Status, I thought.

The screen blinked into place before my eyes.

[VILLAIN REHABILITATION INTERFACE v3.91]

NAME: Liliane Viermont

TITLE: + Cruel Noble

VILLAIN POINTS: 104

DISPOSITION: 25% Redemption / 75% Irredeemable

KARMA: Neutral

REPUTATION: Hated / Feared

STATS

HP: 75/ 133

MP: 29/ 29

STR: 9

DEF: 14

DEX: 11

AGI: 15

INT: 16

CHA: 4

MAG: 20

SKILLS: + Pain Resistance I, Analysis I, Combat Reflexes

STATUS EFFECTS:  Muscle Fatigue

The numbers had shifted—barely, but enough to notice. I guess the cracking ribs and stabbing monsters paid off. I tapped open the skill menu, fingers itching for some new skills. I had 104 V.P. available, so let's see what I could get.

I skimmed through the skills menu, zeroing in on the one that made the most sense—Weapon Mastery: Daggers I. 50 V.P. gone in a blink. The moment I tapped it, the screen shimmered, reshaping into a new branch.

[DAGGER SKILLS]

• Quick Strike (15 V.P.) — Boosts speed and reaction time on your first attack in a fight. Adds a surprise bonus if undetected.
• Bleeding Cut (20 V.P.) — A precise strike that causes the target to bleed over time. Damage accumulates the longer they move or fight.
• Twin Fang Style (25 V.P.) — Enables dual-wielding daggers. Increases critical hit chance and allows for rapid combo strikes.
• Serrated Edge (40 V.P.) — Passive. Blades tear through cloth and skin. Slight chance of shredding armour or causing additional bleeding.
• Backstab (50 V.P.) (Locked – requires Twin Fang Style) — Deals significant damage when attacking from behind or when the target is distracted. High crit chance.

Finally, I could get an attack skill. I moved my eyes up and down the menu before tapping Bleeding Cut. I flipped back to the core menus. Quick-Step—20 points. Locked that in. Then, because this world responded to cruelty like it was currency, I threw in Sharp Tongue for 10.

V.P. Remaining: 4.

“This’ll do,” I muttered under my breath, words half-laced with satisfaction, half with challenge.

Seren paused behind me. “What will do?”

I didn’t look back. “Nothing,” I said, already waving the interface away with a sharp flick. The screen dissolved into static light.

Seren finished drying the last section of my hair and stepped back, folding the towel neatly between her hands. “All done, my lady.”

Our eyes met in the mirror. Hers flicked up, then down again, teeth worrying her bottom lip like it might hold the words she couldn’t quite say. Her gaze finally clung to my back.

"You look like you have something to say," I said. "I give you permission to speak."

​She hesitated for a moment before leaning close to my ear and softly saying, "You should be careful, my Lady."

“Careful of what?” I met her eyes in the mirror, one brow arching.

She hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “The other servants,” she said, barely louder than a breath.

I turned, slow and deliberate. “Why?”

Her fingers clenched tighter around the towel, knuckles blanching. “There’s a rumour,” she murmured. “From the main house. They say… the Lord’s found a saint candidate.”

And there it was. The crack in the narrative. The reason this whole tragedy kicks off. The saint—bright-eyed, soft-spoken, the perfect foil to the noble-bred monster. Daddy’s new darling. And Liliane? She was meant to spiral. To snap. To try to kill the girl sent to replace her.

I stood, the chair legs scraping softly over the carpet, and crossed the room. At the wardrobe, I paused. Cold air licked across my shoulders the moment I untied the robe and shrugged it off, letting the fabric fall in a heap at my feet. A cream shirt hung from the wardrobe door—cotton, loose, and extremely plain. I reached for it and pulled it over my head; the fabric was cool against my damp skin as I began fastening the buttons.

“So,” I said, glancing at Seren in the mirror, “you think Father dearest wants to wipe the slate clean? Get rid of the family curse before parading out his new miracle?” My lip twisted into a smirk as I stepped into my riding pants, tugging them up over my hips.

“This isn’t funny,” Seren snapped.

My expression turned serious. “It won’t be a problem,” I said flatly, tightening the buckle on my belt.

“Why?” Her voice rose with something like desperation. “They already asked me to poison you, my lady. Why are you not more panicked?”

“Calm down, Seren,” I said, grabbing my boots from beneath the vanity.

She blinked. “You’re leaving?”

I sat at the vanity to lace the boots tightly. “You said it yourself—this place isn’t safe right now.”

I stood and grabbed the dagger, now clean of wolf blood and guts, still resting on the table. I took it without hesitation. With one hand, I pulled my belt tight and slid the blade into place at my hip. “That’s why I’m going.”

