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

The week leading up to the Ball transformed Umbra Academy from merely gothic to aggressively festive—if one could call massive obsidian chandeliers dripping with what appeared to be actual blood "festive." Shadows deepened in the corridors, curling into elegant tendrils that formed macabre decorations along the walls. The standard torches were replaced with flambeaux that burned in various unnatural colors, casting the entire school in an eerie rainbow of gloom.

Every conversation in the dining hall revolved around entrances, alliances, and subtle hexes designed to sabotage rivals without being traced back to their casters. First-years panicked over proper etiquette while fifth-years swanned around with the confidence of those who had survived multiple Balls and had the scars to prove it. Sometimes quite literally.

Mo spent her evenings finalizing her attire's design with a tailor recommended by Lucian—an eight-armed spider-demon who took measurements with terrifying precision while chittering about "structural innovations" and "villainous silhouettes."

"Stand straighter, Lady Nightshade," the tailor instructed, clicking her mandibles disapprovingly. "A Dark Lady slouches for no one."

"Tell that to my back after carrying the weight of an entire goblin union's expectations," Mo muttered, but complied.

The tailor circled her, multiple arms working simultaneously as she pinned and marked the pristine white fabric. "White is a bold choice," she observed. "Most villains avoid it—shows blood too easily."

"That's rather the point," Mo replied. "I'm not interested in hiding the consequences of my actions anymore."

The tailor paused, all eight eyes blinking in sequence. "How refreshingly direct. Most of my clients prefer their metaphors more... oblique."

"I served coffee for three years. I learned that efficiency trumps dramatics when you've got a line of caffeine-deprived humans glaring at you."

"Humans," the tailor chittered with what might have been a laugh. "Such delightfully impatient creatures. Speaking of which—that human research assistant has been asking about you while you retired to refresh yourself. I've sent him away. It's not the right time."

Mo's heart skipped. "Julian?"

"The very same. Wanted to know if you'd made the decision yet." The tailor's eyes glittered with gossip-hungry interest. "Quite unusual for a human to express such interest in Academy social events."

Mo thought of what Nyx meaningfully called their study sessions—you could practically hear the italics when they said it. Things had progressed quickly after their return from Blackthorn Keep. Julian had even managed to stay one whole night in Mo's bedroom without Lady Thornheart's intervention. For the first time since the time immemorial, Mo was able to use not one, not two, but multiple of her traditional succubic techniques with all her passion and without any hesitation.

The next morning, the dorm ghost had actually winked at Mo conspiratorially. What percentage of his soul Julian had to double-mortgage to achieve that level of leniency Mo wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"He's probably gathering data for his research," Mo said, ignoring the flush creeping up her neck. "By the way, how's Nyx's fitting coming along?"

"Masterfully enigmatic. They've commissioned three completely different outfits and refuse to tell me which they'll actually wear. Paid for all three, of course. So very proper of them."

Mo smiled. That sounded like Nyx—keeping everyone guessing until the last possible moment. Despite their argument, Nyx had been thoughtful since their discussion about Dorian, sometimes slipping into more masculine forms when they thought no one was looking, as if testing how it felt after so many weeks of feminine presentation.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Lady Nightshade, are you dressed?" came Lucian's formal voice, a smile obvious in his words. "A moment of your time?"

"I'm not, but you can always come in," Mo called, and the door swung open to reveal Lucian, already dressed in a frost-blue suit that seemed to shimmer with actual ice crystals embedded in the fabric. The cut was impeccable, emphasizing his slender build while suggesting contained power.

"You look amazing," Mo said honestly.

Frost patterns spiraled across Lucian's collar—his equivalent of a blush. "Winter's beauty lies in precision. But I bring concerning news. Dorian has been asking questions about our Ball preparations. And I mean asking everyone. Not only me. Everyone who had even the slightest connection to Nyx."

"Well, at least he avoids me. But what kind of questions?"

"The kind that suggests he expects Nyx to coordinate with him, not us." Lucian's silver eyes darkened with concern. "He's even commissioned a gown in midnight blue. With matching accessories."

