Ascension Of The Villain

The meeting chamber was a grand affair—ornate but not excessive, with high ceilings and intricate wooden paneling. A long table stretched between the two parties, its polished surface reflecting the light from a grand chandelier above. On one side sat Althea, poised in her seat, draped in royal blues and gold, while across from her were the foreign delegates from the Tensene Empire, dressed in their distinguished silks and embroidered coats.

She should have been in control of this meeting. Normally, she would have been. But today, her mind was somewhere else. Or rather, with someone else.

Clyde.

Her fingers curled slightly over the armrest of her chair. The words of the delegates blurred in her ears, lost beneath the pounding in her head. She should be listening—she should be negotiating, charming, handling this like the future ruler she was meant to be. But all she could think about was the severed fingers. The fear that gnawed at her insides like a rabid animal.

"Votre Altesse, êtes-vous toujours aussi silencieuse?" one of the delegates, a silver-haired man named Marquis Étienne Duret, mused. His voice was smooth, laced with faint amusement. Your Highness, are you always this quiet?

Althea blinked, forcing herself to resurface from her thoughts. She sat up straighter, fixing a polite smile on her lips. "Non," she answered.

Étienne's lips curved as he rested his chin on his interlaced fingers. "If you are this quiet and shy, I am quite eager to know how you would manage things after your father—a man known to be feared and demanding. How do we trust you to renew our contract?"

The words struck like a sharp gust of wind, rattling her already fragile composure.

Normally, she would have countered that with ease, disarming them with sharp intellect and strategic diplomacy. A sly smile, a well-placed quip, an impressive display of knowledge—this was her battlefield, and she was usually untouchable here.

But today? Nothing came.

Her chest felt tight. Her breaths came shallow. The room blurred at the edges.

Because what was the point? What was the point of securing alliances, of ruling, of planning for a future if the love of her life—her Clyde—was gone?

Her vision wavered. She felt herself sinking, drowning in a sea of thoughts she couldn't control.

And just as her breathing threatened to spiral into something unmanageable, the doors opened, and a group of maids entered, carrying polished silver trays laden with delicate porcelain teacups and an assortment of royal delicacies.

The foreign delegates exchanged glances, clearly startled. "Is this an appropriate time for tea?" one of them asked, puzzled.

The head maid offered a serene smile. "It is customary, Monsieur. Hospitality is an essential part of our discussions."

There was a pause. Then Étienne chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah. The famous traditions of your court."

The gentle clinking of teacups filled the air as the meeting room shifted into a moment of unintended ease.

As Althea reached for her cup, another maid quietly leaned down beside her, whispering into her ear.

"There is someone waiting for you, Your Highness," the maid murmured, subtly pointing towards the far corner of the room.

Althea's fingers tightened around the cup. It must be the head advisor, wanting to criticize me for my lack of participation in the meeting, she thought to herself with a sense of doom. Father is surely going to hear about it all.

With all these negative thoughts clouding her head, she inconspicuously slipped out of her seat and went to the corner of the room.

Althea kept her head down as she walked, dragging her feet like a prisoner approaching sentencing. She fully expected to see the head advisor waiting for her, his arms crossed, his eyes filled with thinly veiled disappointment.

Any moment now, he would let out a sigh and say something painfully predictable—Your Highness, your lack of engagement today has been most unbecoming. If you continue down this path, negotiations will suffer—

But instead, what greeted her was something entirely different.

A teasing voice, warm and familiar.

"Your Imperial Highness, if you shut down like this every time something bad happens, you are not going to make a very good Empress, you know?"

For a moment, the words barely registered.

She blinked, caught off guard, mind still sluggish from the haze of despair. The voice was familiar—too familiar—but her heart refused to believe it.

And then, it clicked.

Her breath hitched. Her head snapped up.

Clyde stood before her, grinning as if he hadn't just been declared almost dead.

Tears welled in her eyes so fast she barely had time to react. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

"Now, now, there is no need to cry, my princess," Clyde chided with a soft chuckle. "I am all well, as you can see—" He waved his arms a little too dramatically, only to freeze mid-motion, eyes widening in sudden realization.

Because, of course, he was not "all well."

His severed fingers were still bleeding, the haphazard bandage wrapped around the wound doing an absolutely miserable job at stopping it. He had insisted on coming here as soon as he had made sure Vyan wasn't going to massacre his entire family. It was a tough job, but he managed to convince Vyan to handle things through the legal procedure.

His little brother might have tried to off him, but that didn't mean Clyde would also try to do the same thing to him. Besides, what matters was, Clyde survived. Thanks to the fake mana-restraining handcuffs that he had once gifted Myke as a prank.