Then I moved to the door. My palm hovered for a breath before I grasped the handle and twisted. The wood groaned slightly as it opened, revealing the hallway beyond. I paused and glanced over my shoulder one last time.

Seren’s mouth opened—no words came.

“Oh, and let the chef know,” I added. “I won’t be needing his garbage tonight.”

“Wait,” she said, taking a step forward. “Leaving? Where are you going?”

I pulled my cloak from the hook by the door and swung it around my shoulders.

“On a journey,” I said, adjusting the clasp. “I’ll be back before the big event.”

I met her eyes once more.

“Don’t miss me too much.”

Then I stepped into the hall.

She called after me, but I didn’t stop.

The stables hit like a punch to the face—wet straw soured with manure, sweat-baked leather curling at the edges of the air. Dust hung thick enough to catch in my throat, each breath dry and heavy as I moved deeper between the stalls.

The horses didn’t bother lifting their heads. They kept chewing, slow and disinterested like I wasn’t worth the effort.

Except one.

A black mare in the stall at the far end of the stable was making a ruckus. Her hooves slammed against the stall boards hard enough to rattle the hinges. Her mane hung across her face in tangles. The second she saw me, she lashed out even more, wood splintering beneath her thrashes.

My lips curled. This was exactly what I needed. She was such a beautiful horse.

The stablehand scurried over. He looked like he would rather throw himself in a well than come over to me.

"What are you doing here, my Lady?" he asked, wringing his cap between trembling fingers.

"Saddle her up, I'm going for a ride," I said.

"I can't, my Lady," the boy said, his eyes darting about as if looking for a place to escape.

"Are you defying me?" I asked, my voice low and dangerous.

"No, no, no," he quickly denied. "I'm just saying she's not safe. Let me get you one of the tame horses."

The mare looked at me, dark eyes swimming with defiance. That made me want her even more.

"No, I think I'll take her," I said as I approached the horse.

"I'm afraid you can't," the stablehand tried to stop me. "She refuses the bit. Kicked one of the grooms through a dance last week. She's mad. Will curse anyone who tries to ride her."

"Perfect." I smiled, not taking my gaze off her. I walked past him without a word.

“My lady, I can’t let you do that.” The stablehand reached for my arm.

I knocked his hand away without breaking stride.

“You can’t?” I shot him a flat glance. “Bold of you.”

Another voice cut through the stables. “We cannot permit you to leave.”

I turned toward the source—an elderly butler, posture stiff with obligation, standing in the open doorway like he was expecting applause.

“We gave your father our word,” he added.

I laughed, cold and amused. “Of course you did.”

Then I turned my back on him and walked straight for the mare.

“Do you really think you can stop me?”

“If necessary,” the butler said, “we will use force.”

“So he really is that desperate.” My voice dropped as I reached the stall.

The mare thrashed as I approached, wild hooves scraping the floor, ears pinned. I didn’t flinch. Just untied the rope from the wall and held out my hand.

“I know you don’t want to stay here.”

She stilled. Snorting, watching me. I didn’t move. Just kept my palm out, steady, open.

“They don’t get it. They see something wild, and all they want to do is tie it down. Break it. Kill it. But I’m not scared of you.” I stretched my hand out, open and still. “I think you’re magnificent.”

She hesitated. Snorted. Then lowered her head and pressed her muzzle into my palm.

Behind me, the butler’s voice turned sharp. “You leave us no choice.”

He clapped once.

Boots thundered. Six soldiers stormed into the barn, blades drawn, the sound of their approach like war drums pounding in my ribs.

I didn’t flinch. Just whispered, “Take me away.”

The mare bent low in answer.

I didn’t wait. No saddle. No reins. Just grabbed a fistful of mane, threw my leg over, and pulled myself into place.

She surged to her feet.

“Go.”

And she did.

She launched out of the stall like vengeance incarnate. The soldiers barely managed a curse before she barrelled through them, scattering men like straw. We burst from the stable and into the open air.

The world blurred—stone, grass, shadows—all streaking past as hooves pounded the earth. The wind clawed at my face. Branches tore at my sleeves and cheeks. Still, I grinned.

The manor faded behind us. The gate was a smear of iron in the corner of my vision. The town was no more than a distant shadow.

I was out.

Free.

I breathed in deep, cold air scraping down my throat. My legs ached. My ribs burned. But I felt alive.

When I came back, they’d remember who they tried to kill. And they’d learn what happened when you gave the devil a second chance.

I leaned low, cheek brushing the mare’s neck, her mane tickling my face.

“You need a name,” I murmured.

She snorted like she’d already chosen one.

My lips curled. “Alright, Blackbriar.”

A sharp little whinny answered me.

“Good,” I said. “Let’s go find some monsters to play with.”