The Dark Lady's Guide to Villainy [Book 1 Complete] [Dark Lord, School, Romance]

Nyx shifted, curiosity rippling across their obsidian skin like waves on a midnight sea. "Like what?"

"Like..." Mo leaned forward, her voice dropping. "Think about why you're angry while projecting anger. Something real."

As Nyx complied, Mo closed her eyes. The platform's ancient magic surged through her veins like liquid starlight, heightening her senses beyond mere emotion. Behind her eyelids, images formed—not just the heat of Nyx's fake anger, but whispers of context and motivation swirled like smoke given form and voice. A conversation replayed, words exchanged between Nyx and Dorian, each syllable tinged with the shapeshifter's pride and uncertainty.

"You're pretending to be angry about... Dorian insulting your shifting abilities?"

Nyx's form flickered with shock. "What? I would never?!? How did you…?"

"I don't know," Mo admitted, feeling the platform pulse beneath her feet. "It's like the chamber is... amplifying my empathic abilities in new ways. Not just emotions, but intentions. And that's not all. These new… skills, they stay with me!" Her mind raced with possibilities. "If I can sense hidden motivations even through magical shielding…"

"You could tell when someone is lying," Lucian finished, frost patterns spreading in delicate fractals across his sleeves. "And with the power behind this ancient ritual circle, probably even high-level mages."

For the ultimate exercise, Mo invited Lucian to take the lead by creating ice figures representing different personalities—goblin revolutionaries, members of the Shadow Cabinet, Lord Aldric himself. Joining their forces, the trio embedded each of them with the smallest, faintest shred of intent. Mo had to identify which figures represented allies versus threats, then influence each with a different emotional projection: confidence for allies, doubt for enemies, all without affecting those nearby.

It worked with these simple constructs. But would it work on Aldric or his cronies? Would it work on the goblins if needed? They had only one way to find out.

By the time Mo finished her training session, sweat beaded on her forehead despite the air conditioning instigated by Lucian's magic. But she'd done it—all those different targeted influences, sustained simultaneously.

"I think," Nyx said slowly, watching as the ice figures melted on the stone floor, "that counts as enough progress for one night."

Mo nodded, feeling the platform's energy pulse beneath her, in apparent agreement. "Let's hope that's enough."

They gathered their things in weary silence, the weight of tomorrow's challenge settling over them like a shroud. As Nyx extinguished the chamber's remaining light, Mo paused at the threshold, a thought crystallizing in her mind.

"Wait," she said, turning back to her friends. "There's something else we need to address before we leave for Blackthorn Keep."

Lucian tilted his head, frost patterns swirling with concern. "You should rest, Mo. No doubt, the day will be full of events tomorrow."

"I know. But these rumors Darian's spreading... they'll only grow more poisonous while we're gone. Right now, half the Academy thinks I'm some rogue mind-controller one bad day away from enslaving the student body."

Nyx's form sharpened with interest. "And why is it so bad? Maybe you should embrace the story? Anyway, are you thinking of a preemptive strike? A little midnight visit to our favorite rumormonger?"

"Not a strike," Mo clarified, though the darkness in her voice suggested otherwise. "A demonstration. Controlled, precise—exactly what I've been practicing." She looked at her hands, where faint traces of her hallmark energy still lingered just above her skin. "A message that will spread just as quickly as his lies. And an opportunity to test something before we confront Aldric."

"Well, besides the fact that all of us need rest, the timing is quite good," Lucian said. "Late enough for most to be asleep, but the dedicated gossips will still be awake, ready to witness and spread whatever happens."

Mo nodded, decision made. Despite her exhaustion, a strange clarity had settled over her. "Then let's pay Darian Blackcrest a visit. One ultimate test before we face what's waiting at Blackthorn Keep."

***

Outside Darian's door, Mo took a steadying breath. The corridor stretched before her, dark and silent save for the occasional creak of ancient wood settling. The perfect stage.

"Remember," Nyx whispered, their form melting partially into the shadows until only gleaming eyes remained visible, "just enough to make a point without crossing any academic lines. We have enough problems with the faculty already."

Mo nodded, rose-gold energy gathering at her fingertips—no longer wild and untamed as it had been during her duel with Valerius, but precisely controlled, almost architectural in its structure. The ancient chamber's power lingered in her veins, a low hum of potential that made even her whisper carry.

"I know exactly where the line is," Mo said, and rapped her knuckles against the door.

One knock. Two. Three.

Shuffling sounds from within, a muffled curse. But Mo didn't stop knocking. On the contrary, she intensified her efforts, making the sounds louder. Now, she heard movement not only from behind Darian's door, but from the next dorms as well.

