The Villainess Wants To Retire Chapter 7: Prayer

I heard her before I saw her.

The light shuffle of soft soles hesitating at the threshold. A heartbeat pause. Then a whisper of movent. Mira.

She’d followed up here, likely against orders. Not even out of obedience, just that wide-eyed, trembling loyalty I didn’t ask for. She didn’t speak. Didn’t announce herself.

But when I turned my head just slightly and t her eyes through the shattered starlight, she froze.

I said nothing.

She bowed deeply. "Forgive , Your Majesty... I was only... I thought you—"

"I’m not dead," I said. "You may go."

She bowed again. This ti deeper. "Yes, Your Majesty."

And she left.

But not before I saw the confusion in her face. The terror. The awe.

Good.

I remained in the Celestium a mont longer before rising, the marble cool beneath my feet. My gown brushed against my ankles as I made my way down the tower. Step after step. Thought after thought.

The stillness I’d carried was beginning to fray around the edges. And I needed water.

When I entered my bathing chamber, the maids had already drawn it.

A shallow pool of rose-scented water, petals scattered atop. Cool to the touch by their standard, though they all stood nervously to one side, watching. Waiting.

Because unlike anyone in Solmire, I bathed in cold.

The mont I stepped near, steam already began to rise from the surface, pulled from my skin, my blood, the thing inside that never truly slept.

I dipped one foot in.

Paused.

The temperature was wrong.

Too warm.

The water had adapted to too quickly, risen with the proximity of my magic, despite the ice they’d likely added monts ago.

One maid flinched as I stilled. "Shall I—Shall I fetch fresh—"

"No," I said.

She dropped her gaze.

I stepped in.

The water reached my calves, then my waist, and eventually my collarbone. Heat pulsed around , unnatural and heavy, but not unbearable. My body had long since stopped registering discomfort. This was simply... existence.

Two maids approached with soft cloths and scented oil.

I let them scrub , head to toe, silent, obedient.

I closed my eyes.

Tried to think of nothing.

But even as fingers moved through my hair and ran across my shoulders, certain thoughts clung to like smoke.

Who had written this?

All of this?

Was it a man at a desk? A woman with ink-stained fingers? A god with no face? Did they know what they’d created, or had they thought sothing simpler? A foil? A warning?

And what would they think now? Watching here. Stripped of armor, of anger, of noise.

Would they feel pity?

Pride?

Or would they realize I was no longer theirs?

The dragon inside was still quiet.

But I could feel it, folded in the hollow of my chest like a sleeping snake.

Twelve months.

A year before the curse consud , before the madness returned, before my blood turned molten again. I could already sense it pressing outward. Slowly. Patiently.

Like it knew I’d been reset.

And was waiting for to unravel.

I rose from the water, droplets trailing down my spine as the maids wrapped in soft linen.

This ti, I didn’t ask for formal robes. Didn’t request the heavy brocade, or the layered corsets, or the silken armor of a queen preparing for war.

I wore a lighter garnt. A soft robe, sheer in parts, tied loosely at my waist. And for the first ti in years, I let my hair fall.

It cascaded down my back like black ribbon, damp and heavy.

Another woman might have looked fragile this way.

But I didn’t.

I moved to the balcony.

The wind kissed my cheeks and pushed the edges of my robe back. I stepped forward into the open air and looked out at the city.

Solmire.

My kingdom.

And yet, it didn’t feel like mine.

The rooftops shimred beneath the stars. Lanterns lit the streets. Horses clattered in the far distance. Laughter from taverns echoed faintly, as if from another world. As if soone had crafted this view too carefully.

Everything felt too crisp.

Too curated.

Like a painted backdrop. Like sothing I was ant to admire.

And suddenly... it all felt distant.

Like I’d awoken from a drunken haze only to realize the feast had been fake, the wine nothing but fog in my mouth.

I wasn’t so sure what they would have called it in another world.

Here, it was sothing worse. I gripped the stone railing. When had I truly begun to be evil?

Was there a mont? A choice? Or was it always there, waiting in the marrow?

I couldn’t rember the first ti I enjoyed hurting soone. But I did rember the first ti I realized I was good at it.

And the world rewarded for it. Not with love. Not with warmth. But with fear. And fear was a kind of power, wasn’t it?

Perhaps that was my first true prayer. Not to the gods. But to fear. And fear always listened.