My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

By the afternoon, Ulrich had decided he had rested enough.

The physicians had advised another day in bed. The maids assigned to his chamber had agreed with remarkable enthusiasm, appearing every few minutes with fresh water, tea, broth, or another reminder that Count Rubenhart was not permitted to move too quickly.

Ulrich had endured it for as long as he could.

Then he stood.

The maids immediately reacted.

"My lord, please—"

"You should not rise without assistance."

"The physicians said you must avoid strain—"

"I am standing," Ulrich replied. "Not marching into battle."

That did not reassure them.

Two of the maids exchanged anxious looks before one stepped forward with a respectful bow.

"My lord, would you permit us to prepare your bath?"

Ulrich paused.

The offer had been made with such immediate eagerness that he suspected the maids had been instructed to make certain he did not leave the chamber unattended. Or perhaps they simply believed bathing an injured nobleman was part of their duty.

Either possibility was inconvenient.

"No," Ulrich said.

The women froze.

"I will manage on my own. Bring me my spare clothes instead."

The maids looked visibly disappointed.

"At once, my lord."

They departed quickly.

Ulrich waited until the doors closed before exhaling.

He had brought several changes of formal attire for the royal ceremony just in case. Fortunately, he had not expected to wear the same clothes after being caught in a demonic assassination attempt. The crimson coat he had worn during the dance was ruined. His white shirt had been torn, stained, and cut apart by physicians. Even his scarf had disappeared somewhere among the medical supplies and bloodied linens.

The spare clothes came in useful now.

Once the maids returned with a neatly folded set, Ulrich dressed without assistance.

He stood before the mirror and slowly buttoned his dark shirt.

The reflection looking back at him appeared mostly normal.

There was a faint trace of weariness beneath his red eyes. His face had lost a little color from the poison and the loss of blood. But the cut that had crossed his cheek was gone, erased by the expensive healing vials he had finally allowed himself to drink.

He had possessed such medicine from the beginning.

But powerful recovery potions were not always the best answer.

They were fast.

They were effective.

And they came with consequences.

If a person had sufficient time, wealth, and medical care, a slower treatment was usually better. Clean wounds. Properly applied healing ointments. Controlled spells. Rest. Food. Time for the body to recover without being forced beyond its limits.

Ulrich knew this better than most.

After the incident beneath the Blue Scar, in the submerged temple hidden within the Maelstrom of the Forgotten Depths, he had not been given the luxury of patience. His bones had been broken in too many places. His body had been pushed beyond its limits, and he had needed to leave fast.

So he drank recovery vial after recovery vial.

Healing potions.

Mana restoratives.

Strength tonics.

Anything he had brought.

It had worked.

His bones had reconnected. His injuries had closed. He had survived.

But his body had paid for it afterward.

For nearly a month, exhaustion had clung to him like a second skin. He could barely train at his usual pace. His muscles had felt numb and heavy, as if they no longer belonged to him. Every time he tried to push himself too far, his body reminded him that accelerated recovery was not the same as true recovery.

Too many healing vials consumed too quickly could force the body into a dangerous state.

The organs worked harder.

The blood raced faster.

The body burned through its own strength to repair damage before it was ready.

In severe cases, it could even kill.

Ulrich had understood the risk at the time.

He had accepted it because there had been no other choice.

But he had no desire to repeat that experience unless necessity left him with nothing else.

This time, the royal physicians had treated him properly.

They had cleansed the poison, stitched the deeper wounds, applied medicine to prevent infection and demonic contamination, and allowed his body time to recover rather than demanding immediate results from it. The expensive vials he had taken now merely finished what the treatment had already begun.

His body still carried exhaustion.

But it was nothing like the hollow numbness that had followed after he fell into the Maelstrom of the Forgotten Depths

Nothing was perfect.

Ulrich fastened the final button of his shirt.

Then he adjusted the cuffs, pulling each sleeve into place with two firm tugs. The movement drew slightly against the bandaged cut on his upper arm, but the pain was manageable. He brushed his crimson hair back from his forehead and over his shoulders, restoring something closer to his usual composed appearance.

At last, he turned from the mirror and looked over the chamber.