"That's not really news. Has Nyx seen it?"

"Not to my knowledge. But Dorian speaks as if their entrance together is already arranged."

The tailor, sensing drama, had discreetly moved to the other side of the room, pretending to be absorbed in fabric swatches while obviously eavesdropping.

"We shouldn't interfere," said Mo. "This is Nyx's choice. We've made our position clear, but ultimately…"

"When choice is framed as freedom but shaped by another's desire, is it truly choice? The cage with an open door still trains the bird to stay."

Mo sighed. "I know. But we have to trust Nyx to make their own decisions, even if we don't agree with them."

"And if those decisions are coerced through subtle manipulation?"

"Then we'll be there to support them," said Mo. "That's what friends do."

As if summoned by the conversation, the door burst open again, revealing Nyx in a form Mo hadn't seen in weeks—tall, angular, distinctly masculine, with obsidian skin that gleamed like polished armor. Their eyes blazed with something between excitement and terror.

"I've made a decision," they announced dramatically. "About the Ball. About Dorian. About everything."

"And?" Mo asked.

Nyx grinned, their form shifting slightly taller. "I've changed my plans completely. In fact, I've just left Dorian a note explaining that I'll be making my own entrance. In my own chosen form." Their eyes sparkled with mischief. "It will be a surprise for everyone—even you two. The outfit, the form, everything. No spoilers until the grand reveal."

"That's... great," Mo said cautiously. "How did he take it?"

"I haven't stuck around to find out." Nyx's form flickered nervously. "But I need to talk to the tailor about final adjustments to the outfits. Would you care to scatter?"

As Nyx pulled the spider-demon aside for intense whispered consultation, Lucian took Mo's hand and led her out of the room. "Something has happened," he murmured. "This decision seems... sudden."

"Let's hope it's genuine. And not just another reaction."

***

"Announcing Lady Morgana Nightshade, Provisional Dark Lady of Blackthorn Keep, accompanied by Lord Lucian Frostbrook, Heir to the Frozen Wastes," Professor Mortis declared, his voice magically amplified.

The Great Hall fell silent as Mo and Lucian descended the grand staircase. Mo's pristine white suit caught the light dramatically against Lucian's frost blue attire, making them impossible to ignore against the sea of blacks and blood reds below. Her fiery ginger hair cascaded in vibrant waves around her shoulders, the copper-red tresses creating a stunning contrast against the stark white fabric—like flames dancing atop pristine snow. The dramatic juxtaposition seemed to enhance her power, drawing every eye to the interplay of fire and ice that she embodied.

The suit itself was immaculately tailored to hug her curves in all the right places while maintaining an aura of untouchable authority. The jacket's precise cut emphasized her waist before flaring slightly at the hips, creating a silhouette that was both powerful and undeniably feminine. Succubic.

Each step down the staircase revealed the perfect shape of her trousers, following the curves of her legs with just enough suggestion to turn heads while commanding absolute respect—a delicate balance between allure and intimidation that few at Umbra Academy had mastered even during their fifth year.

"A white suit? In this crowd?" someone whispered, loud enough for Mo to hear. "One drop of blood would show up like a beacon."

"That's presumably the point," another voice replied. "Either brilliant intimidation or a death wish."

"White against all this darkness—it's like she's begging for someone to mark it with contrasting liquids," a third voice muttered. "Bold statement. Almost reminds me of those human power suits I saw in a magazine once."

"What's the point of wearing something that shows every injury?" asked another confused demon student.

Mo leaned closer to Lucian as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "It's inspired by one Tony Montana. Guy in a white suit who builds an empire through sheer audacity before it all goes spectacularly wrong." She smiled. "Though I'm planning a different ending."

The Ball was in full swing, a surreal display of villain society at its most performative. Students danced with perfect precision while whispering threats into each other's ears. Professors circulated with predatory smiles, clearly hoping to catch students failing their assigned tasks and observing interactions with calculating eyes. In the center of it all stood Headmaster Ashenfall, his ancient form draped in shadows that seemed to devour the light around him.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Target acquired," Mo said to Lucian. "And there's Malvolia. Today, she seems slightly less likely to turn me into a potted plant for asking impertinent questions."

