A Villainess pulled out the Sword instead of the Hero.

 “Is that tacky tapestry, Morgana’s taste?” 

Late at night.

 

In bed, resting her head on her arm, Guinevere pointed her toe at the tapestry behind her dresser.

 

Morgana was quick to deny it.

 “No? No, it’s not! It’s just, what is it, a bonus from Tir na Nog.” “Then it must be the apothecary’s favorite.” 

The excuse worked, so why did I feel strangely guilty?

 

The apothecary was Morgana herself, after all, so it was a strange twist of fate.

 

It was a shame that the master of this taste, the faceless wizard, had gone to Avalon with his aesthetic sense.

 

Guinevere, wearing the small vial Moonwort held like a necklace, peered into it.

 “This actually works?” 

The first to suggest it, Mauren smirked and tied the curtains.

 “Just in case. It’s good to be prepared for anything, and Sir Lancelot has heightened security.” 

Two guards were posted outside the door leading from the room to the dressing room.

 

There were also guards in front of the doorway and the courtyard below, which she could see from the window.

 

Guinevere snorted as she lay on her bed and surveyed the room, wondering if this was bothering her.

 “Stupid thief, I say. Why bother with second-hand stuff when there’s plenty to steal on the walls and in storage? They could just cut it up and make antiques out of it.” 

Soothingly, Mauren pulled the quilt over her.

 “That’s why it’s a perv, don’t throw the necklace away, and sleep with it.” “I’ll try. There’s nothing I can do about throwing it in my sleep.” 

Morgana listened to their conversation, meticulously checking the tapestry to make sure it was secure.

 

Turning to the window, she noticed that the full moon was exceptionally bright, and the moonlight filtered well into the room.

 

It was a perfect setting to see the effects of the moonwort.

 

‘Thank goodness the moon was bright.’

 

Morgana returned to her quarters, relieved.

  

With a thud, Lancelot touched the wooden floor with the tip of his beloved sword, Arondight.

 

A court painting room filled with paintings, fabrics, and braziers hanging everywhere.

 

Galehaut, seated in front of a white canvas, put down his painting brush and sighed.

 “Don’t cut the wood floor with your sword.” “Well, never mind.” 

Lancelot smirked and shook his head, but Galehaut finally put the canvas away.

 “I don’t mind your sword, but not the floor of my chamber.” 

The famous sword Arondight, handed down from generation to generation of the Lark family, never lost its sharpness.

 

The blade was not sheathed and sharpened, but rather taken bare, leaving a scorch mark on the floor that Galehaut found annoying.

 

‘This is just the normal Gale…’

 

Ever since he met Morgana, the question had been on his mind.

 

For him, Galehaut was a childhood friend. He was convinced he knew him better than most.

 

‘No matter what I thought, there was no reason to steal from the Princess.’ 

 

As artists, are prone at times to have a sensitive side that belies their size, but not to the point of being out of line.

 

Lancelot sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair.

 

‘Ah, it bothers me to hear that.’

 

His best friend had been by his side when his parents died, comforting him more than anyone else.

 

It made him feel pathetic and incompetent to doubt him.

 

Even in the royal palace, his studio, tucked away in a corner, was always well-lit at night.

 

It was a very normal routine for Galehaut to paint after dark.

 

Even today, as I see him, he hasn’t been working on a painting.

 

‘It is not like Gale after all.’

 

 

Lancelot, his suspicions confirmed, rose from his armchair.

 “It’s getting late, and I should probably go on patrol.” “Very well. Go on.” “You’re too kind. You don’t even pretend to be upset?” “I see you every day and it’s gross.” 

Laughing at his dismissive remark, Lancelot scanned the paintings on the walls out of habit.

 

Nothing was different from before. It was so familiar that it felt strange.

 

‘Wait…’

 

Lancelot’s body froze.

 

‘Nothing… has changed?’

 

A court painter painted for royal commissions, but sometimes they also played the role of matchmaker.

 

Guinevere’s mind was full, so it was time to find someone to paint portraits of King Vortigern and Guinevere.

 

I couldn’t wait forever for someone to take Excalibur.

 

There would never be enough time to paint portraits, and the fact that the painting room looked the same as it had when he visited a few months ago… something was definitely off.

 

Galehaut nudged him in the back as he stood in the center of the room.

 “What are you doing standing there?” “Gale, come to think of it, you haven’t been painting much lately.” 

Lancelot’s gaze drifted to the blank canvas he’d set aside.

