Power isn't taken. It's left behind by fools who thought you wouldn't dare pick it up.
The ballroom had never looked so pristine. Gold trim polished to a mirror shine, crystal chandeliers floating mid-air, flickering softly like artificial starlight. Nobles draped in imported silk crowded the steps and balconies, their faces wearing masks of polite pity and hidden delight.
The media drones hovered, lenses blinking red. Every camera in the Empire focused on one thing.
Her.
Seraphina Vaelmont stood at the heart of it all, back straight, chin high, expression unreadable. A soft winter-white coat draped over her arms, pearl earrings glinting beneath her pinned hair. A fallen duchess, a ruined fiancée, a villainess exposed at last—wasn't that the headline?
Behind her, the Crown Prince stepped up to the ceremonial dais, flanked by his usual collection of yes-men and second-rate aristocrats. Lucien Aurelis—future ruler of Caldris, current poster boy for mediocrity—lifted a gold-gilded holopad and cleared his throat.
"I… regret to announce the dissolution of our engagement," Lucien said, reading from the gilded holopad like a schoolboy clumsily delivering a speech he didn't write. "This decision… came after much thought. I believe Seraphina will be happier without the constraints of this union, and I… I have chosen to follow my heart."
His tone wavered. He was proud of this. Like he had written it himself. He hadn't.
Thirty-two grammatical flaws so far, Seraphina noted dryly. And a rhetorical structure so limp it should be studied in failure seminars.
Behind Lucien stood his ever-faithful flock of dunces—noble sons with inflated egos and bruised pride, many of whom had suffered public defeats at Seraphina's hand. They smirked like jackals, hiding behind lace cravats and their limited vocabulary.
And beside him, like a lily dipped in poison, stood Evelyn.
Her baby sister.
Dressed in soft blues, eyes glistening with crocodile tears, Evelyn clutched a lace handkerchief and sniffled delicately. "This is… so difficult," she murmured, voice trembling just enough to fool the crowd. "I begged him to reconsider. Truly, I did. But perhaps this is… what destiny intended for her."
Seraphina could practically hear the nobles swooning. How brave. How graceful. How tragic.
How completely fake.
Barbs wrapped in silk.
Seraphina didn't blink.
She let her gaze sweep the crowd. Her father stood stiffly near the court officials, face tight with forced disappointment. Her mother, by contrast, dabbed at her eyes like an opera actress from a century past.
At the far end of the stage, the Empress sat with her hands folded and her chin tilted up. No expression. But her eyes met Seraphina's with a flicker of satisfaction.
Ah.
So this was your orchestration after all.
This farce has your fingerprints all over it.
Fitting. You never did like things you couldn't control.
How predictable.
How dull.
Seraphina offered her a condescending smirk.
⸻
A polite cough broke her thoughts. One of Lucien's friends—Renlor, the viscount's heir and a certified buffoon—cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"Lady Seraphina, while this outcome is… unfortunate, I trust you'll understand that it is for the Empire's good," he said, all pomp and no spine. "You've played your role, Lady Seraphina. The curtain's closed. Be gracious and exit."
Another, Kaien Drosven—once second to her in every academy subject—stood behind him, arms folded. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
Seraphina tilted her head and stared at Kaien.
His shoulders stiffened.
She smiled, just faintly.
Coward.
⸻
Flashback – Age 10
A girl in black, dressed like a doll, stood in a palace garden, holding a teacup too large for her hands. Steady posture, a bit too mature for her age.
Across from her, a boy smirked, so self assured in his regal attire, a crimson sash and white coat. What a cute little prince, until he spoke. "You'll be mine one day. So try to keep up."
Illusion shattered. She didn't blink. Just stared at the frog in a prince's skin and thought:
"Do I have to?"
⸻
The Empress stood.
"Lady Seraphina," she said. "You are hereby stripped of your titles, noble status, and place in the House of Lords. You will be escorted to the outer provinces to live out your days in peace."
Peace.
She almost laughed.
Peace was the word they used for exile. For obscurity. For containment.
Seraphina bowed gracefully. "As Her Majesty commands."
No scream. No protest. Not even a flicker of embarrassment.
And in that silence, the court grew uncomfortable.
What was a villainess without outrage?
⸻
Outside, her maid Mireille stood trembling as she held out a modest traveling coat. She cried as she handed it over.
"Young Miss… forgive them…" she whispered, voice quivering. "They don't understand… They've thrown away a diamond because they mistook it for a knife."
"They needed someone to blame," Seraphina said softly, slipping on her coat. "And I refused to be their mirror."
From the grand stairs, nobles whispered.
"She's not even crying."
"Arrogant to the end."
"She thinks she's better than us."
You're right, she thought. I am.
She descended slowly, every step as smooth as a queen's procession. At the bottom, she paused—just once—and looked back.
The Empress stared back, lips tight.
Seraphina smiled.
Just enough to make the woman feel small.
⸻
Flashback – Age 13
Blood on her sleeves. Smoke in her lungs.
The bandits had come for her convoy. They wanted to make a statement: no child should rise so high.
She fought. Bled. Protected her aide with her bare hands.
When she returned, bandaged and shaking, her parents didn't ask if she was hurt.
They asked how much damage had been done to the family name.
⸻
The car that carried her to the station was silent. Seraphina didn't look back at the palace. She had already erased it from her soul.
As the city passed outside the window, the memories rose unbidden.
Age 3: locked in the basement for her first tantrum.
Age 5: forced to walk in heels on gravel while her governess screamed that "pain is elegance."
Age 11: Evelyn's lies. Seraphina punished with caning. Forced to nurse her sister and still meet her study quotas.
Age 15: The first time she wore another identity. The first business she acquired. The first string she pulled.
They had raised her like a weapon. And now they thought they'd discarded her.
Idiots.
⸻
Back in the ballroom, Evelyn curtsied to thunderous applause.
"Such courage," whispered a noblewoman. "To stand with the Prince like that."
From a nearby balcony, a figure watched the event in silence. Hidden by a gilded column and half a veil.
A man in gray leaned beside her. "She's really leaving."
The veiled woman tilted her head. "If she makes it to the borderlands, it's over."
"Do you want me to intercept her?"
She held up a hand.
"No. We need subtlety. Let the accident happen on the way."
She smiled under her veil.
"After all… a villainess with no throne is still dangerous. But a villainess who never arrives?" She smiled, just enough to show teeth. "That's just a sad tale. One the Black Veil doesn't bother to remember."