Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 317

Chapter 317: The Ghost He Loved

[Lavinia’s POV — Black Wall Fortress—Continuation]

Silence.

A kind that crawled into the bones of the fortress after Osric left the chamber.

A kind that didn’t comfort...but pressed.

Heavy. Cold. Unforgiving.

I sat there—alone in a war room that suddenly felt too large, too echoing, and too aware of my breathing.

The candles had burned low. Their flames swayed, weak and crooked, like they were struggling to stay alive. The room smelled of ink, drying blood, and iron.

My headache pulsed behind my eyes, dull and relentless.

"Did I make the right decision?" I whispered.

But his words in my head made my chest twist painfully—like the wound I’d given myself was finally starting to bleed.

I pressed fingers to my temples and inhaled sharply.

War I could handle. Death, blood, the weight of armies—I could shoulder them with a straight spine.

But heartbreak?

Heartbreak was a blade that cut slower. It didn’t pierce. It dragged. Slow, deliberate, merciless. My breath trembled once—the only betrayal I allowed myself.

Then—

"Your Highness...?"

Sera’s soft voice slipped into the heavy room. She stepped inside cautiously, as though afraid any sudden movement would shatter me like glass.

Her eyes widened when she saw me sitting there—shoulders rigid, eyes dull, hand still resting on the war table like I was holding myself upright by force.

"Your Highness..." she tried again, gentler. "Are you... okay?"

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I glanced at her—just once. Her expression told me everything.

She knew.

"Did you hear everything, Sera?" I asked quietly.

Her breath hitched. "I—I apologize, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I only came to bring you a cloak and then I heard Grand Duke Osric’s voice and..." She swallowed. "...and I stopped."

I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down my face.

"It’s alright," I murmured. "If anyone was going to hear it... I’d rather it be you."

Sera blinked—surprised, eyes glistening.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as if the stone might tell me something wiser than my own breaking heart.

"My chest feels... heavy," I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Sera stepped forward, hesitant. "Your Highness..."

"It’s ridiculous," I said with a bitter laugh. "I was ready for battle tonight. I was ready to kill. I was ready to bleed. But this—" My voice wavered, just for a second. "This hurts more than any blade that’s ever cut me."

Sera’s eyes softened. "Because you cared for him."

"I did." My throat tightened. "And maybe... maybe that was my mistake."

A tear threatened to fall.

I blinked it back viciously.

"I don’t cry for men," I said sharply—more to myself than to her. "This should not happen."

Sera nodded slowly, kneeling beside me. Her voice dropped low, gentle in a way she reserved only for me.

"Your Highness... loving someone isn’t weakness."

I scoffed. "It is for me. It always has been." I pressed a hand over my sternum. "Look at me—my heart feels like someone crushed it in their palm, and yet I have a whole army waiting for orders."

Sera placed a careful hand over my cold fingers. "Your heart is heavy because you loved honestly."

I closed my eyes.

Silence settled. Painful. Raw. Humiliating.

Finally, I whispered, "It feels like he was never meant for me from the very start."

Sera tensed. "Your Highness—"

"And the tragic part?" I let out a soft, broken laugh. "I’m not even surprised."

Her eyes widened.

"Osric’s love..." My voice dropped, soft as a bruise. "...was never for me. Not this me."

Sera’s grip on my hand tightened—tiny fingers trying to anchor a breaking crown. I looked at her, eyes cold but wounded.

"Tell me, Sera... Is there anything more painful than loving someone who only loves your shadow?"

Sera’s lips parted, but no answer came. Because there wasn’t one.

Heartbreak was cruel like that. It made emperors feel small. It made warriors feel fragile. It made tyrants human.

I swallowed hard, straightened my posture, and forced my heart to stop shaking.

"Enough," I murmured. "This war won’t pause for my broken heart."

Sera stepped forward instantly, eyes wide with worry. "Your Highness... why don’t you take a break? Even just a few hours—"

"No."

The word was sharp. Immediate.

"I don’t want to drag this war," I said, grabbing my sword from where it leaned against the table. "I want to end it. This month. And no heartbreak—no man—is going to delay that."

Sera’s face twisted in alarm. "You’re hurting yourself, Your Highness..."

"I don’t care, Sera."

I turned, heading toward the exit, my fingers tight around my sword hilt, knuckles pale. The only thing keeping me upright was pure, burning stubbornness.

"I am going to practice." But before I could take a step—Sera grabbed my hand.

Her fingers trembled.

"Your Highness," she whispered, "please. I—I beg you, listen to me once."

Her voice cracked. "You fought all night. If you go to practice again... it will strain your muscles—your injuries—"

"I said I don’t—"

"This might make you lose the war, Your Highness."

I froze. The room fell silent. Pain, grief, and fury—all of it slammed against the wall of my ribs at once.

Lose the war.

Lose the war.

He snorted as if to say liar.

Something only bond-creatures felt toward their masters. She nudged her beak at my wrist, chirping low—as if whispering sorry for him, on Osric’s behalf.

***

[The Next Day, Outside the Fortress]

As soon as the last ration carts rolled through the gates, I signed the seal on my letter to Papa—detailing the ambush, the victory, the casualties, the state of the villagers.

"Your Highness."

Osric’s voice.

I looked up. Our eyes met for three seconds—long enough to feel the cold between us settle like a wall. Then I turned away deliberately, gaze fixed on the carts and crates being unloaded and Villageres in line.

"Speak."

He inhaled, steady but tense. "The rations that arrived... should we distribute them to the villagers?"

"Didn’t I already order that the rations be distributed to them?" My voice was a blade—sharp, emotionless. "Why ask again, Grand Duke?"

He bowed slightly. "They were distributed two days ago. I simply—thought to ask if you wished to continue."

I exhaled—slow, tired. "Yes. No matter how many days pass, they must receive rations. The fields are abandoned because of the war. They cannot farm. They will starve."

He nodded once. "Understood."

A pause.

Then, carefully—"When shall we leave for the Eastern Region of Meren?"

"As soon as the distribution is complete," I said. "We move immediately."

His jaw tightened—as if he wanted to say more—but he only bowed stiffly and stepped back.

He didn’t look at me.

I didn’t look back.

But when he turned away... a small ache tugged at my chest anyway. I moved toward the carts—only to hear a sudden shriek rip through the air.

"AAAGHHH!!! STOP—!!"

My head snapped toward the commotion.

Down by the lower road, two villagers were fighting—no, six of them—scrambling, clawing like feral animals over a sack of grain. One man shoved an elderly woman. Another tore at someone’s clothes. A child cried as his father yanked him behind him.

My brows twisted sharply.

"What the hell is going on?"

Sir Haldor sprinted toward me the next second. "Your Highness!"

"What is happening?"

He bowed quickly. "The villagers, Your Highness—They are fighting over the grains given to them. Stealing from each other. Some are trying to take double shares. Others... are trying to take everything."

My jaw tightened. "Then what are you waiting for? Seize them. All of them. Immediately."

"Yes, Your Highness." He bowed and raced toward the chaos, signaling the guards.

I stepped out of the fortress gates, boots crunching against the frost, the wind whipping my cloak behind me.

The fighting grew louder.

The desperation grew uglier.

And as I watched villagers claw at each other like starving wolves, rage flickered deep in my chest—not at them, but at the war that drove humans to fight over scraps.

The sun glared over the ruined valley. And as the soldiers rushed in to seize the chaos— I walked forward, expression cold, heart tightening with something far heavier than anger.

This war wasn’t just breaking empires.

It was breaking people.