The bed was undisturbed except for the indent where he had rested. The medicines remained on the side table. His gloves lay near the window. His boots stood beneath the chair.

Nothing seemed missing.

Ulrich put on the gloves and boots.

Then he stepped outside.

A royal guard waited immediately beyond the door.

The man bowed.

"Lord Rubenhart. Her Majesty requests your presence in the dinner hall."

Ulrich glanced back toward the chamber.

Then he looked at the clock mounted near the door.

The afternoon had passed further than he realized. It was nearly time to eat.

And, now that he considered it, he was hungry.

That was a good sign.

Still, dining with a Queen who had already made it clear she doubted every explanation he gave was not how Ulrich would have chosen to spend his first afternoon out of bed.

He could not refuse.

"Lead the way," Ulrich said.

The guard bowed again.

"Yes, my lord."

Ulrich followed him through the quiet corridors of the royal castle.

When Ulrich finally reached the dinner hall, the guards opened the tall doors before him.

Warm light spilled into the corridor.

The interior was quieter and more intimate than the grand ballroom, though no less refined. A long rectangular table occupied the center of the room, its dark surface set with silverware, crystal glasses, and finely painted porcelain. An array of dishes stretched along its length: roasted meat glazed in herbs, warm bread fresh from the ovens, bowls of fruit, vegetables prepared with butter and spices, and soups whose scent rose gently through the room.

Looking around the table, he spotted Kaliantha sitting at its head.

Her posture was perfect, her platinum-pink hair falling over the shoulders of her emerald gown. Her mismatched eyes turned toward Ulrich as he entered, composed as ever.

Camellia sat on Kaliantha’s right.

The princess had changed into a softer dress than the one she wore during the ceremony. When she saw Ulrich, she smiled a little before turning away.

On Kaliantha’s left sat the three sisters.

They were seated side by side, with Esther closest to the Queen. Esther’s hands rested tensely in her lap, and she looked as though she had been trying very hard not to touch anything at the royal table without permission. Hermione sat beside her, though Ulrich could see her attention turn toward him, relieved to see him. Airam occupied the seat directly across from the place prepared for him, silent as usual, though she was giving a peculiar intense stare at the roasted pheasant in front of her.

"Lord Rubenhart," Kaliantha said. "We have been waiting for you."

Ulrich inclined his head.

"Your Majesty."

"Please take a seat."

Kaliantha gestured toward the empty chair beside Camellia.

Ulrich paused.

For a moment, he wondered what exactly this dinner was meant to be.

He had expected a private meal.

A conversation across a smaller table, with Kaliantha resuming the questions she had postponed in his chamber.

Instead, Kaliantha had included Camellia.

And the sisters.

Ulrich looked toward them again.

Camellia had become noticeably friendlier with Esther, Hermione, and Airam after the ceremony. Perhaps Kaliantha had arranged this meal because she wished to encourage that connection. Or perhaps she wanted to thank him in the presence of the three girls he had taken in.

There might be no deeper purpose at all.

It was possible the Queen simply wished to share a meal with the people who had become unexpectedly important during her daughter’s celebration.

The absence of Antonias and Albert was also notable.

Ulrich did not object.

Far from it.

After the King’s behavior at the ceremony, and after everything Ulrich had done to ensure Antonias could not take part in the traditional dance, he had no desire to dine across from him. If Kaliantha had deliberately kept Antonias away from this table, Ulrich was grateful.

Regardless, Ulrich did not ask.

He walked to the indicated seat.

Camellia shifted slightly as he approached, giving him room with a polite smile. Ulrich returned it with a restrained nod before taking the chair beside her.

Airam sat directly across from him.

Their eyes met briefly over the table.

Airam’s expression did not change.

Ulrich settled into his seat.

A servant immediately stepped forward to pour wine into his glass, while another placed a bowl of warm soup before him.

Only then did Ulrich realize how quiet the table had become.

Everyone was waiting.

Kaliantha’s gaze rested upon him.

Camellia watched him with gentle curiosity.

Esther looked relieved to see him sitting upright and properly dressed, though her nervousness had not faded.

While Hermione and Airam simply observed, waiting.

Kaliantha waited a bit more before she picked up her cutlery, giving the cue to eat.

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