Reincarnated as the Villainess’s Unlucky Bodyguard

Enara rolled her eyes, but some stubborn part of her wondered what she would say if she dared, if she could. It was easier to glare, to distance herself, to be the wronged queen-in-training with dignity and just the right amount of tragic heartbreak. That was how things were supposed to go, wasn't it? Someone had to keep up appearances.

The sword in her hand felt heavier now. Or perhaps her heart did. She swung again at the dummy an old practice model so battered it was more patchwork than original and imagined, just for a wicked instant, that its head was crowned with silver hair and wore an expression halfway between a smirk and an apology.

The door banged open with the kind of force only Daena could manage. Enara didn't turn immediately. She recognized that entrance the way one recognizes the first rumble of an approaching thunderstorm.

"Well," Daena rumbled, arms folded and horns nearly brushing the lintel, "I see you've managed to decapitate at least one enemy before breakfast. That's progress, princess."

Enara wiped her brow with the back of her arm. "I'm preparing for the next round of traitors. It's never too early."

From his perch atop a nearby stack of discarded practice shields, Ananara gave a lazy, approving wave. "If you need more heads to bash, I'll volunteer to paint faces on some cabbages. More personality than Kael, anyway."

"Don't tempt me," Enara muttered.

Daena sauntered in, grabbing a practice sword for herself. It looked like a child's toy in her hands, but she twirled it with a casual menace. "Or perhaps you'd like to practice with someone less forgiving than a sack of straw?"

Ananara immediately began a commentary. "In this corner, Enara the Merciless. In the other, Daena the Indestructible. Odds are three to one Daena ends the match with only mild back pain."

Enara managed a half-smile. "Careful, Ananara. You'll hurt her feelings."

Daena snorted. "If I had feelings, I wouldn't have survived a century of palace intrigue, three civil wars, and the annual royal masquerade."

She motioned for Enara to circle her, feet light despite her size. They sparred, moving slowly, each testing the other's patience more than their reflexes.

After a few exchanges, Daena grinned. "So. You watched your not-quite-ex-best-friend play at penance with Kael. Did you enjoy the show?"

Enara glared, parrying a lazy swing. "It was… educational. I never realized how many ways one could trip over their own feet while trying to flirt and lift bricks at the same time."

Ananara chimed in, "Kael thinks he's subtle, but the last time someone looked at Liria like that, they were trying to sell her cursed jewelry. She nearly bit their hand off."

Daena feigned shock. "Liria? Biting? My stars, what next repentance? Or, heaven forbid, actual sincerity?"

They all laughed. It was sharp, a little cruel, but warmer than Enara remembered laughter being in weeks.

Enara ducked a strike. "She looked happy. For a minute. That's what annoys me. As if it's that simple just lift a few stones and laugh, and suddenly everything's fine."

Daena shrugged, circling. "Happiness is easy for fools. Regret, though that's a more complicated poison. And love… love's what makes both worth swallowing."

Ananara sighed, adopting the tragic tone of a poet. "If only she'd fallen for someone dull. Or at least less dramatic. Then we could all go back to sleep."

"Too late," Enara said. "We're all cursed now. Especially me."

Daena took a step back, lowering her sword. She eyed Enara with something almost like sympathy if sympathy wore iron boots. "Listen to me, little terror. You can hate her. You can love her. You can do both, I won't judge. But if you spend all your time hiding from how you feel, you'll miss the part where you get to live instead of just surviving."

Enara bristled. "She betrayed us. She broke my trust."

Daena nodded, not flinching. "And you broke hers, once. Different ways, different reasons. Forgiveness isn't surrender. It's just… opening a door to see if anyone dares walk through."

Ananara nodded, unusually solemn. "She's right. No one's ever written a good song about lovers who glare at each other across a moat for eternity. Except maybe that one tragic bard, but he was drunk most of the time."

Enara sighed, letting the sword drop. "I don't know how to talk to her. I don't even know if I want to."

Daena put a heavy hand on her shoulder, warm and reassuring. "You don't have to know. You just have to try. Let her see you angry, confused, jealous, all of it. Maybe then she'll have the courage to show you the same."

Ananara snickered. "And if that fails, you can always push her into a fountain. That's how my parents courted. It worked out. One of them became a dessert, but that's life."

Daena gave the pineapple a look of withering fondness. "Don't encourage her."

Enara managed a real, if crooked, smile. "What if she doesn't want to talk?"

"Then you'll know," Daena said, serious now. "But at least you'll have done something more than just watch."

A comfortable silence settled over the training hall. Daena collected the practice swords, her movements precise. "Don't wait too long, Enara. Pride is a fine thing, but it makes a poor pillow."

Enara stared at her her champion, her greatest critic and nodded. "Thank you. For not being gentle."

Daena's mouth twitched. "Gentle is for enemies. Family gets the truth."

She strode off, leaving the echo of her wisdom bouncing from the stone walls. Ananara rolled after her, pausing at the doorway. "You know, if you ever want to practice your confessions, I charge a very reasonable fee. First one's free, for tragic princesses."

Enara snorted, tossing her towel at him. "Get out before I decide to practice sword-throwing instead."

When they'd gone, she sat for a moment on the edge of the sparring mat, the world suddenly less heavy and more absurd. Maybe I'll try, she thought. Maybe I'll say something anything before the chance slips away for good.

After all, if she could survive Daena's training, pineapple jokes, and her own spectacular emotional mess, surely a single conversation with Liria couldn't be that much harder.

Could it?

She stood, stretched, and went in search of answers or at least, a good excuse for making a fool of herself.