My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

"How is he?"

Ashara stood beside Ulrich’s bed and asked.

Three hours had passed since the physicians began treating him.

The worst of the immediate emergency had ended, at least for the night. The chamber no longer rang with urgent commands or the clatter of instruments. The bloodied linens had been removed. Fresh bandages wrapped Ulrich’s chest, ribs, shoulder, and the wounded stump of his left arm. A pale green ointment had been spread over the deeper cuts and bruises before being covered with clean cloth.

The medicine carried a restorative effect. It would not heal him instantly, but it would reduce inflammation, prevent infection, and help his body rebuild itself while he rested.

Ulrich lay motionless beneath the blankets.

His fever had lowered, though his face remained pale. His crimson hair had been cleaned of blood and sweat, and now fell loosely across the pillow. His breathing was still shallow, but no longer ragged.

One of the physicians slowly stood from the bedside.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist and looked toward Ashara.

"His life is no longer in immediate danger, my lady," he said.

Ashara’s shoulders loosened slightly.

The physician continued.

"Count Rubenhart is remarkably strong. The blood loss alone should have killed him. The condition of his mana pathways, the trauma to his body, the injuries to his chest... any one of those matters could have taken another man’s life."

His gaze returned to Ulrich.

"Yet he endured all of them."

Ashara looked down at him.

"He has always worked hard," she said.

There was sadness in her voice.

Before he had sent her away, Ashara had watched Ulrich train nearly every day. She remembered mornings when he rose before dawn, even as a boy. She remembered seeing him return with blood on his hands from gripping a sword too long. She remembered the exhaustion in his face after forcing mana through a crippled core that would not obey him.

She had seen how much he tried.

And she had seen how little warmth his father had given him in return.

The physician hesitated.

"My lady," he said carefully, "there is another matter."

Ashara raised her eyes.

"What is it?"

The physician glanced toward the guards stationed near the door, then toward the second physician gathering supplies nearby. His voice lowered.

"If you would permit it, we should speak farther from the bed."

Ashara followed him several steps away, toward the darker corner of the chamber.

"What is wrong?" she asked.

The physician chose his words with visible care.

"When we first examined Lord Rubenhart, his mana was completely depleted. There was almost nothing left in his body. His core was empty, and his mana pathways showed signs of severe strain from overuse."

Ashara nodded slowly.

"That is understandable. He fought for a long time."

"Yes," the physician said. "However, when we examined him again just now, his mana had already begun recovering."

Ashara frowned.

"Is that bad?"

"I do not know if it is bad," he admitted. "But it is unusual."

The physician glanced toward Ulrich once more.

"Mana normally returns gradually. A mage’s body draws ambient mana into the core, filters it, and circulates it through the pathways. But the Count’s mana is not moving in the usual manner."

Ashara’s concern deepened.

"What do you mean?"

"It is moving like a current," the physician said. "Not a slow circulation. Not the ordinary flow of a healthy core. It gathers quickly and moves through his body with force. It is almost as though the mana itself is alive."

Ashara stared at him.

The physician continued quietly.

"It is not stable in the way I would expect. Yet it is also not failing. In fact, it seems to be responding to our treatment. The mana is gathering around the damaged areas, supporting the body as if it understands where he is hurt."

Ashara’s expression tightened.

"Is it because of his shattered core?"

The physician hesitated.

"That is precisely the problem."

Ashara’s eyes widened.

"The speed of his recovery should not be possible for someone with Lord Rubenhart’s condition. A shattered core with leaking sickness should not be able to draw mana in this way. It should not hold mana long enough for the body to recover from injuries of this severity."

Ashara looked back at Ulrich.

He had blossomed a broken core.

She knew that.

Everyone knew it.

For years, Ulrich had searched for an answer. He had trained despite the damage. He had endured the pain. He had pushed himself further than anyone thought reasonable.

But eventually, he had seemed to stop looking.

At least, that was what she had believed.

"What are you saying?" Ashara asked.

The physician swallowed.

"I am saying that Count Rubenhart may have found a way to cure his mana core sickness."

Ashara’s breath caught.

The physician lowered his gaze respectfully.

"His core feels complete."

The words hung in the silence between them.

"Not merely repaired," he continued. "Not partially stabilized. Complete. The mana flowing through him is too strong, too fluid, and too responsive to belong to a broken core."

Ashara looked at Ulrich.

A complete core.

After all those years, Ulrich had found an answer?

But how?

And why had he never told her?

Maybe it was recent?

Ashara’s expression shifted from shock to thoughtfulness.

Then it hardened.

"Do not speak of this to anyone," she said.

The physician looked up.

"My lady?"

"No servants. No guards. No knights. No noble guests. No one outside this room."

Her icy blue eyes fixed on him.

"Whatever you think you saw, whatever you believe has happened to Count Rubenhart’s core, it remains between the physicians treating him and me."

The physician immediately bowed.

"As you command, Lady Frost."

The second physician bowed as well.

They began gathering their medicines.

"The treatment is not finished," the older physician said. "But his body needs rest before we continue. We have done what we can tonight. If he wakes, do not allow him to rise. Do not allow him to use magic. And if his fever worsens, if the dark veins spread further, or if his breathing changes, summon us at once."

Ashara nodded.

Then her gaze dropped to Ulrich’s left side.

The empty space beneath the blankets made her chest ache.

"Wait," she said.

The physicians stopped.

"What about his arm?"

Near the bedside stood a long wooden case.

Ulrich had removed the severed arm from his space ring before losing consciousness. It had been wrapped carefully in clean cloth and preserved with a faint layer of mana, preventing the flesh from deteriorating during the journey.

The physicians had not yet opened the case fully.

The older physician’s face became serious.

