Too Lazy to be a Villainess Chapter 95: Cassius and His Star

[Cassius’s Pov]

Tch. Pathetic.

Every single one of them approaches with the sa nauseating smile and the sa syrupy tone, as if their hollow praises could please .

"Happy birthday, Your Majesty," they chirp, voices as fake as their powdered faces and twice as irritating.

It’s been exactly ten minutes since this farce began, and I already wish the ground would open up and devour the entire hall.

Ten minutes of aningless chatter. Of cowardly nobles bowing so low, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll need to summon a physician to reattach their heads.

Idiots. All of them.

Their loyalty is as thin as the wine in their goblets and just as bitter once you get past the surface.

My fingers drum against the armrest of the throne—slow, steady, a trono of barely contained irritation. They keep bowing. They keep smiling. They keep repeating the sa brainless script like enchanted parrots.

"Oh, Your Majesty, you haven’t aged a day!"

"Oh, Your Majesty, may your reign be as glorious as your gaze is sharp!"

"Oh, Your Majesty, your aura today is so... commanding!"

Tch. Of course it is. I am the Emperor.

And this cloak—this ridiculous, jewel-studded cloak—glinting like I’ve been wrapped in a damn festival banner.

Lavinia picked it. Of course she did.

"Wear this one, Papa! You’ll look shiny like a birthday star!"

A birthday star. I should’ve tossed it into the fireplace and set the drapes ablaze just to make a point. But...

She smiled when she said it.

So here I sit. An emperor feared by everyone. Wrapped in enough gems to blind a nation.

Looking like a warlord dipped in glitter.

Across the hall, Regis—the ever-glowing Grand Duke—prances about like he’s the one being celebrated. Laughing. Grinning. Throwing his hands like he’s retelling the tale of how he once slayed ten dragons with a silver spoon at supper.

The crowd around him is enraptured. Giggling. Clapping. As if soone’s slipped madness into their champagne.

I narrow my eyes, my jaw ticking.

What is he mumbling now?

He looks over. Sees . Smiles. Beams. Like a lunatic who just found gold in the latrine.

The man has absolutely no sha.

"Your Majesty," so trembling noble steps forward, bowing so low I hear sothing crack. "May I extend my heartfelt wishes for your continued prosperity and unmatched strength. The empire thrives beneath your just rule—"

I nod once. Just enough to keep the leech from fainting.

But I don’t hear a word. My mind is elsewhere.

Where is she?

She should have arrived by now. The entire reason I’m tolerating this wretched circus is for her.

"Your Majesty," another voice croons like a snake on velvet, "The cake today is said to be crafted by the royal patissier himself—twelve layers of gold-dusted delight. Shall we—"

I turn my head slowly. He freezes mid-sentence.

Twelve?

"I told you," I say, my voice dangerously low, "fifteen layers."

He pales instantly, stamring, "I-I apologize, Your Majesty—I will have it corrected imdiately—"

I sigh. Long. Exhausted. There’s a pulse behind my temple now.

"Just... get lost," I mutter.

The fool bows again—too fast—and scurries away before I change my mind.

Theon, loyal and long-suffering, stands beside my throne like a statue carved from boredom. His eyes flick toward , and I know he’s thinking the sa thing I am.

Where is my daughter?

"Shouldn’t she be here already?" I murmur, just low enough for Theon to hear.

Theon exhales beside , the sound quiet but heavy. "She should be arriving, Your Majesty."

I drag in a sharp.

This hall is too loud. Too bright. Too full of fools.

My patience thins like stretched glass—ready to shatter with one more useless toast or trembling complint.

And then—

"ANNOUNCING HER HIGHNESS LAVINIA DEVREUX, THE ONLY PRINCESS OF THE EMPIRE."

The herald’s voice rings out like a blade striking stone. The entire hall stills.

"Finally," Theon mutters under his breath.

Heads whip toward the grand doors at the end of the marble hall. The music falters. Goblets pause mid-air. Even Regis stops his infernal laughing.

And then—

The doors open.

And there she is.

My daughter.

My Lavinia.

She walks into the hall as if she owns it—no, as if she were born to rule it.

At barely seven years old, she commands more presence than half the generals in my war councils. Each step she takes is deliberate and poised, like a queen descending her throne to greet her people—not a child arriving at her birthday celebration.

