The Villainess Refuses to Follow the Script-Chapter 62

Their blades clashed with a satisfying rhythm. Metal on metal, footwork skimming over gravel, breath sharp in the morning air.

Beatrice kept her stance tight. Her wrists firm, shoulders relaxed. Her mind didn’t wander, didn’t spin in circles around the palace or the novel or the sinking sense of unraveling.

There was only this: Lila’s fast pivot, the sting in her palms, the curve of the sun just beginning to cut through the courtyard haze.

Lila grinned mid-turn, ducking under Beatrice’s slash.

"You’re holding back."

Beatrice parried. "So are you."

"Fair. But I do it with flair."

Beatrice shifted her weight and lunged again. Lila twisted out of range, laughing.

There was something infuriating about the way she moved, reckless and elegant all at once. Like she wasn’t trying to win. Just trying to feel something.

Beatrice swept her blade low, and Lila caught it with a clean block. Their faces were close now, breathing hard, hair starting to stick to skin.

"Is this what you do for fun?" Beatrice asked, teeth clenched.

"It’s better than tea and lies."

With a sharp push, Lila broke their lock and stepped back, blade angled.

Beatrice didn’t follow immediately. Her pulse was racing, but it wasn’t from exertion alone. She didn’t realize how long it had been since she last felt this clear.

Lila rolled her shoulder, watching her with an unreadable expression.

"You’re good."

Beatrice lifted a brow. "Sound surprised."

"I expected you to be vicious," Lila said. "Didn’t expect control."

Beatrice lunged again without answering.

This time, Lila let her get close. Their blades caught again, sliding with tension. The guard from before shifted slightly in the distance but said nothing.

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "Why invite me?"

"You needed a mirror," Lila said. "I’m just the one rude enough to hold it up."

Beatrice shoved her back.

Lila stumbled a step, then steadied, blade dropping to her side.

"I’m not here to fix you," she added.

Beatrice let her sword lower too, but her eyes stayed sharp.

"I don’t need fixing."

"I didn’t say you did. Just figured you were too far in your head." Lila shrugged, brushing her hand across her brow. "It’s annoying to watch."

Beatrice huffed softly, not quite a laugh.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense.

Just... worn.

Lila finally sheathed her blade, tossing the strap over her shoulder.

"I’m done."

Beatrice arched a brow. "Giving up?"

"Letting you win." Lila smirked. "It’s more dramatic."

"You’re insufferable."

Lila grinned. "And you’re more fun when you stop pretending to be a ghost."

That struck a little closer than Beatrice expected.

Before she could reply, Lila turned on her heel. "I’m due back at the barracks. Apparently, there’s something scandalous about beating nobles before breakfast."

"Wait," Beatrice said.

Lila stopped, half-turning. "Hmm?"

Beatrice hesitated. "Why me?"

Lila didn’t mock her for asking. She tilted her head slightly. "Because the others are scared of you."

"And you’re not?"

"No," Lila said. "You don’t scare me, Beatrice. You... intrigue me."

She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then she turned and walked off, braid swinging behind her like a banner.

Beatrice stood alone in the middle of the courtyard.

The blade was still in her hand.

She exhaled, long and steady, and finally lowered it. She felt lighter. Not healed. Not safe. But... steadier.

And that, she would take.

By late morning, she’d returned to her chambers, changed into something more formal, and gone through her daily reports without really seeing any of them.

The warmth from sparring had faded. Her body ached in quiet places she’d forgotten existed. But it wasn’t pain. It was proof she was still here.

Still choosing to be here.

At midday, she stepped onto the balcony and let the sunlight touch her face. A servant had replaced the tea. The journal still sat on her desk, pages closed.

She would write later.

Maybe.

A knock came, sharper this time.

"Enter," she called.

It was a pageboy. Bowed deep.

"A message, Lady Beatrice."

He handed her a scroll. Clean. Crisp. With the seal of the War Office.

Her blood went cold.

"Thank you. Dismissed."

The boy fled.

She waited until the door clicked shut before she broke the seal.

The scroll was brief, but its meaning cut clean.

Lady Beatrice Da Ville is hereby requested to attend the strategic council convened for matters relating to Lucenbourg and the Crimson Line. Noon. War Room. Representation in place of Lord and Lady Da Ville has been acknowledged.

She stared at the line for a long time.

Representation in place of...

Of course.

Her parents had been invited. Naturally. As one of the wealthiest noble houses with military contracts spanning three provinces, the Da Villes had always positioned themselves at the center of conflict. But they won’t come this time.

They sent her.

A statement dressed as convenience. A test dressed as trust.

She wondered, briefly, what excuse they’d given. Illness? Travel delays? Some fabricated obligation just important enough to avoid scrutiny?

It didn’t matter.

They’d chosen her because they knew she wouldn’t embarrass them. Because she could smile through blood. Because she already knew how to lie for them.

Beatrice folded the scroll with practiced calm and set it beneath her teacup.

She looked out over the courtyard once more. The sun had risen fully now, sharpening every edge of the palace roofline in light.

Below, the grounds moved with routine. Guards crossing stone paths, birds gathering near the fountain. And somewhere near the south wing, Lila’s figure disappeared around a corner, braid swinging behind her like punctuation.

Beatrice sat very still.

She reached for her pen. But instead of opening to a blank page, her fingers flipped instinctively to the middle of the journal, somewhere in the section she’d marked for the war.

Notes lined the margins. Locations, noble alliances, potential shifts in power. All written in her hand. All familiar. But colder than she remembered.

She read a few lines.

If the Crimson Line is seized outright, Vasqueria can frame it as a defensive reclaiming of stolen land. Justification is everything. Perception will win more than soldiers can.

Lucenbourg’s latest supply routes pass too close to Briarhold. Weak point. If a skirmish breaks there, it can be made to look like Lucenbourg struck first.

She paused. She didn’t remember writing that last one.

She must have. The ink was hers. The style was hers. But the strategy, so pointed and so tactical, felt more like something her father would have dictated. Or worse, something Beatrice Da Ville would have whispered into a general’s ear with a smile.

Her pen hovered.

She could cross it out. Tear the page. Rewrite it in cleaner language, more clinical and detached.

But she didn’t. Instead, she turned the page again.

Then again.

Near the edge of a margin, barely legible, a line stood out from the rest. No header. No date.

Francois will never forgive me if it comes to this.

Beatrice stared at it.

The ink had smudged slightly. Like she’d written it in haste. Or in the dark.

She didn’t remember this one at all. But it made her hand curl tighter around the pen.

Slowly, she closed the journal and set it aside.

Her next breath came slower. Measured.

Whatever the war council brought tomorrow, she would face it.

Not because she wanted to. But because she had no choice.

Because they’d already chosen her.

And somewhere beneath her skin, she could feel it again. The blurred edge between survival and becoming someone she no longer recognized.