My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Ulrich rode through the night with Airam seated before him.

He chose the main road leading toward Rubenhart County.

There were faster routes. Narrow forest paths cut through the hills, and old trade tracks could have shortened the journey by several hours. But shortcuts came with their own dangers: bandits, smugglers, wandering mercenaries, and people who might recognize an injured nobleman traveling with a young girl in the middle of the night.

Ulrich had neither the strength nor the patience for another fight.

So he chose the safest path.

He would bring Airam back to his territory himself.

He would rely on no one except himself.

That was how Ulrich had always lived.

He trusted his own judgment more than the promises of allies, the loyalty of retainers, or the mercy of strangers. If something had to be done, he would do it himself. If someone needed protecting, he would place himself between them and the danger. If there was a burden to carry, he would carry it until his body broke beneath the weight.

Unfortunately, his body had begun to object.

The serum’s aftermath settled deeper into him with every passing mile.

It was not one pain.

It was many.

A deep ache spread through his bones. His wounds burned beneath the bandages. His missing arm seemed to throb with pain even though there was nothing left below the elbow. His ribs protested each breath. His mana core was recovering, but with such terrible slowness that, three hours after leaving Hiddlestone, he still could not have formed a proper spell without risking collapse.

Yet Ulrich rode on.

Morning light eventually spilled across the road.

The darkness thinned into gray. Mist drifted over the fields. A pale strip of gold appeared beyond the eastern hills, and the wet road began to shine beneath the first touch of sun.

Ulrich’s eyes remained fixed on the path ahead.

By then, much of his body had gone numb.

Only habit held him upright in the saddle. Only stubbornness kept his hand on the reins. He looked less like a man traveling home than a corpse that had somehow remembered how to sit a horse.

Airam watched him carefully.

Whenever another traveler appeared along the road, she asked for directions herself. A merchant with a cart, an old woman leading goats, two laborers walking toward a nearby village, Airam questioned each of them with quiet seriousness, making certain Ulrich had not carried them onto the wrong road through exhaustion.

Each time, the answer was the same.

Yes. They were heading toward Rubenhart County.

Yes. The road was correct.

Yes. They would reach the county border if they continued east.

Airam felt a small relief.

Ulrich had not lost his mind, it seemed. Not yet at the very least. Still, she remained alert.

Every few minutes, she looked back at him.

"Are you awake?"

She asked.

Ulrich did not answer the first time.

Airam stiffened.

Then, after several seconds, he made a low sound that might have been annoyance.

"I am awake."

"You did not answer."

Ulrich said nothing.

Airam turned forward again, though she kept listening for his breathing.

More than once, she considered knocking him unconscious herself.

It would not be difficult.

A light strike to a pressure point. A small rune. Enough force to put him to sleep for several hours. He would wake furious, but at least he would wake somewhere safer than the road.

In the end, she did not do it.

She wanted to return quickly too.

Ulrich needed real treatment. He needed physicians, clean bandages, medicine, food, and a proper bed. More than that, Airam needed to see Hermione and Esther.

The thought made something ache inside her chest.

She had believed she would never see them again.

On Valdris’s ship, surrounded by Valmorian soldiers and trapped so far from home, Airam had begun to understand what it meant to be separated forever. She had imagined Hermione trying to remain strong. She had imagined Esther crying until she could no longer breathe. She had imagined them waiting for someone who would never return.

Then Ulrich had come.

The crimson-haired count had stepped into a situation no sensible person would have touched. He had fought soldiers who outnumbered him. He had faced Valdris and even had lost his arm.

And he had still brought her back.

Airam looked down at Ulrich’s hand around the reins.

Without thinking, she placed her smaller hand over his.

His fingers were cold.

Ulrich did not react.

Perhaps he did not notice.

Perhaps he had noticed and was too tired to comment.

Airam left her hand there.

Then she leaned back against his chest.

Even half-dead, he still felt solid behind her. His body was hard with muscle, his breathing shallow but steady against the back of her head. Airam had often watched him train at the Estate much like Esther before sunrise.

At the time, she had thought he was excessive.

Obsessed.

Perhaps even foolish.

Now she understood.

Ulrich had not become strong because strength came easily to him.

He had made himself strong.

Every morning. Every hour spent forcing his body past its limits had become part of him. It was why he had survived what should have killed him. It was why he had crossed the harbor, fought men stronger than himself, and reached her when there had seemed to be no path back.

He was the strongest-willed person Airam had ever met.

The thought was almost absurd.

From the outside, what Ulrich had done must have looked impossible.

Perhaps even Valdris had understood that.

Perhaps Valdris had seen something in Ulrich’s refusal to surrender, a determination too stubborn to dismiss, and that was why he had given him the serum instead of simply leaving him to die.

Though Valdris would have definitely died if he had not stopped her rampage.

She lowered her gaze.

For all his planning, all his ruthless decisions, and all his strength, he had still risked everything for her.

An hour passed.

Then Airam felt Ulrich’s weight change behind her.

At first, it was subtle.

His chest no longer rose with the same controlled rhythm. His hand slackened around the reins. His body leaned forward against her back, heavy and unresponsive.

Airam turned.

"Ulrich?"

There was no answer.

His head had fallen against her shoulder.

His eyes were closed.

He had lost consciousness.

Airam immediately pulled the reins to the side.

The mare left the road and stepped into a narrow stretch of grass beneath a line of trees. Airam guided her deeper from the path, far enough that passing travelers would not immediately notice them.

"Stop," she said.

The horse slowed.

Airam jumped down first, then reached up toward Ulrich.

Moving him with one arm was difficult. Even unconscious, he was heavy, and every attempt to shift him made his body tense in pain. Airam gritted her teeth, wrapped both arms around his waist, and slowly pulled him from the saddle.

Ulrich nearly fell.

She caught as much of his weight as she could and lowered him against the trunk of a broad oak tree.

His head tipped forward.

Airam tied the horse nearby, checking the knot twice before returning to him.

Then she sat beside him in the grass.

There was nothing else she could do.

She knew a few simple spells that might ease pain, lower fever, or help a wounded person rest. They were not difficult spells. Hermione could likely form them with little effort.

But Airam could not bring herself to try.

Her eyes moved to the dark veins spreading beneath the skin of Ulrich’s chest.

Her hands curled into fists.

She had already hurt him enough.

So she sat beside him and watched.

Minutes passed.

Then Ulrich’s head tilted.

His body sagged sideways.

Before he could slump into the dirt, Airam caught him.

She shifted closer and carefully guided his head onto her lap.

Ulrich did not wake.

Airam looked down at him.

She raised one hand and ran her fingers through his crimson hair.

How stupid, she thought.

When she had first met Ulrich, he had reminded her of her father.

Not in every way.

Ulrich had offered her a home.

Sedhoran had once offered her everything too.

That resemblance had made her wary.

It had made her angry.

But she understood now that they were not the same.

Ulrich had not come for her because of blood, status, or possession.

He had not come because she was useful.

He had come because she was Airam.

Airam looked down at his sleeping face.

Her fingers rested gently in his hair.

No, he was definitely not Sedhoran.