The Villainess Wants To Retire Chapter 410: Old Friend

The morning sun through the palace windows felt abrasive. Eris stood in the center of their shared chambers, her hands resting at her sides, watching Soren. The aftermath of the ritual had left her with a hollow ache in her chest, not just emotional, but the physical sensation of her mana-veins being scraped raw.

"I can help with the interrogation," Eris said, her voice like grinding stones. "I know how Vetra thinks. I know where the gaps in her defense will be. If I’m in the room—"

"No." Soren stopped, turning to face her. He looked every bit the Emperor who had just signed a death warrant, his face a wall of immovable ice. "You are not going near the dungeons. You are not going near the council. You are not doing anything today that requires more effort than breathing."

"Soren, I am fine," she snapped, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her. "The seal didn’t shatter. It’s just... strained."

"It cracked, Eris," he said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register of concern. "I felt it. I felt the heat of it." He stepped closer, his expression softening into sothing more vulnerable. "Just for today. Let handle the weight. Just rest."

Eris bit back a retort. She hated the feeling of being sidelined, the sensation of being a glass ornant that might break if the wind blew too hard. But she saw the shadow of the previous night in his eyes, the fear that he had almost lost her.

"Fine," she relented, her shoulders dropping. "I will stay away from the council."

But as Soren left to attend to the fallout of the arrest, Eris found that "resting" was a form of torture. The silence of the room was too loud. It echoed with the whispers she had heard in Caelen’s mind, the mories she had tried to bury. She needed to move. She needed a purpose that didn’t involve staring at the ceiling and waiting for her heart to stop aching.

She rembered the Grimoire.

Vetra had stolen it, Eris’s personal book of shadows, the record of every dark epiphany she’d had in her first life. It was more than evidence for a trial; it was a piece of her soul that had been left in the hands of a thief.

"I’m not going to the council," she whispered to the empty room. "I’m just taking back what belongs to ."

The walk to Vetra’s forr chambers was surreal. The hallways were buzzing with the energy of the morning’s arrest, servants scrubbing at the air as if they could wash away the taint of treason.

Two imperial guards stood at the entrance to the Regent Empress’s suite, their spears crossed. They straightened as Eris approached, their eyes wide with a mix of reverence and fear.

"Empress," they saluted in unison.

"I am here to retrieve a specific item for the imperial record," Eris said, her voice regaining its sharp, regal authority. "Stand aside."

They didn’t hesitate. The doors, heavy and carved with the Nivarre crest, groaned open. Inside, the rooms were a chaos of controlled investigation. A few minor scribes were cataloging her dresses and jewelry, but the study was rcifully empty.

Eris walked straight to the bookshelves. Vetra had never been one for subtlety; she was too arrogant to think anyone would ever dare enter her sanctum with a warrant.

There it was.

It sat on a pedestal of dark mahogany, not hidden behind a false wall or tucked under a floorboard, but displayed like a trophy of war. The leather was old, centuries old, stained a deep, bruised purple that looked black in the dim light. The silver symbols etched into the cover seed to capture the torchlight and hold it, glowing with a faint, sickly luminescence.

It was hers.

Eris stepped toward it, her breath hitching. As she drew closer, the air began to hum. It wasn’t a sound, but a vibration in her marrow. The book was... breathing.

She reached out, her fingers hovering an inch above the cover. She felt a sudden, sharp repulsion, like the North and South poles of a magnet fighting one another, but she pushed through it.

The mont her skin touched the leather, a pulse of energy surged up her arm. It was cold, thick, and familiar. It tasted like the first life, like the scent of burning palaces and the salt of tears.

The Grimoire wasn’t just an object of ink and parchnt. It was a semi-sentient record of her own descent into madness. It had been fed on her mana for decades in a previous tiline; it recognized the signature of the woman who had birthed its darkness.

It was watching her. It was waiting.

"Hello, old friend," Eris whispered. Her voice carried a strange, haunting lilt she hadn’t used in months. "Been a while."

The response was a sudden, violent surge of heat. The symbols on the cover flared bright red, and a feeling of ravenous hunger flooded her mind. It felt like a stray dog recognizing its master, a creature that had been neglected and was now desperate for the hand that used to feed it. It felt like a welco.

Eris’s posture shifted. The exhaustion in her eyes didn’t vanish, but it was joined by sothing ancient and predatory. A smile touched her lips, not the weary, protective smile she gave Rael, or the soft, uncertain smile she had for Soren.

This smile was a blade.

"You’ve been busy without ," she murmured, her fingers tracing the jagged lines of a binding spell on the cover. The Grimoire pulsed in ti with her heartbeat. "Causing trouble. Making sses I have to clean up."

Her tone was Intimate, almost flirtatious, the way a general might speak to a favored, blood-stained sword. For a mont, the distinction between the "Villainess" of the first life and the "Empress" of the second blurred. The shadows in the corners of the room seed to stretch toward her, drawn by the sudden gravity of her presence.

The truth of the Grimoire was simple: when you gather so much concentrated malice and raw, unfiltered magic in one place, it is bound to take form. It had beco a mirror. And right now, it was reflecting the darkest parts of her history.

The book humd, a low purr that vibrated against her ribs. It missed her. It wanted the fire back. It wanted the chaos.

Eris gripped the spine, her knuckles white. With a sharp motion, she snapped the book shut, the sound like a bone breaking in the quiet study. The red light faded, but the warmth remained, a persistent heat under her arm.

"You’re coming with ," she said, her voice cold and absolute. "We have a trial to prepare for."

She turned and walked out of the room, the Grimoire tucked firmly under her arm, leaving the scribes and the guards in a wake of sudden, unexplained frost.