Lucian nodded. "I'll seek the information about Professor Darkthorne and the High Council. We'll reconvene in thirty minutes."

As they separated, Mo scanned the room for Nyx but saw no sign of them. Dorian, however, was prominently visible near the refreshment table, his perfect features arranged in a mask of aristocratic boredom that didn't quite hide the tension in his jaw.

He cut an impressive figure in a tailored black suit with subtle midnight blue accents—lapels that caught the light with an almost liquid shimmer, cufflinks that gleamed like captured stars. The color scheme had clearly been designed to complement the midnight blue gown he expected Nyx to wear, creating what would have been a visually stunning pair had his plans not been disrupted. Instead, he stood alone, occasionally glancing toward the entrance with poorly concealed anticipation that was rapidly souring to impatience.

A hand gripped her elbow, and Mo turned to find Julian standing beside her in an outfit she'd never seen him wear before—a deep burgundy dress coat with subtle obsidian buttons that caught the light as he moved, paired with formal black trousers. Though still restrained compared to the students' extravagant ensembles, it was a far cry from his usual assistant attire.

Someone had evidently helped him prepare for the occasion, taming his typically disheveled hair and adding a silver pin at his collar that resembled an ancient research rune. The overall effect was striking in its understated elegance—not as spectacular as Mo's commanding white suit, but revealing a side of Julian she rarely glimpsed outside their private study sessions.

"You look... different," she said, momentarily thrown by seeing him in something other than his usual rumpled research clothes.

"It's... appropriate. Isn't it?" he replied, voice low. "Lady Thornheart helped me select it. Said my usual attire would be 'catastrophically inadequate for the occasion.'"

Mo raised an eyebrow, surprised. "The ghost has surprisingly modern taste. I wouldn't have expected her to recommend something so... current century."

Julian's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Apparently, she's been haunting fashion shows in a multitude of planes and worlds for decades. Claims it's 'essential cultural observation.' But that's not why I found you right now. I needed to warn you—there's more to tonight than appears. The Ball isn't just an assessment of social manipulation skills."

"Well, we figured that out. But what exactly do you mean?"

Julian leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear. "The professors are evaluating students for the Yule Tournament. But it's more than a competition—it's a sorting mechanism. Those who demonstrate the right combination of cruelty and control advance to prestigious tracks."

Mo's stomach dropped. "And those who don't?"

"Are relegated to 'support specialties,'" Julian explained, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "It's their way of determining who has true villain potential and who should serve those who do. Obviously, all the prominent families want to see their scions on top. And there aren't enough spots to satisfy everyone's ambitions."

Mo was about to ask Julian more about this sorting system when she felt a coolness at her back, like a shadow suddenly blocking a heat source. She turned to find Valerius Crowe standing impossibly close, his perfect posture making him seem taller than he actually was. His suit appeared to be made from actual shadows, the fabric shifting and rippling as if alive.

"Lady Nightshade," he said, his voice lacking its usual sneering edge, none of his usual cronies visible behind his back. "May I have a moment of your time?" He looked at Julian. "Without the faculty supervision, if at all possible?"

Julian stiffened beside her, but Mo placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "I'll be fine. Hidden Agenda, remember?"

As Julian reluctantly stepped away, Valerius led Mo toward one of the small alcoves that lined the perimeter of the Great Hall. His usually immaculate composure suddenly seemed fractured, tiny cracks visible in the aristocratic mask he wore so effortlessly.

"I've been meaning to speak with you," he said, his voice strangely hesitant. "About our duel."

"Some time has passed. You weren't in a hurry." She looked at him, realization dawning. "If you're planning to demand a rematch, I'm afraid my schedule is quite full with revolutions and governance reforms."

Valerius shook his head. "No, that's not… Look, this isn't easy for me." He ran a hand through his perfect hair, mussing it slightly in a gesture so uncharacteristic it startled Mo into silence. "What happened during our duel... when your power slipped..."

