My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

"If I became an Archmage," she mumbled, almost to herself, "they would have no choice but to respect me..."

That made Ulrich raise a brow.

It was one of the few times that night he looked surprised.

"You wish to become an Archmage?" He asked her inquisitively.

The question made Hermione avert her eyes almost instantly.

The confidence she had shown one second ago cracked under the weight of saying it aloud.

"I—I mean..." She began awkwardly, "there are not many of them. And everyone looks up to them."

Her voice softened at the end.

Archmages stood at the summit of magical achievement. They were figures spoken of with awe, the kind of people whose names lasted long after their lives ended. They were not merely powerful. They were revered. To reach such a height meant mastery, recognition, and a place in the world no one could casually dismiss.

It was a dream Hermione had carried for longer than she admitted.

Ever since hearing more about them in detail from Grandmaster Brian Strelley, the title had rooted itself in her heart. Not only because of the power it represented, but because of what it meant. An Archmage was acknowledged by everyone. Nobles, commoners, scholars, rulers. No one sneered carelessly at an Archmage.

Ulrich looked at her quietly.

In truth, Hermione becoming someone extraordinary in magic did not surprise him at all. She was the most gifted of the three sisters in that regard. The sharpest mind for it. The one with the most terrifying potential if properly guided.

But an Archmage.

That was more specific than he had expected.

And strangely, it made him think.

For all the plans he had built around the three sisters, for all the ways he had assessed their talents, their usefulness, their future value in the struggle against the demons, the threats of the novel, he had never truly asked himself what they wanted for their own lives.

He had seen them as capable.

Necessary.

Important.

But after that?

What then?

When the demons were dealt with, when the greater threat was gone, when the path of survival no longer demanded so much from them, what sort of future did they want to claim with their own hands?

Hermione’s answer, spoken half in embarrassment and half in longing, gave him one such glimpse.

"That is good," Ulrich said, nodding briefly.

It was a simple answer.

But to Hermione, it landed like a thunderclap.

She froze.

For a fraction of a second, she had forgotten the dance itself, forgotten the music, the steps, the hall, the watching nobles, because Ulrich had smiled.

Only faintly.

Barely.

The smallest shift at the corner of his mouth, no more than a passing softness, but it was there. It was the closest thing to a real smile she had ever seen on his face, and because it was so rare, it struck with great force.

Her entire face turned red as she parted her lips in shock.

Worse, she stopped moving for a beat.

Ulrich’s face had already settled back into his usual stoicness by the time she registered what had happened. He looked at her again with that familiar stern expression, silent but plainly asking why she had suddenly frozen in the middle of the dance.

But Hermione’s mind had short-circuited.

The smile.

And his words.

"That is good."

He had said it so simply, so naturally, that it took her a second to understand why it hit so deeply. He had not dismissed her. He had not told her to be realistic, nor asked what use such a dream had. Or simply ignored her.

He had accepted it.

Maybe to someone else, it would have seemed like very little.

To Hermione, it was not little at all.

She had always feared that Ulrich had some fixed plan for them. A cold, strict future already arranged in his mind. Something that would keep them useful, contained, and eventually placed wherever it suited House Rubenhart best. She had half expected that one day all roads would narrow into something suffocating: marriage, duty, children, a cage built politely and called security.

That he would send them off, use them as tools for politics for the well-being of his House. That was mainly why she initially wished to leave with her sisters, and even now, despite how much things had changed, because there was that slight fear of how Ulrich was seeing them.

But this...

This shattered that fear, at least for a moment.

Her dream had not been treated like foolishness.

Her dream had been acknowledged.

Hermione looked up at him with a trembling gaze, still half lost in disbelief.

"I... I can become an Archmage?" She asked.

Ulrich looked down at her.

It was rare to see Hermione like this.

Usually, even when she was embarrassed, angry, or excited, she hid it beneath sharpness, pride, or some defensive retort. But now there was no shield in her expression. She looked almost shaken by hope itself, as if she hardly dared to believe what she had just heard.

Ulrich did not fully understand why she looked so affected.

Still, he answered.

"If that is what you want," he said quietly.

Hermione only stared at him.

Then, after a brief hesitation, she asked in a much smaller voice, "What about marriage...?"

Ulrich frowned immediately at the drastic change in subject.

Marriage had not even crossed his mind. Yes, in this world, girls her age were already nearing the point where noble families began discussing engagements seriously, and yes, fourteen was hardly considered too young for such matters among the aristocracy.

But he had not once thought of marrying the sisters off.

