The town still slept when the estate carriage rolled down the hill, its wheels clattering over cobbled stones and loose gravel.
A thin mist clung to the roadside, and the early sun cast long shadows from the trees that lined the path.
Inside the carriage, silence reigned—until Sir Richardson cleared his throat with the ceremonial gravity of a man about to declare war.
“Here is how we proceed,” he began, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.
“I shall head directly to the Trade Hall. I have letters—sealed and signed—prepared for the Everwind Association and a few independent merchant groups I still hold standing with.
If we are to make this endeavor successful, we will need reliable buyers and long-term arrangements, not one-time vendors with shallow pockets.”
Lucien, sitting beside him, nodded once. His hands were folded on his lap, thumbs twiddling out of sheer nervous energy.
“That sounds… official.”
“It is official,” Richardson replied, firm but not unkind.
“And the sooner we treat this estate like a working domain and not a crumbling monument, the sooner you may reclaim what it once stood for.”
Across from them, Terrin the old gardener gave a dry wheeze that might’ve been a chuckle.
He rubbed his sore knees and leaned on the potato sack they’d brought along, like always.
“Young Master, if I may,” he said, squinting with age-worn eyes, “the apples and grapes, they’re what’s still breathin’ out there. The rest are either withered or gone to the worms.”
“Then we focus on those two,” Lucien replied, straightening.
“Apples and grapes. Enough to sell, enough to show we’re still alive.”
“A fine choice, Young Master,” Terrin said with a gentle nod, as if Lucien had passed some long-forgotten test.
“The Aetherveil Reds and Everbloom Grapes, your mother’s pride.”
Lucien didn’t respond to that—just looked out the window, fingers tightening slightly.
As the carriage pulled into town, the market was already stirring.
Merchants rolled up their tents, carts filled with produce and tools clattered into position, and voices rose like a morning chorus of capitalism.
They split as planned.
Sir Richardson walked with surprising speed for his age, letters tucked under his arm like battlefield dispatches.
Every few steps, he’d stop, remove his monocle, and breathe deeply before entering another building to pull yet another string he hadn’t tugged in years.
He spoke names that hadn’t echoed through the trade circles in a decade—names of founders and war-veterans, nobles who’d owed the Lady of D’Claire a favor, and merchants who’d once profited from the estate’s glory days.
He didn’t beg.
He reminded.
And still, for all his poise, something within him felt heavy.
The boy—no, the young man—had asked to be trusted.
That was new.
Terrin, meanwhile, was already bartering with a seller three times his size, waving a shovel around like a knight demanding a duel.
Lucien wandered alone through the crowd, sticking out like a fallen aristocrat lost in a sea of farmers.
He wore clothes that didn’t quite fit right—too formal for the market, too worn for dignity.
Determined or not, he looked like a man who didn’t belong anywhere.
And yet, he pressed on.
His goal was simple: a real sword.
Not a family heirloom, not a ceremonial relic, not a wall-hanger that jingled with dust, but a blade with weight.
One that would remind him what he was fighting for.
The blacksmith’s shop loomed near the edge of the town.
It was tucked behind a leatherworker and half-covered by smoke curling from the chimney.
Lucien stepped through the open door, his boots scuffing ash and soot as he passed into the dim-lit forge.
He didn’t expect anything dramatic.
He definitely didn’t expect her.
Standing before the blacksmith, framed by heat and flame like some eldritch noble apparition, was Lady Vaelira Nyx Aetherveil.
Even from behind, her aura hit like a sword to the chest.
Tall.
Proud.
Dressed in midnight-blue velvet with silver fastenings that matched the gleam in her braid.
Her long hair was the kind of twilight violet that legends used to warn sailors about.
Her posture was unyielding.
Her presence filled the forge before the smoke did.
Lucien’s breath hitched.
This… is a problem.
The villainess.
The one girl in the visual novel whose mood shifts determined whether entire side characters lived or died.
The misunderstood force of chaos and brilliance.
And Lucien, in all his peasant-tier glory, had just barged in like a man looking for cheap metal and maybe some confidence.
He reached for the door again.
Backpedal.
Roll out.
Fake an illness.
Anything.
But the blacksmith looked up and shouted, “Oi! If you’re here for a blade, wait your turn. I’m with a customer.”
Vaelira turned.
Lucien froze.
Their eyes met.