"When I accidentally exposed my innermost thoughts to the entire class, you mean?" Mo's voice was sharp with remembered humiliation.

"Yes. That." Valerius looked away. "The thing is... seeing you like that. Vulnerable, authentic. It's been nagging at me."

"Nagging?"

"I've spent my entire life performing perfection," he continued, still not meeting her eyes. "Every gesture calculated, every word precisely chosen. And then there you were, power exploding outward, secrets exposed—and somehow, you didn't crumble. You became stronger."

"I had help," Mo said, thinking of Nyx and Lucian and their training sessions.

She phased out for a brief moment, reflecting on all the support she'd gathered along the way, sometimes from unexpected places—her regular customers from the bookstore who'd shown her what genuine connection looked like, Mrs. Chen with her weekly romance novels, Mr. Thompson, who'd always ask about her day. Even her mother, for all her complications, had taught Mo something about quiet strength. And now there was Grimz, who'd kept faith with a memory of a three-year-old who believed everyone deserved to learn, carrying that belief through the years until Mo returned to make it real.

"I've always had people who believed in me, even when I didn't believe in myself."

"I know. That's the other thing that's been... bothering me." Valerius finally looked at her directly. "You have genuine allies. Not followers or minions or strategic connections—people who actually care."

Mo studied his face, searching for the trick, the trap, the hidden agenda. But all she found was something that looked disturbingly like sincerity.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Valerius took a deep breath. "Because I need to confess something. When we were younger, at that school on Earth…"

"The one I fled from. For which you are at least partially to blame."

"Yes. I... had feelings for you back then. Untidy, inconvenient feelings that didn't fit with my family's expectations or my carefully constructed image."

Mo stared at him, memories suddenly rearranging themselves like pieces in a puzzle. The constant attention, the elaborate put-downs, the way he always seemed to be wherever she was.

"You were pulling my pigtails. Metaphorically speaking."

"I was a stupid boy. I probably still am."

Before Mo could respond, the music changed again, this time to something both haunting and vaguely threatening. Professor Maleficarum glided to the center of the floor.

"The Adversarial Waltz begins," he announced. "Choose your partners wisely. In this dance, as in true villainy, proximity breeds both opportunity and danger."

Valerius extended his hand, his mask of perfection sliding back into place. "Dance with me? For old times' sake."

Warning bells clamored in Mo's mind. This was too convenient, too perfectly timed. Yet her Hidden Agenda likely required information she could extract during the dance.

"Fine," she said, placing his hand in hers. "But I'm leading."

The music swelled, dark and compelling as couples surged onto the floor. Mo guided Valerius with confident steps, her pristine white suit a stark contrast to his shadows. The dance floor transformed into a battlefield of swirling fabrics and calculated collisions as partners spun, clashed, and separated in dizzying succession.

"The High Council's Convergence Initiative," Valerius whispered as they passed Professor Darkthorne. "That's what your icy friend needs to figure out. Something about systematic review of inherited territories…"

They were cut off as another couple crashed into them deliberately, a tall girl with emerald scales spinning away with a predatory smile. A body fell down on the floor a few paces away. Before Mo could react, they were thrust into another pairing, then another, the music dictating ever-faster exchanges.

"…Darkthorne's the key," Valerius continued when they reconnected, picking up mid-sentence as if they'd never been separated. "You know what he's been researching for centuries. I wouldn't be surprised if it all is connected. The Frosty should ask about his seminal text on the Midnight Rebellions—the professor's ego is his weakness."

Mo nearly missed a step. "You're suggesting Darkthorne has an agenda with newly inherited domains? And you don't waste any time diving into the juicy information, do you? We've barely started dancing."

"All I'm saying is that Frostbrook might find it illuminating to discuss ice techniques for maintaining order during... transitional periods. The professor appreciates practical applications of his theoretical work." Valerius's smile was calculated. "The rest is for your friend to discover. Hidden Agenda, you know, it's not always about getting the information but also about how you get it and from whom. It's a game we all have to play."