The door creaked open to reveal Darian, hair mussed from sleep, wearing an expensive silk robe embroidered with his family crest. Irritation flashed across his features, quickly replaced by alarm as he registered who stood before him.

"Lady Nightshade," he said, instinctively squaring his shoulders in a pitiful attempt at intimidation. "What a ruckus! It's past midnight. What could possibly…"

"May I come in?"

"Absolutely not," Darian scoffed, though his eyes kept darting to the rose-gold energy curling around her fingers like living smoke. "This is highly inappropriate. I could report you for…"

"For what?" Mo tilted her head. Then, she glanced left and right, seeing that almost every door in the corridor was open now and eager faces were focused on the spectacle. She allowed just a hint of power to flavor her words. "For offering you a choice? That's more than you offered me, Darian. And that's all I've come to do, Darian. Offer a choice."

Down the hallway, eyes gleamed in the darkness, ears strained to catch every word. Exactly as planned.

"A choice," Darian repeated, wariness battling curiosity.

"You've been spreading stories about me," Mo said, raising her voice just enough to ensure their audience could hear. "About what I did to you and your friends in that chamber. Some true, some... creative embellishments."

"I reported what happened."

"So, if you are such a professional reporter, caring to get the best story, you won't mind experiencing a quick primer of what I can really do," Mo said, palm lifting toward him, energy hovering just above her skin. "To refresh your memory. And give you a real story. With your consent, of course."

Confusion flickered across his face. "My consent?"

"Unlike your midnight ritual, I don't force experiences on unwilling participants," Mo explained, her voice carrying easily down the corridor. The whispers increased as more doors opened. "Unless they are my enemies. You aren't my enemy, Darien, are you?"

Suddenly, Darien looked like he was trying to find a dignified reply, but couldn't.

"My interaction with you and your friends was merely a defensive measure," Mo said. "Now, the situation is different. You may spread insane rumors about me, but I won't say it necessitates a direct attack. Yet."

As she was taught during her classes, Mo made a dramatic pause, looked at the audience, meeting almost each gaze of the students who now flooded the corridor.

"So, you can choose to feel what I'm capable of," she returned her gaze to Darian. "A brief, controlled emotional projection. And hopefully choose to stop spreading mischaracterizations of my abilities. Or, you can acknowledge that you are a coward who couldn't even withstand a first-year's spell."

Darian's eyes narrowed, calculation replacing fear. "And if I refuse both options?"

Mo smiled—the expression nothing like her usual warmth, something older and darker that had awakened on that ancient platform. "Then I walk away, and you're left wondering what exactly you missed, answering the questions of your peers." She spread her hands wide, as if embracing the corridor. "Uncertainty is its own kind of torture, don't you think?"

The gauntlet thrown, Mo waited as Darian visibly wrestled with his options. Pride warred with curiosity, fear with ambition. The weight of watchful eyes pressed on them both.

"One experience," he finally said, voice strained with forced bravado. "Controlled and brief. Nothing harmful. And then we'll... discuss your concerns."

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Mo nodded. "Close your eyes."

As he complied—a gesture of surrender that sent excited whispers racing through their growing audience—Mo reached out. Not touching him physically, but extending a thread of her power toward him. Unlike the chaotic burst during that night in the chamber, this was precision work, a delicate connection forming between them.

But what she found in Darian's mind as their consciousnesses brushed was uglier than she'd expected: layers of entitlement, casual cruelty rationalized as tradition, and beneath it all, a deep well of insecurity that he filled with the suffering of others.

A small, dark voice whispered inside her: He deserves more than perspective.

For thirteen heartbeats—no more, no less—she let him feel not just understanding of her actions, but vulnerability. Not just his own smallness in the face of true power, but the visceral terror Milo had experienced during the ritual. Every ragged breath, every helpless moment, every silent scream for mercy. And beneath it all, she planted a subtle, almost imperceptible suggestion: This could happen to you. Anyone could be next. Even the privileged aren't safe.

It was the same demonstration as before, on the hazing ritual night. But it wasn't the same. Now, the power of the Thirteenth Chamber was flowing through Mo's veins. Her own magic amplified by the ancient arcane secrets.

When she withdrew, Darian's eyes flew open—wide, glassy, unseeing. His face drained of color so rapidly, Mo thought he might faint. A tremor began in his hands, spreading upward until his entire body shook like a leaf in the autumn wind.

"That—that wasn't…" His voice cracked, embarrassingly high-pitched.

"That was exactly what I showed you and your friends that night," Mo said quietly, though loud enough for their audience to hear. "Not mind control. Only experience. Perspective." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for him. "And that was me being gentle. So, think hard about your future journalistic endeavors. We'll talk later."

