Surviving As The Villainess's Attendant

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a faint glow across the stone walls of the chamber. The air inside was warm—unnaturally so, preserved with old magic to shield against the biting cold outside. And yet, Fletz felt cold.

He stood just beyond the doorway, massive shoulders hunched, claws curling and uncurling at his sides as he stared at the frail figure resting atop the bed.

Snow Moon.

Her silver hair—once so radiant, like a banner of light in every battle—was now dull and thin, like threads of mist.

Her skin, pale as ever, seemed almost translucent against the white furs beneath her. Every breath she drew was a struggle, shallow and raspy, like winter wind struggling through a cracked window.

Fletz didn't move closer.

He couldn't.

He had faced death a thousand times. Had crushed skulls with one hand, broken steel beneath his fists, survived winters that would turn armies into statues of ice.

But this.

This helplessness...

This hurt more than any wound he'd ever taken.

Draken sat beside her, his calloused hand gently holding hers. His black hair had grayed at the temples, his eyes sunken with sleepless nights. He hadn't left her side for days.

"I know you're there," Snow Moon whispered suddenly.

Her voice was faint, almost carried away by the hiss of the fire, but it reached him like a thunderclap.

Fletz flinched. Slowly, carefully, he stepped into the chamber. The wooden floor creaked under his weight.

She turned her head slightly toward him, a weak smile ghosting across her lips.

"Come here, big guy."

He obeyed.

Each step felt heavier than the last. By the time he reached her bedside, his chest felt too tight. He knelt—no, slumped—beside her, claws curling into the rug as he stared at the woman who had given him everything.

She raised a trembling hand toward him, and he bent forward so she could touch his fur. Her fingers, fragile and cold, brushed his cheek.

"You've gotten so big…" she murmured, eyes glassy. "Still grumbling like an old bear?"

Fletz huffed softly, almost like a chuckle. A puff of frost curled from his nostrils.

She smiled wider, but then a cough wracked her frame, and Draken leaned in quickly, steadying her.

"Selena—" he began.

"I'm fine," she rasped. "Not much longer now. Let me talk to him."

Draken looked away, jaw tight. He nodded once.

Fletz leaned closer.

"Listen to me, Fletz…" she said. "You've always protected us. You were our shield, our wall, our strength. But when I'm gone… promise me… you'll protect the others too. The ones who come after. Promise me you won't go back to being alone."

Fletz blinked. His massive claw reached up, trembling slightly, and gently wrapped around her tiny hand.

He nodded.

A tear slipped from her eye.

"Thank you," she whispered. "You were never just a monster… you were our family."

She closed her eyes.

And this time…

She didn't open them again.

Silence fell.

Draken bowed his head, his broad shoulders trembling—but he didn't cry out.

He just sat there, silent, clutching her frail hand as the fire's warmth slowly faded.

Fletz didn't move for a long, long time.

He sat in the corner, his hulking form still as stone, watching the only light he had ever known dim and disappear.

Outside, the wind howled across the cliffs.

But inside, the Wampa wept.

Not with roars or fury, but with quiet, broken breaths. His heart—once a cold and hardened thing—cracked in ways even he didn't understand.

The one who had given him a name… the one who had taught him the meaning of kindness… was gone.

And a few winters later, it was his father's turn.

Fletz had known it was coming. Draken had grown slower. His once-commanding voice had grown softer, his strikes less precise. But even then, the man still smiled like always, still teased Fletz for grumbling at the cold, still kept a hand on the hilt of his sword like it would never leave him.

But one day, he called Fletz to the underground chamber—the one they had sealed beneath the castle with every relic and story they had gathered.

Draken stood there, older and thinner, silver streaks in his black hair, but his eyes still held that fire.

He placed the sword—his sword—into its cradle of stone and iron.

Then he looked up at Fletz and spoke, voice steady but tired.

"Remember this," he said. "Someday, one of our descendants will come here and draw this sword."

He rested his hand on the blade, then glanced back at the Wampa he had once tried to kill.

"But until that day, this castle will face many threats—tomb raiders, looters, worse. And I need you to protect this place after I'm gone. You're the only one I trust."

Fletz didn't answer with words. He never could.

But the slow, solemn nod of his massive head was enough.

Draken smiled.

"Good," he whispered. "Then it's settled."

The next time the wind howled… it howled for him.

Draken was buried beside her—Snow Moon—beneath the tallest peak of the northern cliffs. The very mountain they had once climbed together, back when they were young and foolish and the world had been full of promise.

Fletz stood over their graves for days.

He was no longer just a beast.

He was the last piece of their legacy.

So he stayed.

He became the guardian of the Draken family—watching, waiting, hidden in the depths of their fortress long after the world above changed a hundred times over. Seasons came and went. Generations passed. And still he waited.

And now…

—Swish.

The sword moved.

No, not just moved—came free.

A girl stood in the pale blue light of the vault. Her hair was silver-white, her stance confident but unrefined. She was young, younger than Snow Moon had been when they first met… and her eyes burned with the same quiet fire.

The very blade no one else had been able to lift—not even the current Duke, famed across the continent for his strength—now rested easily in her hands.

Fletz's chest ached.

He should have felt joy. Relief. Pride.

But all he felt was a heavy, hollow ache.

It was too soon.

He had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that no one like her would ever appear.

Why? Because if she took that sword away from here... she would also be taking all the memories with her.

And he didn't want to forget those memories.

The Wampa—Fletz—knew that Draken, his father, would have been overjoyed to see someone from their bloodline finally pull the sword free.

And yet, despite knowing that, Fletz clung to selfish emotions.

That was why he forced himself to say a word—a word no monster was ever meant to speak.

"Prove it."

The way he spoke was awkward and broken, as if the sound itself was too heavy to leave his throat.

The voice didn't even sound right. Barely more than a whisper.

And it wasn't just one word after all.

"Prove you are the heir."

The Wampa had practiced saying that sentence for nearly a century.

And now... he had finally said it.

All that remained was to take the sword back.

Or let her take it away—for good.