"We will need to inspect it carefully," he said. "The preservation appears adequate, which gives us some hope. But the greatest concern is not only the flesh or bone."

"The mana channels," Ashara said quietly.

The physician nodded.

"If the mana pathways within the arm have been too badly damaged, reattachment will be much more difficult. Even if we restore the limb physically, Lord Rubenhart may struggle to channel mana through it as he once did."

Ashara’s fingers tightened around the edge of the bed.

"But it can be reattached?"

"It may be possible," the physician said. "We cannot promise it yet. We must first clean the wound and assess the damage.

Ashara nodded slowly.

"Do everything you can."

"We will."

The physicians bowed once more.

Then they left the chamber, taking only the empty vials and bloodied instruments with them. The case containing Ulrich’s arm remained beside the bed, waiting for the next stage of treatment.

Ashara stood in silence.

She looked from Ulrich’s face to the wooden case beside him.

A healed core.

A severed arm that might still be restored.

Dark veins spreading through his chest.

Too many questions.

Ashara reached out and gently rested her fingers against his uninjured hand.

Then she sat beside him.

The room had grown quiet.

She looked down at him.

He seemed different in sleep.

Without that coldness in his expression, he looked almost like the boy she had known years ago, before grief, expectations, and pain had hardened every part of him.

She slowly raised her hand.

Her fingers brushed his crimson hair away from his forehead.

"Why?"

She whispered.

"Why do you keep hurting yourself, Ulrich?"

Her fingertips lingered against his temple.

She had never understood it.

After his mother’s death, something inside Ulrich had changed. He had been a child who had lost the person he loved most, but instead of being allowed to grieve, he had been placed beneath the crushing weight of his father’s expectations.

Eurich had trained him, pushed him, and demanded more from him than any child should have been asked to give.

Ulrich’s mana core had been broken. His body could not endure what another child’s might have endured. Yet Eurich had treated the weakness as a flaw Ulrich needed to overcome through pain alone.

And Ulrich had accepted it.

That was the part Ashara could never understand.

He had accepted the training.

He had accepted the loneliness.

He had accepted his father’s disappointment.

He had pushed himself until his hands bled, until mana sickness made him collapse, until his body shook with exhaustion. He had behaved as though the suffering were natural. As though he deserved it. As though his mother’s death, his crippled core, and every cruel thing that followed had somehow been punishment meant only for him.

Ashara’s eyes lowered.

"You are not alone," she whispered.

Perhaps Ulrich had believed he was.

Perhaps that was why he could destroy himself so easily.

He acted as though no one would care what happened to him. As though his reasons did not matter. As though there was no one who would notice whether he returned alive, whether he ruined his body, whether he carried every burden alone until there was nothing left of him.

But Ashara had cared; she had always cared.

Even when he had pushed her away.

Even when his words had hurt her so deeply that she could barely breathe through them.

She remembered that day too clearly.

Ulrich had told her to leave him alone.

He had told her that she did not understand him.

He had told her that she did not belong at his side.

And then Eurich had made it worse.

Ulrich’s father had made it clear that Ashara was not welcome around his son. He said she distracted him, bothered him. Made him softer when he needed to become stronger.

Ashara had wanted to stay.

She had wanted to remain at Ulrich’s side despite his anger, despite Eurich’s disapproval, despite every cold look from the people who believed a girl from Arcadia had no place in House Rubenhart.

But she could not.

Her family was far away in Arcadia, and they had been furious when the connection between their houses began to fracture. The talks of an engagement ended. Letters became fewer. Then stopped entirely.

Ashara’s family would not allow her to return to Skargardia simply to chase after a boy who had rejected her.

So she had been forced to leave.

And as the years passed, the distance between them grew wider.

Ulrich became Count.

Ashara remained in Arcadia.

The boy she had known became a man the world described as cold, dangerous, brilliant, and impossible to approach.

Yet even after everything, Ashara had never believed that he had erased her completely.

Somewhere inside Ulrich, she still had a place.

Small, perhaps.

Buried beneath pain, pride, and years of silence but it remained.

Just as he had always remained in her heart.

Ashara looked at his face again.

She wanted to be angry with him.

She wanted to demand why he had thrown her away so easily. Why he had believed she would abandon him because of his broken core. Why he had chosen to hurt her before she could prove that she would stay.

But then she remembered how he had looked at her in the courtyard.

The exhaustion in his eyes.

The way he had stared as though he could not believe she was real.

The gentleness of his hand when he brushed away her tears.

For a fleeting moment, he had looked like the Ulrich she remembered from childhood.

That Ulrich was not gone.

He was still there, buried deeply, wounded but alive.

Hope stirred inside Ashara.

Slowly, she leaned forward.

Her lips pressed gently against Ulrich’s forehead.

"I promised your mother that I would watch over you," she whispered against his skin.

Her voice shook, but she did not pull away.

"That is why you cannot simply tell me to forget you, Ulrich."

It was a promise Ulrich had never heard.

His mother had made her swear it during the last days of her illness.

Ashara had been young then. Ulrich had fallen asleep beside his mother’s bed after spending the whole night refusing to leave her side. Ulrich’s mother had watched her son for a long time, one frail hand resting in his crimson hair.

Then she had looked at Ashara.

Watch over him, she had said.

Ashara had promised; she had promised before she died.

And she had spent years trying to honor that promise.

Even when Ulrich rejected her.

Even when Eurich made certain she could not remain close.

Even when Ashara had been sent back to Arcadia with her heart broken and no way to return.

Now she sat beside him again.

Still unable to stop caring in the end.

Ashara pulled back slightly and looked down at their joined hands.

A faint smile curled her lips.

"Even if you do not want me at your side," she said softly, "I will not leave you alone."

Then she took Ulrich’s remaining hand between both of hers.

And she stayed beside the bed, holding it while he slept.