Without waiting for his response, she turned and walked away, Nyx and Lucian falling into step beside her. Behind them, whispers erupted as students ducked back into their rooms, eager to spread word of what they'd witnessed.

Nyx's form rippled with excitement once they'd rounded the corner. "That," they said, practically vibrating with glee, "was absolutely delicious. Did you see his face? Like someone had shown him his own funeral!"

"It was necessary," Mo replied, not meeting their eyes.

Lucian studied her for a moment, frost patterns spreading across his collar in complex, concerned fractals. "There are depths to even the shallowest ponds that remain hidden until disturbed," he murmured. "Did you find what you were looking for in his?"

"I…"

The gamble had paid off. She tested her new ability. Not on a friend, but on a foe who was supposedly better trained than her. But why Mo was shaking at that moment?

By morning, the story would have transformed again—not erasing the rumors, but complicating them. Adding nuance where there had been only fear. Creating questions where there had been certainty.

It wasn't perfect, but it would give them the space they needed to focus on the real challenge ahead.

And if she'd stepped a little closer to the line between right and wrong, well... wasn't that what villain school was teaching her to do?

***

Despite what Mo expected, when dawn came, they weren't led outside the walls of the Academy, where she had arrived before the school year started. This time, they had to have a dreary trek through Umbra's shifting corridors and fog-shrouded gardens. Now, they stood in a hastily constructed nexus in the depths of the school itself.

"Emergency protocols," Professor Malvolia said, gesturing to freshly etched runes that still smoked on the floor. "Given the... situation at Blackthorn Keep, the Academy has temporarily authorized an internal departure point. The standard arrival courtyard is currently..." her lips curled slightly, "inaccessible."

Mo studied the configuration with suspicion. "Direct to the throne room?"

"Precisely," Professor Malvolia said. "The goblins have control of the usual portal reception areas. With the help of your advisor, we created a configuration that bypasses them entirely—a strategic advantage you would be wise to appreciate, Lady Nightshade."

The alteration made sense, but Mo couldn't shake the feeling that it was too convenient—another way for the Academy to monitor her actions, perhaps. Or worse, for the High Council to maintain some form of control over her comings and goings.

"Remember, Lady Nightshade," Malvolia said as the portal activated, "we expect comprehensive documentation. The psychological impact of proper villain techniques can be just as instructive as the physical results."

"I'll be thorough," Mo said, meeting the professor's calculating gaze without flinching.

Nyx and Lucian flanked her, each carrying supplies for their "official" assignment: "Allied Villain Dynamics: Practical Applications in Crisis Management." The cover story was perfect—they would document everything that happened at Blackthorn Keep, just not in the way the Academy expected.

"Do try to leave some goblins alive," Professor Malvolia added as they approached the portal. "Complete extermination lacks... sustainability."

Mo's stomach knotted like a tangled yarn. She forced a noncommittal nod, avoiding Professor Malvolia's raptor-like gaze, and stepped into the swirling vortex. The magic latched onto her skin—greedy, invasive—tearing her molecule from molecule before hurling her across dimensions. Unlike her previous portal crossings, this one felt rushed, jagged, as though the very fabric separating worlds had frayed under the pressure of Blackthorn Keep's turmoil.

The difference between her departure and return was immediately apparent. Where before the Keep had merely been neglected, now it positively seethed with tension. The air itself felt charged, as if the very stones were holding their breath.

"Well," Nyx muttered as they steadied themselves, "they weren't exaggerating about the rebellion part."

From somewhere distant, Mo could hear chanting—hundreds, perhaps thousand, of voices moving in rhythmic protest. The floor beneath them vibrated slightly with the percussion of marching feet.

"SO NICE OF YOU TO JOIN US, LADY MORGANA," came a booming voice that made them all jump.

Lord Aldric stood in the doorway, his pristine white fur almost glowing in the gloom, golden antlers reflecting torchlight. His expression combined relief and irritation in equal measure.

"Lord Aldric," Mo acknowledged with deliberate calm. "I understand there have been... developments since my departure."

"DEVELOPMENTS?" he thundered. "THE GOBLINS HAVE SEIZED THE EASTERN QUARTER! THEY'VE BLOCKADED THE KITCHENS! THEY'RE DEMANDING…" he paused, voice dropping to a disgusted whisper, "…representation in Keep governance."

The horror with which he said "representation" might have been comical if the situation weren't so dire.

"I see. Why this dramatic greeting? And what about my orders regarding tax relief?"

Aldric's expression shifted somewhere between defensive and dismissive. "Oh, I just thought it would be fitting for my position. The Shadow Cabinet, including yours truly, reviewed your directive and found it... premature. Given your provisional status, certain economic decisions require additional approval."