However, Myke never bothered to double-check the cuffs, so when Clyde gained consciousness, he instantly got himself out of that coffin. But still, Clyde couldn't figure out why Myke had done this. Clyde never tried to get in Myke's way of anything; it wasn't even like he wanted any of the shares of Magnus County.

Anyway, it wasn't the time to worry about that. He had to worry about his lady at the moment.

Althea's eyes immediately zeroed in on the crimson seeping through the fabric before he hastily shoved his injured arm behind his back.

"Clyde—" she started, but he cut her off, his tone light, but firm.

"I will tell you everything later," he assured her, still grinning like he wasn't actively losing blood. "For now, go back and deal with the delegates properly. You wouldn't want your brother benefiting from this, would you?"

She swallowed, taking a shaky breath, willing herself to be strong. He was right. If she broke now, if she let herself crumble in front of the foreign envoys, it would be a political disaster. I can't afford that.

So she nodded, forcing steel into her spine.

Clyde seemed satisfied, stepping back slightly, ready to jump back out the window he came in through, expecting her to return to the meeting.

But she didn't.

Instead, she reached forward and grabbed his arm, gently pulling it from behind his back.

He blinked, startled.

"Athy—"

She placed her hand over the bloodied bandage, her magic already working through her fingertips. "I probably can't bring back your fingers," she murmured, her voice laced with quiet sorrow, "but at least let me stop the bleeding. You are losing too much blood."

Clyde watched her, something soft and vulnerable flickering across his usually carefree expression.

His heart clenched.

Even now, even when so much was on the line, she was still looking after him.

As the wound began to close under her touch, Althea let out a breath of relief. And before she stepped away, before she returned to the table and the politics and the suffocating weight of responsibility, she leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Her lips lingered just for a second.

"I am so glad you came back to me," she whispered.

Clyde barely had time to process it before she turned and strode back to the meeting with renewed strength, her posture straight, her expression composed.

He stood there, dazed for a moment, before a slow, lopsided grin spread across his lips.

Damn. He really was the luckiest fool alive.

———

The Magnus Manor was in chaos.

Imperial soldiers stormed through the estate as they searched every corner and every hall. Their voices echoed through the grounds—sharp orders, frustrated murmurs, the sound of boots scuffing against the polished floors and trampling over the perfectly kept garden beds.

But no matter how hard they looked, they found nothing.

Because Myke wasn't there.

He was above them, perched on the rooftop, watching it all unfold with an amused smirk. He crouched low, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he observed the frantic soldiers below. The night breeze ruffled his dark hair, but he remained perfectly still, savoring the moment.

The hunt was on, and yet, the prey had already won.

Then, a soft pair of footsteps approached from behind.

"Good job," a woman's voice purred. "You played your role fantastically."

The smirk on Myke's lips deepened—before it suddenly wavered. His features flickered, like a painting smudging under careless hands.

The sharp lines of Myke's face softened, his jawline shifted, his hair lightened into sandy blonde, and in the blink of an eye—he was gone.

In his place stood Easton.

His once-arrogant, haughty gaze was vacant now, his posture obedient, almost eerily so.

Sienna stepped closer, her crimson lips curling in satisfaction as she examined him. "Truly, you were brilliant," she praised, recalling the way he let Vyan overpower him easily because that's how far Myke was capable of. "Every expression, every word, so perfectly done. Myke himself couldn't have played the role of Myke better than you."

"What should we do with the body?" His voice was hollow—empty of the usual pride that once defined him.

Sienna barely glanced at the crumpled figure in the corner of the rooftop. Myke's lifeless body lay discarded like a broken doll, his glassy eyes staring at nothing, his fingers curled in stiff rigor.

She hummed in thought before waving a lazy hand. "Just toss him into the waterfall or something. Let the waters claim him. By the time anyone starts asking questions, they will just assume he ran away out of shame."

Easton nodded, stepping forward without hesitation. Normally, he wouldn't agree to doing such a thing. After all, he had a noble heart that cared for each of his people, morals that would never let a crime slide.

However, now his heart wasn't his alone. Because—

"Before that," Sienna said sweetly, reaching into the folds of her robe, "it's time for your potion."

She pulled out a small vial filled with shimmering, deep-blue liquid and held it out to him.

Easton took it without a word.

He uncorked the bottle, tilting it to his lips.

Sienna watched him drink, her grin widening as the potion slipped down his throat. Slowly, surely, the magic wound its way through him, curling around his mind like invisible chains.

Yes.

Her masterpiece was nearly complete.

Soon, Easton wouldn't just listen to her.

He would belong to her.

And he deserved this.

He would constantly look down on her, command her with authority as if she was a lowly insect blessed to even be breathing the same air as him. So, she showed him his place. That there was nobody who wouldn't bow before the Great Witch if she wanted them to.

Now, she was the one controlling everything. With this puppet of a prince, she was going to make him claim the crown, through hook or crook.