The hem of her deep gown trails behind her like a rolling silk fla, embroidered with golden thread that catches the candlelight and throws it back tenfold.

Her golden curls glinting like captured sunlight. Her crimson eyes—those blazing eyes—glow beneath the grand chandelier like garnets dipped in fire.

Behind her, Ravick, the empire’s strongest black knight, strides with the sa discipline he’d give a battlefield. His hand rests lightly on his sword hilt—not to threaten, but to promise. The nobles know what it ans.

He’s not guarding the princess.

He serves her.

And then there’s Marshmallow.

The Divine Beast.

The nobles once called him untamable. A creature of legends. A force who stood beside the first emperor and fought battles with him. A legendary ancestor. The guardian of the Elorian empire.

And yet here he is—trotting behind her like a well-trained pup, his massive paws silent on the marble, eyes watchful and loyal.

They said the divine beast would bow to no mortal.

But my daughter never needed to bow to anything either. She didn’t ta him. She earned him.

The silence is thick—smothering. Then co the whispers.

"She’s walking with the Divine Beast—"

"By the stars, she’s tad it—at her age?"

"Is that Sir Ravick with her?"

"She looks like—like a sovereign already."

"She’s the Emperor’s blood. Of course she does."

I sit still on my throne, watching them all squirm and fawn, their minds racing to adjust their political gas.

This is exactly what I wanted.

Let them see.

Let them witness the daughter of the Empire—the heir to my blood, my power, and my throne.

Let them understand that the future is not sothing they can touch. It walks before them now—in silk and fire.

Lavinia Devreux.

My daughter.

The next sovereign of this empire.

She looked at then—eyes locking onto mine with such poise it startled sothing deep in my chest. And then... she smiled. That soft, confident smile of hers, sweetened with just enough smugness to remind the world that she knows exactly who she is.

And she began to walk toward .

Graceful. Steady. Unshaken.

The little girl who used to chase Marshmallow through palace halls now moved like a crowned queen walking into her coronation.

That’s when it hit .

"She’s grown up... for real," I murmured under my breath, my voice barely above a whisper.

Theon, ever the insolent shadow, heard and chuckled low. "Happy realization, Your Majesty."

I didn’t answer him.

I couldn’t.

I just kept staring—watching this small figure of mine advance through the crowd like the sun rising in a room full of flickering candles. Too bright. Too real. Too fast.

"She’s growing... too fast," I muttered again, almost to myself.

And for so reason—so damned, illogical reason—I felt a ripple of discomfort crawl under my skin.Why?

Theon didn’t reply. He only looked at from the corner of his eye—sothing unreadable in his gaze—and then turned back toward Lavinia.

She finally reached the foot of my throne.

Without hesitation, I reached out and lifted her into my arms. She weighed barely anything, but the mont she settled into my lap, it was as though the entire court disappeared.

Her tiny hands straightened the front of my ridiculous cloak—the one she chose. She looked up at and whispered close to my ear, "Papa... did I look stunning?"

I smirked.

"Absolutely stunning," I said, leaning in, my tone rich with amusent and pride. "Just like ."

Lavinia stared at , deadpan, for a long second. That unimpressed look only she could give —eyes squinting slightly, lips tight, expression dry.

Then she sighed. "Well, I can’t deny it. Since you’re my father, you must be stunning too."

I couldn’t help it. A laugh slipped from my throat—quiet, low, but real. A rare thing, but not for my daughter.

And then—

"WE GREET HIS MAJESTY AND HER HIGHNESS—HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

The court thundered in unison.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of nobles bowed all at once, their voices booming against the high-arched ceilings.

A symphony of submission. Forced joy. Calculated loyalty.

I could feel their gazes like insects crawling over us—, the Emperor. Her, the Imperial Heir. Father and daughter. Tyrant and future sovereign.

Their voices rang out again, echoing like war drums masked as celebration.

But I didn’t hear them.

All I saw was Lavinia sitting on my lap, holding her head high with that sa fire in her eyes.

She has power.

She has presence.

She has my blood.

And I wonder—for the first ti in a long, long ti—what kind of empire she’ll build...when I’m no longer sitting on this throne.