Mo spotted Lucian across the floor, frost patterns betraying his distress as a senior with too many rings on all of his extremities tried to extract information. With a calculated misstep, she guided Valerius directly into their path. In one fluid motion that seemed choreographed despite its spontaneity, Valerius released Mo's hand and smoothly intercepted the ring-laden senior, leaving Lucian free to partner with Mo as the dance continued its relentless pace.

"Darkthorne," Mo whispered urgently as Lucian's cool hand took hers. "Ask about his text on the Midnight Rebellions and ice techniques for maintaining order during transitions. It's connected to the High Council's interest in newly inherited domains. His ego is the key."

"Winter's secrets often hide in academic vanity."

The music forced them apart before she could elaborate further, throwing her into the arms of a startled necromancy student while Lucian was swept away toward a corner where Professor Darkthorne stood observing the proceedings.

As she spun through another partner change, Mo caught a glimpse of Valerius expertly manipulating the ring-laden senior, who now looked distinctly uncomfortable as Valerius whispered something in his ear.

"Clever," Valerius murmured appreciatively when they reconnected moments later, as if they'd never been separated. "Now, about your shapeshifting friend…"

A flash of silver caught Mo's eye—one of Darian's cronies spinning past, something metallic glinting between his fingers. Mo twisted, but not fast enough. The blade sliced through Valerius's sleeve, and small droplets of his blood spattered across the pristine white cuff of Mo's suit, spoiling its perfect whiteness.

A smattering of half-hearted applause rippled through the nearest dancers, clearly underwhelmed by the imperfect execution of the attack.

"First blood to Ravencroft," someone called out, followed by appreciative laughter. "Though his aim could use improvement!"

Mo's eyes narrowed as she assessed the damage—superficial, meant to humiliate rather than harm. Beside her, Valerius stiffened, his expression darkening.

The music swelled dramatically, forcing them to separate as partners rotated in the intricate pattern of the dance. Mo found herself briefly in the arms of a surprised alchemy student that started mumbling something about potions concocted specifically for goblins, while Valerius remained behind, confronting Ravencroft directly.

Three steps later, the choreography brought them back together.

"Amateur," Valerius said, following Mo into a dizzying turn. "I caught him during the exchange—left a small memento in his posterior."

Through the whirling dancers, Mo glimpsed Ravencroft hobbling off the dance floor, a small ornate dagger protruding from his left buttock.

"Mediocre aim deserves mediocre retaliation."

Something inside Mo shifted. The blood on her white suit wasn't a mark of shame—it was proof of participation, of survival in this elegant chaos. She'd been trying to play by her own rules in a game designed for monsters, holding back when restraint was merely interpreted as weakness.

To hell with it, she thought, letting go of the last threads of her bookstore persona. The rose-gold energy she'd been carefully containing sparked to life, subtle but present, enhancing her movements with preternatural grace.

"About Nyx," Valerius continued, his eyes tracking the subtle shift in her stance with evident appreciation. "What do you need for... for them?" The careful emphasis on the pronoun wasn't lost on Mo.

"Student fears," Mo whispered, spotting an opportunity. "I need three."

"Do you have any targets on your mind?" Valerius asked, continuing to follow Mo's lead.

Mo's mind raced. The targets needed to work for Nyx's task while also serving her own agenda. While she and Lucian had agreed not to interfere too much in Nyx's love life, the Dorian situation was spinning out of control. But he wasn't the only person who interested her. A plan began to form in her mind.

"Let's start with… Darian..." she began, but the music swelled dramatically, forcing them apart once more.

Mo was swept into the arms of a horned demon with teeth that protruded at awkward angles, each yellowed fang competing with its neighbors for space. His breath hit her face like a wave of decomposing seaweed and sulfur.

"Your Earth coffee establishments," he said, attempting casual conversation while clearly fishing for information. "I hear they're quite... vulnerable to arcane manipulation. Humans never notice when their baristas suddenly change, do they? So trusting."

Before she could formulate a response that wouldn't involve gagging, a hush fell over the ballroom. The orchestra faltered for a single beat as Professor Mortis's voice boomed across the hall:

"Announcing... Lord Nyxir Obscuris."