 

Galehaut, who was cleaning up the fire pit, replied nonchalantly.

 “What’s up with all the random questions?” “Just curious. Did you get a new brooch? I don’t remember seeing it before.” “Since when are you so interested in my outfit?” “I’m sure I look better in it. Gale doesn’t wear such fancy brooches…” 

Lancelot smirked and reached for his cravat.

 

At the same time, Galehaut swung his hand roughly, striking at his arm.

 

Lancelot frowned slightly as his right hand hurt from the brief contact.

 

But it was only for a moment. Regaining his composure quickly, Galehaut coughed grimly.

 “I’m keeping the one I’ve been using, and I’ll get you a new one later. It’s a gift.” “Sure, why don’t I take yours?” 

Lancelot was silent for a moment as he lightly squeezed the outstretched hand.

 

Morgana was right, there was too much to this coincidence to be a mere chance.

 

I knew him better than anyone else, and I sensed the change.

 

Lancelot smiled weakly.

 “Very well, then, give it to me later. I’d better get back to the Princess’s palace.” “Yes.” 

As he strode briskly toward the door, he called out his name once more.

 “Galehaut.” “Why again.” “I’ve always liked you, both as a friend and as a painter and a fan.” 

Lancelot spoke the last words.

  

It’s after midnight, and the palace grounds are silent, most of them asleep.

 

A thud. The vibrations were strong enough to echo down the hallway.

 

Morgana, who had been up all night with bloodshot eyes, jumped with joy.

 

‘It’s here!’ 

 

The distant vibration was easy to miss if one didn’t listen closely.

 

When it rang out again, with a thud. Morgana took a deep breath.

 Bang

, the door froze in place, and she shouted as loudly as she could for the palace guard to leave.

 “Who runs around at dawn without a shred of conscience!” 

Morgana’s shout, disguised as a floor noise, woke the maids, who came out into the hallway one by one.

 “What, what’s the matter?” “Uh, what, what…? Who played the piano at dawn?” 

The maids, half-open-eyed and wandering on the border between dream and reality, were stopped in their tracks by another thumping, ringing sound.

 “What was that…” 

At the same time, the maids-in-charge, who had been awakened, grabbed their lanterns and ran in unison.

 “Princess, this is the direction of the princess’s room. Call the guards!” “Yes, yes, Maid!” “The rest of you, hurry to the Princess’s chambers! If you see anyone suspicious, report it!” “Yes!” 

Everyone’s reaction was quick, perhaps due to Guinevere’s frequent assassination attempts.

The dark hallway was gradually illuminated.

 

Morgana followed the maid’s lead and sprinted toward Guinevere’s room.

 

When she arrived, Guinevere, still in her pajamas with a shawl draped over her shoulders, stood in front of the knights, fuming.

 “What were you doing barging in like that?” “I didn’t see anyone suspicious.” “He just barged in through the dressing room door, and I don’t know how he did it.” “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I really don’t have a clue.” “Oh, my goodness. I saw someone run out the door, and you say the guard didn’t see it? Don’t you have eyes?” 

The guards repeated themselves as Guinevere ran a hand through her hair to stifle her anger. Morgana pushed her way through the maids.

 “’Your Highness, the necklace, the necklace!” “The necklace?” 

Guinevere bent her head to see the moonwort around her neck, and sighed in regret.

 “Oh, I forgot.” 

It wasn’t something she usually carried, so she must have forgotten.

 

The other maids had heard the commotion, and the guards, including Lancelot, had gathered in front of her room.

 

When she glared at Lancelot, he took off his coat and asked,

“You’d better put something on, my lady.” “No, I don’t need it, because if this perverted bastard doesn’t get caught and beaten to a pulp, I’m going to kill him with a vase.” 

Leaving Lancelot to put his coat back on casually, she clutched at the bottle around her neck and asked.

 “So, Morgana, what am I to do, chew it up and eat it?” “Oh, no, you can’t eat it!” 

Moonwort was not an edible herb in the first place. Morgana looked around, then turned to Lancelot.

 “Could you please darken the area around the Princess’s room?” 

He nodded toward the guards, who looked like they weren’t going to cooperate.

 “Put out the lights, everyone.” “Yes, sir!” 

The maids’ lanterns and what little light there was in the hall vanished, leaving only the moonlight.

 

Guinevere looked down at her hands and snorted.

 “See, this is a funny plant.” 

A faint glow emanated from the vial of herbs in her hand.