Too Lazy to be a Villainess

[Lavinia's POV—Imperial Palace—Dungeon—continuation]

The dungeon gates clanged shut behind us like a verdict. From below came the percussion of leather on flesh—sharp, rhythmic—each crack carrying Caelum's voice up the stone like a raw, ragged hymn.

"Arghh…!"

"Ahhh…!"

Marshi walked beside me, steady and patient as a funeral drum. Sir Haldor fell into step a pace behind, his shadow long against the torchlight. He kept his voice low, but the worry in it was as plain as a wound.

"Your Highness," he said, careful, "if—if he dies under this… the lashes, the poison… it could—"

I didn't look at him.

"Then heal him," I said, each word a slow blade. "Stitch him, stitch him well. Pluck poison from his veins if you must—bring him back to breath with herbs, with heat, with men who know how to mend flesh."

Haldor blinked. "Bring him back…only to—"

"To continue the torture, of course." I finished for him, amusement thin as a razor.

I let the words hang, then stepped closer until the torchlight carved the planes of my face. "There is no human who is not afraid of pain, Sir Haldor. Pain, death, the slow cruelty of deprivation—press them long enough and even the proudest throat will spill names."

Haldor's jaw worked; the question in his eyes was swallowed by duty. I went on, surgical and cold. "Make sure Caelum confesses. Pull Marquess Everett's name from him. Uncover every ledger, every hidden account—dig through his estate until nothing is left untouched. If there is a web, we will find the threads and burn the house to ash."

"Yes, Your Highness," Haldor said, voice steady as armor.

I turned, letting the firelight catch the edge of my smile. "And one more thing—do not give him food fit for a man. Feed him spoiled rations, soured broth, and muddy water. Let hunger bite his courage as surely as the lash. Let every basic kindness be a currency he cannot afford."

Haldor's hand tightened on his hilt, a soldier's reflex. "Rotten food, Your Highness?"

"Rotten food," I repeated, with no softness in it. "Withhold comfort. Thirst him. Make desperation a key that opens nothing but confession."

He hesitated a heartbeat, then bowed. "As you command."

I continued down the torch-lit hallway, each step measured and deliberate. "And do not—under any circumstance—begin any new method of interrogation without me," I said, my voice dropping low, smooth and dangerous.

"If anyone wishes to invent a novel torment, it will pass through my lips first. I will orchestrate the cadence, the intervals, and the instruments. Every strike, every lash, every moment of pain will be tailored, precise, and purposeful. Every cry must serve a reason, or it serves nothing."

Haldor's eyes flicked to mine, the unyielding stone of his face giving way to something sharper—respect, recognition of command. "You will lead, Your Highness. I will execute your design."

"Good."

I kept walking, the torchlight flickering across the corridor, until something caught the corner of my eye—a shimmer, a sparkle, like a tornado made entirely of glitter approaching us.

"Did you see what I see, Sir Haldor?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

He didn't flinch. "Yes, Your Highness… that is Lord Theon."

I froze. Marshi blinked. I blinked again. And then we all watched as Theon pirouetted toward us, limbs flailing like a marionette possessed by the moon, glitter trailing behind him like he'd been dipped in starlight.

"Princess…!!!" he bellowed with a final dramatic leap, landing perfectly—well, almost perfectly—in front of me.

. . .

. . .

I trembled a little, and not from fear. From sheer, unexplainable bewilderment. That ridiculous, sparkly ballet of his… I knew I should be used to it by now, but somehow, I wasn't.

"What… wrong with you again, Theon?" I asked, voice dripping incredulity. "Why are you shining like some pathetic, desperate star trying to outshine the sun?"

He puffed his chest, eyes sparkling with pride. "Because I have… GREEEEEAAAAAAATTTTTTTTT NEWS to share with you, Princess!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Yes, yes… I can already feel the magnitude of your news by how you're stretching the word like it's made of elastic."

He beamed. "So… which star attacked you on the way here?" I asked, dryly, letting my lips twitch in amusement.

Hands on hips, chest puffed like a rooster in battle, he leaned in. "You… you are the FIRST person to share this with… so the great news is…" He paused, twirling an imaginary baton. "...I. AM. PREGNANT!!!"

. . .

