The Villainess is the Villainess [Otome Isekai LitRPG]

Book 3: Chapter 4 - A Return to Normalcy [Part 1]

- George Bernard Shaw.

Dawn broke over the broken ruins of Milani Village, its pale light filtering through the shattered shutters of Gaellan’s house. Seraphina stirred in the narrow bed, her eyes opening to the quiet that had replaced the village’s once-lively hum. The room, small but lovingly kept, was a ghost of its former occupant, the now-dead Mina. There was a polished elm chest under the eaves, a braided rug dyed in sunset hues, and a quilt that smelled faintly of lavender. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant chirp of a lone bird, as if the world itself mourned the carnage of the previous day.

Seraphina sat up, her muscles aching and a little stiff. She wondered to herself how she ever managed to live for such a long time in such… accommodations. After a moment’s thought, the girl chalked it up to her raw grit and resilience

The emerald amulet rested heavy against her collarbone, its pulse a steady reminder of her reclaimed identity. She swung her legs over the bed’s edge, bare feet brushing the cool floorboards, and stood, stretching to ease the stiffness. Her gaze fell on a small hand mirror on the dresser, its surface catching the morning light. Levine had bought it for her, she recalled. She picked it up, studying her reflection: short blonde hair, matted with ash and blood, framed a face hardened by rage and purpose. Her eyes, once soft as Mina’s, now burned with the intensity of Seraphina de Sariens, heir to Aranthia.

She set the mirror down and opened the wardrobe, its dark wood creaking. Inside hung an assortment of clothing. Mina’s more delicate dresses, she disregarded. Instead, Seraphina selected a simple brown traveling dress, its fabric sturdy yet unassuming, with a modest cut that allowed for ease of movement. She dressed quickly, the practical attire grounding her in her new reality.

Hunger gnawed at her, and she descended the creaking stairs to the kitchen. The hearth was cold, its embers grey and lifeless. In the larder, she found a basket of apples, their skins glossy in the dim light, and a wheel of cheese wrapped in cloth. She sliced the cheese with a knife, its sharp tang mingling with the sweet bite of an apple. As she ate, memories of Mina’s disastrous attempts at cooking flickered—burnt bread, spilled stew—and a wry smile crossed her lips before she pushed the annoying feeling of nostalgia down. That girl was, of course, now gone.

With breakfast finished, Seraphina turned to preparation. She needed supplies for the first leg of her journey. She intended to go to Troyes, a town she vaguely recalled from the game. In Gaellan’s study, a cluttered room with shelves of ledgers and maps, she rifled through drawers. A leather pouch, hidden beneath a stack of papers, clinked with silver coins—twenty, by her count, a small fortune by the standards of a commoner.

She pocketed them, ignoring a twinge of guilt. Gaellan had no use for them now, and she justified that this was not theft but payment for services rendered. On the desk, she found a worn map of the region, its parchment just starting to yellow. Troyes was marked to the northwest, a day’s ride along country roads winding through forests and fields. A bit further was Meridian, her final destination. She traced the route, committing it to memory, then rolled the map and tucked it into her belt.

Before leaving, she gave the house one last thorough search, hoping to find something useful. In the study, an old waterskin alongside a leather satchel hung by the door. She slung both over her shoulder without hesitation and moved on. A trinket—a carved wooden bird—caught her eye on a shelf, but she left it, unwilling to carry reminders of this awful place. Returning to the kitchens, she loaded up her bag with some food for the road.

Stepping outside, Seraphina was greeted by the sight of Cornelia, her three-headed hydra, coiled around the house like a living moat. The beast’s alabaster scales glinted in the dawn, her six yellow eyes half-lidded. The village beyond was a wasteland: charred timbers and scattered debris. A stray dog whimpered in the distance, the only sign of life Cornelia had spared.

“Cornelia,” Seraphina called, her voice firm but soft, “time to go. Make yourself small.”

The Hydra hissed, a triune chorus of compliance, and her massive form shimmered. In moments, she shrank to the size of a large snake, her scales smooth and cool. Cornelia slithered up Seraphina’s leg, slipping under her tunic and wrapping around her torso, the hydra’s heads nestling against her chest for warmth. Seraphina shivered at the touch but welcomed the familiar weight, the amulet pulsing in sync with Cornelia’s presence.

“Where’s a horse?” the young girl asked, stroking one of Cornelia’s heads.

The Hydra’s central head lifted, sniffing the air. “There in the large green bit with stuff around it,” she rumbled, pointing with its snout toward the back of the house. The other heads nodded in agreement, their tongues flicking.

“That is called a paddock,” Seraphina corrected primly.

The noblewoman followed the direction, her boots crunching on ash-covered ground. The paddock, a simple enclosure of split logs, held a single horse—Ember, the very mare she had calmed at Arnell’s smithy. Ember grazed calmly, her chestnut coat gleaming in the sunlight. As Seraphina approached, the horse raised her head, ears pricked.

Seraphina sent a mental command, “Be still, Ember.”

The mare’s eyes softened, her body relaxing as the amulet’s power took hold. Ember stood motionless, allowing Seraphina to enter the nearby stable. Inside, she found a saddle, its leather worn but sturdy, a bridle with a simple bit, and a halter. She carried them to the paddock, her movements practiced despite the time lost to amnesia.

She placed a saddle pad on Ember’s back, then the saddle, tightening the girth with care to avoid pinching. The bridle came next, the bit sliding into Ember’s mouth as Seraphina adjusted the straps. She checked the stirrups, ensuring they were the right length as Kellan had instructed her long ago, and tied the waterskin and satchel to the saddle. Satisfied, she mounted, settling into the saddle with a sense of purpose. Ember responded to a gentle nudge, trotting out of the paddock and onto the country road leading northwest.

The road wound through fields and forests, the landscape a stark contrast to the village’s ruins. Golden wheat swayed in the breeze, and birds flitted among the trees, their songs a mockery of the destruction behind her. Seraphina’s thoughts churned as she rode, the amulet’s presence against her heart a reminder of what she had endured.

With some time on her hands, the girl decided to review her Status.