She tilted her head—subtle, curious, like a cat observing a bird that dared enter its garden.
Lucien’s mind went white.
Words?
Gone.
Thoughts?
Spinning.
Dignity?
Left behind on the carriage seat.
And all he could think was:
She’s even scarier in real life.
***
Lucien knew everything there was to know about Lady Vaelira Nyx Aetherveil—or at least, he thought he did.
He never played the game himself.
That had always been his little sister’s thing.
He just sat beside her, quietly watching her sprint through dialogue boxes and boss fights like her life depended on it, while she chattered away non-stop about plot twists, tragic backstories, and—most often—Vaelira.
Vaelira was her favorite.
The misunderstood “villainess,” wrapped in cold beauty and sharp tongue, feared by many but loved by none.
At least, not until Lucien Crowley came along in the game’s route.
According to his sister, Vaelira was “basically the only one in that hellhole of a noble circus with a working brain cell and enough trauma to make Satan cry.”
Her hair, a deep amethyst that faded to violet in the light.
Her magic, a rare affinity with astral shadow manipulation.
Her hobbies, fencing and restoring ancient weapons.
Her aura, “strong enough to castrate a man with just a glare.”
Her personality, cold but righteous.
Her presence, unforgettable.
And now, here she was.
In the flesh.
Standing in the blacksmith’s shop, back straight, eyes sharp, presence radiating so much quiet menace that Lucien almost physically recoiled.
A purple-haired storm with the posture of a duelist and the calm of a war general.
She was taller than he expected.
Sharper.
Stronger.
More real.
Everything his sister had said about her came rushing back in a frantic, overlapping montage in his head.
And then—like the emotional equivalent of tripping over your own feet mid-sentence—it all vanished.
Nothing remained.
Brain: wiped.
Memory: gone.
Personality: error 404.
He stood there, a toothbrush still in his pocket and a coin pouch in hand, utterly paralyzed.
The silence in the shop was so thick you could forge a sword in it.
Thankfully, salvation came in the form of the shopkeeper, a man with soot-stained gloves and a mild mustache, who broke the unbearable tension with the most casually loaded line possible:
“Here you go, ma’am,” he said, handing Vaelira a sheathed blade with reverence.
“And you, sir—what can I help you with?”
Lucien blinked. The spell broke.
“Oh! Uh… a sword,” he replied, a bit too loudly.
“A normal one. Just… a beginner sword. For swinging. Not at people! Just—training. For training.”
The shopkeeper raised a brow.
“What sort of weight, grip, and balance are you looking for?”
Lucien blinked again.
The words might as well have been in Martian.
Thankfully, Vaelira—cool as a moonlit pond—turned slightly toward him, her voice calm and articulate.
“He means, do you want a longsword, arming sword, or maybe a saber? Something light and single-edged, or heavier with reach?”
Lucien stared.
“Steel type also affects the weight. Carbon steel holds an edge better but chips easier. Spring steel has more flex, good for training. You want a standard crossguard, or are you training with a specific school in mind?”
Lucien nodded slowly, trying to pretend he understood even 30% of what just happened.
Vaelira studied him for a second longer than necessary.
Then, with a breath and a faint twitch of her brows, she turned to the shopkeeper again.
“Get him a basic longsword. One with good balance and mild resistance. Something he won’t snap in two within a week.”
The shopkeeper nodded and vanished into the back room.
Leaving the two of them… alone.
Lucien stared forward.
Vaelira stood in quiet silence.
There were, in total, seven visible weapons in the room.
But none felt as deadly as the silence between them.
Lucien’s brain helpfully suggested:
Say something cool.
Say anything.
“…I like your hair.”
God help him.
***
Author’s Note:
Hello Hello ( ^_^)／
Thank you for reading this far!
This chapter made me both excited and incredibly nervous to write—because it’s her chapter.
Lady Vaelira finally makes her entrance, and I really wanted to do justice to her presence. ヽ(O_O )ﾉ
She’s… a lot. Intense, elegant, terrifying in the best way. Writing her felt like trying to bottle a thunderstorm and then hand it over like, “Here you go, hope it’s readable!” (☉_ ☉)
Anyway, I hope she made an impression. She’s one of those characters who just takes over the room and I love her for it.
Thanks again for reading. Truly.
bro folded under no pressure
Thanks for the chapter