The Villainess is the Villainess [LitRPG]

Book 2: Chapter 21 - A Clash of Gold & Silver [Part 1]

The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict.

- Unknown.

"Tell me," Seraphina said softly, lifting the girl's dirt-streaked chin so that she could stare into those dull brown eyes, "not that I need your recognition or approval, but who is more of a Saint, I wonder? The one who merely speaks kind words… or the one who performs miracles?"

She poured her magic into the child, feeling the intrinsic rightness of the act. But she held back, cautious of the lure of the Covenant magic. Giving too freely would only force her to commit more "uncharitable" acts later to balance her internal equilibrium. A shame, really—for she was a generous soul by nature.

The ragged child stood gingerly, a grin spreading slowly across her face as she tested her newly healed limbs. Her eyes shone with astonishment and gratitude.

"Thank you! Thank you!" she cried, trembling in disbelief.

Seraphina made a dismissive gesture. "That's enough. Now do as you promised. If you renege on our agreement, it will not end well for you."

A heavy look settled over the girl's features, as though she'd only just realized that miracles always carry a price. She nodded, fists clenching, and walked away on steady legs.

Seraphina watched the scene with a detached interest, noting how her Heal spell had repaired a hundred tiny wounds in Istala's body, yet left the child's sour attitude untouched. Some people simply lack the decency to show proper gratitude, she mused.

Suddenly, Istala screamed at Este Lize, halting a pike's length in front of her.

"You whore's daughter!" she shouted, tears welling up as she pointed an accusing finger. "It was your foul magic that burned me ma and pa! They dieds screaming 'cause of you, you witch!"

A spark of cold admiration flickered in Seraphina's eyes. The girl's improvised accusation was remarkably convincing. Weapons flashed in the hands of the Crown Prince's guards, and several onlookers reached for their own blades. One figure on a nearby rooftop raised a crossbow.

Far more chaos than I anticipated, Seraphina thought with a thrill of excitement. When this was over, the girl deserved a small bonus.

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"Oh, you poor thing!" Este Lize exclaimed, reaching out to soothe Istala.

The child slapped her hand away. In an instant, Este Lize's wiry escort tensed, lifting a sidesword in preparation to strike the girl for her insolence.

Seraphina allowed herself a small, triumphant smirk. Everything was lining up perfectly.

"They're attacking an innocent child!" she cried, doing her best impression of a shocked commoner's voice.

And just like that, the crowd turned dark and ugly.

A stone sailed through the air, spinning end over end before cracking against a guard's breastplate with a dull clang. The impact echoed through the charred streets like a clap of thunder, rousing shouts and screams that seemed to come from every direction at once.

Somewhere in the uproar, someone howled, "They're attacking a Saint!" Others took up the call, bellowing Este Lize's name in alarm. Blades flashed, held high by men and women who moments ago had only been onlookers. That was the problem with a martial society: many people had the means and ability to use weapons.

Soldiers in the Crown Prince's escort hastened to form a protective circle around Velens and Este Lize, their weapons ringing as they drew steel.

"Please, everyone, stop!" Este Lize cried desperately, her voice shrill.

From her vantage point, Seraphina caught a glimpse of Istala crouching low, trying to flee. The small girl's eyes darted around, wide with mounting panic. She had clearly not anticipated the mob's violent response. But Seraphina felt no sympathy—if anything, she found the unfolding events exhilarating.

A fresh roar thundered through the crowd as a second stone flew. This one missed its mark and instead struck an older woman across the brow. She crumpled, blood streaming down her face. A man in ragged clothes lunged forward to help her, only to be shoved aside by a burly guardsman who was trying to force a path away for the Crown Prince. The ragged man snarled, swinging a cudgel in defense. The guard's helmet rang like a bell, and he staggered.

It was as though a fever took hold of the crowd. People trampled one another in their scramble to either get away or rush into the fray, unsure which impulse outweighed the other. Some were intent on protecting the "Silver Saint," others were bent on punishing her perceived cruelty, whatever story they believed from Istala's outburst. Some, of course, just wanted an outlet for their violence. Screams tore through the smoky air, mixing with the caws of crows still wheeling overhead.

Seraphina had read this crowd well.

Through it all, Este Lize tried to maintain calm. She moved with delicate grace, extending a beseeching hand. "Please," she cried, voice high and clear in the din, "there's no need for this! Listen to me—"

But her soft, pleaful tone was lost in the cacophony. A burly laborer, face streaked with soot and exhaustion, bull-rushed past her bodyguards, screaming something about "retribution" for the fires. One of the escorts, the whipcord-thin man who had nearly struck Istala, stepped in. With lightning speed, he drew a slender blade across the attacker's forearm. The laborer stumbled back, clutching his wounded arm, eyes wild with pain. Another guard slammed him to the ground, boot on his chest.

Prince Velens tried to step forward—perhaps to quell the violence—but his retainers forced him back. "Your Highness, stay behind us!" one of them growled. A crossbow bolt whistled from a rooftop, burying itself in a random member of the crowd. Someone screamed, and a flurry of urgent shouts followed as the people spotted the hidden marksman.