. . .

. . .

Marshi's jaw literally dropped. I think I heard Haldor's sword hit the floor with a dramatic THUD somewhere behind me. My eyes landed on Theon's stomach, wide and unblinking.

"...I see," I said flatly, my voice almost conversational. "Then, I hope… you have a safe delivery, Theon."

Then, muttering to myself, "...Now, I really, really miss my Omegaverse novels."

Theon blinked at me, utterly confused. "O-omega…verse? What is that, princess?"

I leaned in, glinting with the thrill of chaos. "A… man… who can get pregnant."

. . .

. . .

Marshi's jaw hit the floor. Haldor froze mid-step. And somewhere, the echo of THUD still lingered from his dropped sword.

"Why...are there even such books?" Sir haldor asked in disbelief.

Theon trembled, voice tiny. "I… I get a deja vu… like the time you accused me and Emperor Cassius of… uh… an affair?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I swear the torches shook. "Theon… don't be backward. Loving the same sex is not a crime."

He gulped, small and squeaky. "But… a man getting pregnant? That… that's ridiculous."

I glared at him, sharp as a knife. "SHUT UP. And now… didn't you just say you were pregnant?"

Theon's entire body quivered. "I mean… my wife… your teacher Lady Evelyn… she's pregnant."

. . .

My eyes widened so fast I swear they almost popped out of my head. "Really? Teacher is pregnant?!"

He nodded, glitter practically flying from him.

I clapped my hands with uncontainable glee. "ALRIGHT! This changes everything. I must see her immediately! We're having a baby celebration AND a chaos audit at the same time! This is… this is PERFECT."

Marshi blinked. Haldor's jaw ticked. And Theon… well, Theon spun in tiny excited pirouettes, apparently convinced this was a proper response to my approval.

***

[Meanwhile at Talva's Estate—Count Talvan's office—Same Time]

The Talvan estate was silent—so still it felt as though the very walls held their breath.

Shadows stretched across polished floors, and the wind whispered through empty halls like the sigh of ghosts. In his office, Count Talvan sat behind the massive oak desk, eyes fixed on a portrait of his sister, the late Empress (Cassius's stepmother, the ex-empress)

The lines of grief and rage twisted his face as he muttered under his breath, "Why… why does it feel like my plan is unraveling?"

Then a voice cut through the quiet, soft but laced with steel. "If you chase someone else's plan… it will crumble, Father."

Count Talvan's head snapped up. At the door stood Lady Sirella, her hands folded neatly before her, her gaze cold and unflinching. It was not Eleania's voice that spoke, but his own daughter's—sharper, darker, and full of intent.

"Sirella… go back to your room," Count Talvan said, his voice rough and tired. "I am not in the mood to spar with you today."

But she stepped forward anyway, stopping in front of the portrait. Her fingers brushed the gilded frame as she murmured, "You said… our family should be the one seated on the throne. It should be one of our family blood going through divine benediction, right, Father?"

Count Talvan exhaled sharply, teeth gritted. "Yes… yes, that is what I said."

His voice dropped, heavy with hatred and frustration. "But that emperor… Cassius… he destroyed my sister and her children. There is no one left in the line. And that Caelum… the pawn we chose? The princess has already caught him. I know she will… she will inevitably find a way to crush House Everett. And now...I feel like everything is crashing down."

Sirella stared at her father coldly, her eyes glinting in the dim candlelight, unwavering.

"Then what about me?" she asked, voice soft, almost intimate, but each word carried a knife's edge.

Count Talvan flinched, searching her face. "What… what do you mean?"

Her gaze returned to the portrait of the late Empress, but her lips curved in a subtle, dangerous smile. "I mean… let me take what's ours. Let me take the throne… the way Emperor Cassius took it from Aunt, Father."

The room fell silent again, save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Count Talvan leaned back in his chair, the weight of grief and ambition pressing on his shoulders. Behind his eyes, a storm brewed—a storm of revenge, of power, of legacy… and now, a new darkness was rising.

The Talvan estate had been calm, yes.

But from this moment on, a new threat stirred, patient, cunning, and deadly. Sirella was no longer just a daughter. She was a rising shadow, and soon, the empire itself would feel the cold precision of her ambition.