"Do you want to marry someone?" He asked.

There was almost visible disgust in his tone, as though the very idea of some random boy attaching himself to one of them offended him on instinct somehow.

Hermione lowered her gaze.

"No..."

That answer alone relieved something in her.

So he truly had not been thinking about forcing them into marriage. At least not now. Perhaps not at all.

Ulrich kept looking at her for another second, and then understanding flickered across his face.

So that was it.

She had been afraid.

Afraid that one day he might simply decide her future for her. That he might choose one of those hateful noble boys, arrange an engagement without asking, and expect her to accept it because that was how noble daughters were handled. Because that was what happened to girls like Astrid. Because that was what happened in great houses all the time.

The thought was irritating.

Not because Hermione feared it, but because the notion itself was ridiculous.

He had no intention of forcing any of the sisters into marriage. In truth, he had not even considered the matter until Hermione herself brought it up. That said, he was not prepared to pretend he would have no say whatsoever in something so important either.

"You are part of a Count’s house now," he said at last. "If you ever choose someone, he will have to be someone appropriate to that position."

The words were simple, but clear.

He was not saying he would choose for her.

He was saying he would not permit stupidity.

Hermione was young. She might one day fall in love. Ulrich understood that much well enough. But if she ever attached herself to some worthless fool unfit to stand beside her, then yes, he would intervene. He had no intention of watching one of the girls he hadn’t raised but more like nurtured throw their future away on an idiot simply because of youthful feelings.

Hermione fell silent.

But inwardly, everything had changed.

That was enough.

More than enough.

He had just confirmed, in his own blunt and irritating way, that he would not force her or her sisters into marriage. That they would be allowed to choose if they ever wanted to marry anyone in the future actually.

And for Hermione, who had been listening all evening to stories and hints of how noble women were married off according to family convenience, that realization brought a surge of relief.

Ulrich really was different.

Very different.

He was a Count. He had adopted them. He had them clothed, he had them fed, he had them educated, he had them sheltered, and watched over nearly every aspect of their lives with suffocating strictness. He was protective to the point of tyranny sometimes, annoyingly stern, and constantly acted as though danger waited behind every corner.

Yet despite all that, he was giving them freedom in the places that mattered most.

It was ridiculous and contradictory as well.

And strangely, it made her happier than she wanted to admit.

She still did not fully understand why Ulrich had adopted them. She did not understand what he ultimately wanted from them, or what role he imagined for them in the future. But now she understood one very important thing:

He had not taken away their right to choose their own futures.

That mattered.

More than she had realized.

And because of that, the thought of leaving Rubenhart Estate began to feel more and more distant.

What reason was left?

The Estate was safe.

She had her sisters.

They had food, clothing, education, protection, and a place to belong.

The servants there, though their relationship started rough, now became very kind and supportive of each of them.

And there was Ulrich.

Strict, cold as he was, Ulrich still somehow always seemed to be there when something truly mattered.

As Hermione pictured a future for herself and her sisters within Rubenhart territory, her heart thumped harder in her chest.

She did not care anymore if Ulrich was strict.

She had grown used to it.

Used to him.

And if things could remain as they were now, if she could keep her sisters safe, study magic, aim for something as high as Archmage, and remain under the protection of the Rubenhart name, remain under his protection, then she could endure his sternness for years.

Quite easily, in fact.

"Are you finished?"

Ulrich’s voice cut straight through her thoughts.

Hermione blinked.

They had been standing almost still for several beats, the music continuing around them while she remained lost in her own head and stubbornly forgot to move.

"Hum... yes..." She nodded bashfully.

At once she resumed the steps, and Ulrich followed without comment, guiding her back into the rhythm as though nothing had happened.

Hermione looked down at her shoes for a moment, watching the tips of her pumps glide over the floor.

Then she raised her gaze toward him again.

A small, smug smile pulled at her lips.

"You should be grateful," she said. "A future Archmage may carry your name."

Ulrich looked down at her.

What struck him more than the words was her smile.

It was genuine.

Not her usual sharp or mocking smirk. Not the smug little expression she wore when teasing Esther or arguing with Airam. This was brighter, warmer, and oddly unguarded. It resembled the smiles she reserved for her sisters, the ones that came from real happiness rather than pride or mischief.

Seeing it directed at him, even briefly, caught him off guard.

Something about it felt unexpectedly strange.

So naturally, he answered in the driest way possible.

"Learn to dance first."

Hermione’s eyes widened in outrage.

"I—I am dancing!"

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