"And I suppose you made every effort to explain this to the goblin representatives?"

Aldric straightened, affronted. "I informed them that their demands were inappropriate and that proper lord-minion relations would resume once they returned to their stations."

"I imagine that went well," Nyx said, their form briefly mimicking Aldric's posture before melting into something more fluid and mocking. "Nothing says 'successful diplomacy' quite like telling the revolutionaries to scuttle back to their holes, does it?"

"Show me," Mo said, gesturing toward the door. "I want to see everything."

The tour of Blackthorn Keep revealed a fortress on the brink. Goblins had organized into surprisingly effective protest units, establishing barricades at strategic junctures and maintaining a rotating schedule of demonstrations.

Protest signs bobbed above the sea of green heads—unexpectedly elegant calligraphy in bold strokes of charcoal and berry-dye pigments. The familiar chants Mo had heard during her first visit had evolved into organized battle cries: NO MORE TAX! WE WON'T RELAX! GOBLINS RISE—WE ORGANIZE!, DARK LADY HEAR! OUR MESSAGE CLEAR! CHANGE THE RULES OR REVOLT IS NEAR! and FAIR WORK, FAIR PAY! WE'RE HERE TO STAY!

So, they were blaming her as well. Aldric truly did a lot of work in Mo's absence. But the most striking sight was the main courtyard, where Grimz—now sporting a makeshift general's insignia on his tattered hat—stood atop the portal, addressing a sea of green faces. His oratory skills had improved considerably since Mo's last visit.

"They have taken our labor and called it duty!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the stones. "They have taken our futures and called it tradition! But today—TODAY—we show them that goblins stand together!"

The crowd roared in response, rattling the windows with its enthusiasm.

"This is outrageous," Aldric hissed. "In your father's time, such insolence would have been met with immediate... consequences."

"I see you found yourself a bit over your head, Aldric," Mo said, watching the organized rally with something like respect. "What did your High Council sponsors promise you? And I'm not my father."

When they finally returned to the throne room, Mo seated herself deliberately in her rightful place. The ancient wood creaked beneath her—not just from physical weight, but from centuries of judgment. A voice like splintering timber and grinding stone scraped directly into her mind.

Still here, still unworthy, the throne grumbled, its mental voice carrying the dusty disdain of multiple generations of judgment. Did your little stroll among peasants somehow convince you that you'd earned my respect? How... quaint.

Mo ignored the barbed commentary, focusing instead on Lord Aldric's increasingly agitated explanation of how he'd 'managed' the situation.

Lord Aldric was rambling, trying to shift blame and persuade himself he made only the right decisions: "…and then I ordered the guards to block their access to the lower granaries, which seemed to quiet them briefly, though of course they resumed their ridiculous chanting by nightfall…"

"Lord Aldric," Mo interrupted, her voice sharp enough to cut through his monologue. "It seems to me that you've been deliberately exacerbating this situation."

The celestial advisor's expression froze. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." Mo leaned forward, letting a hint of rose-gold energy flicker in her eyes—a trick she'd added to her arsenal only recently. "Every action you've taken has escalated tensions, rather than resolving them."

"I was maintaining proper order! The traditional hierarchy must be…"

"Did you or did you not receive my written instructions to begin negotiations for tax reform?" Mo asked.

Aldric's silence was answer enough.

"I thought so." Mo stood, power humming beneath her skin. Her energy crackled faintly between her fingers as her temper rose. The throne—which had been mentally grumbling insults since she sat down—suddenly fell silent. Ancient magic recognized ancient magic. For all its verbal disdain, the throne's power resonated with her own in that moment of righteous anger, centuries of Nightshade authority flowing through bloodline and furniture alike.

"You deliberately sabotaged my directives," Mo said, feeling the throne's grudging acknowledgment like a physical shift beneath her. Its earlier contempt now mingled with something like wary respect—not that it would ever admit such weakness.

Aldric drew himself up, his antlers seeming to straighten a bit. "The Shadow Cabinet agreed that your... inexperience... required oversight." But as he spoke, the throne's magic pulsed once, sharply, as if to say: He lies. The sensation was so clear that Mo almost turned to acknowledge it, catching herself just in time. Perhaps the old seat wasn't entirely useless after all.

"How convenient," Mo said, and her voice carried an edge that made even Nyx glance at her in surprise. "Tell me, Lord Aldric, have you studied Professor Grimble Thornwick's treatise on 'Counter-Insurgency in the Modern Villain Age'? He gives cracking lectures on Minion Mismanagement. I might well use insights gleaned there to inform my decision on what to do with you."