Transmigrated as the Villain Between the Heroine and the Villainess

Selvara Tharros reached their table. The quiet chatter of the entire cafeteria seemed to dim as she moved.

She didn't ask for a seat. She simply pulled one out, the legs of the chair scraping loudly against the stone floor, and sat down.

She looked at each of them, her pale, ice-blue eyes filled with a look of complete boredom. Her gaze lingered on Seraphina, then on Isolde, then finally on him.

It was the look a wolf might give to a group of interesting-looking sheep.

"So," Selvara said, her voice low and smooth, like the sound of a glacier moving. "This is my team. A hot-headed brat, a spoiled princess, a quiet one, and…"

Her eyes landed on him again, "the boy who lost."

Seraphina's hand tightened around her glass. Clench. "Watch your mouth, third-year."

Selvara just smiled, a slow, cold smile that held no warmth at all. "I see it has a temper. Good. That might be useful."

The tension was suffocating. Azrael felt like he was sitting on a pile of dynamite, and everyone at the table was holding a lit match.

It was Isolde who broke the silence, her voice as cheerful and bright as ever. "I'm so glad we could all get together! Also, Liam another first year and our teammate won't be able to join due to health concerns."

"Since our test is tomorrow, I thought it would be a good idea to come up with a little strategy."

She clapped her hands together lightly. "I'll be the team leader, of course."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

Selvara let out a soft, airy laugh. Pss. "You? A first-year? You will be our leader?"

"I am a princess," Isolde replied, her smile never wavering. "And I am used to leading. My strategies led my brother's team to victory in every single exercise."

"Your brother is a brute who wins through sheer force," Selvara countered, leaning back in her chair. "He doesn't need a strategy. He just needs to be pointed in the right direction."

'She's not wrong,' Azrael thought, taking a quiet sip of his coffee.

"My plan is simple," Isolde continued, ignoring the insult. "Selvara and Zeyric, you two are our powerhouses. You will be on the front lines."

Zeyric, the other third-year who had been silent until now, simply nodded.

"Seraphina," Isolde went on, "you will be our mid-range support. Your Crystal Bloom is perfect for creating defensive walls and trapping enemies."

Seraphina didn't look happy about being given orders, but she didn't argue.

"And you, senior Azrael," Isolde said, her eyes twinkling. "You will be our wildcard. You showed in your duel that you are very good at surviving."

"You will stay back with me, protect me, and look for opportunities to pick off weakened targets."

It was a simple, arrogant plan. A plan that put her, the first-year, in the safest position, directing everything from the back.

"I have a different plan," Selvara said, her voice cutting through Isolde's sweet-sounding orders. "My plan is that you four will stay out of my way while I handle everything myself."

"Try not to get eliminated in the first five minutes. That will be your strategy."

The arrogance was breathtaking. But Azrael knew it wasn't an empty boast. Selvara was probably strong enough to do it.

He looked around the table at his teammates. The Ice Witch from the North. The Puppet Master Princess of Valerium. The Fiery Heroine. A silent, observant third-year. And him.

He thought about their homes. The world wasn't just one big kingdom. It was a fractured continent, a collection of powerful nations watching each other.

His own home, the Aethelgard Hegemony, was ruled by a council of the five most powerful noble families. The Ashveils were one of them.

It was a nation built on a fragile balance of power, where every great house was both an ally and a rival.

Then there was Isolde's home, the Kingdom of Valerium. It was a true monarchy, but its royal line was unstable.

The current king's son, Kaelen, was seen by many nobles as a half-blood with a weak claim. His daughter, Isolde, was seen as the true, pure-blooded heir.

Seraphina's home was the Lyra Concord, another state ruled by a council of families, much like his own. But their houses were bound by ancient oaths of cooperation.

Beyond the three great powers were the lesser nations. The Sunken Isles of Pelagios and the vast, sun-scorched Sand-Wastes of Jora.

This team, his team, was a collection of the continent's most volatile and powerful young players. It was a political nightmare waiting to happen.

"I think my plan is better," Isolde said, her smile still in place, though her eyes were now as cold as Selvara's. "It makes use of everyone's talents."

"Brute force is all that is required against children," Selvara replied.

They were at a standstill. Two apex predators staring each other down, neither willing to give an inch.

Seraphina finally spoke, her voice full of annoyance. "Can we just agree on something? I don't want to be on a team that falls apart before the test even starts."

"I agree with the princess," Zeyric said, speaking for the first time. His voice was calm and even. "Her plan is more logical."

Selvara looked at Zeyric, a flicker of interest in her icy eyes. She then looked at Azrael.

"And you, boy who lost? What do you think?" she asked.

He felt everyone's eyes on him. This was a test.

"I think," he said slowly, "that arguing about a plan is pointless. We all know we will be the most-hunted team on the field."

"No plan is going to survive the first ten minutes of that."

He looked at Isolde, then at Selvara. "So let's just do this. We stick together at the start. When the fighting begins, you two can do whatever you want."

"The rest of us will try to survive the chaos you create. How does that sound?"

It was a non-plan. A plan to have no plan. But it was also the only thing that might work.

It gave both arrogant leaders the freedom they wanted, without forcing either one to submit to the other.

Isolde's smile returned, genuine this time. "An excellent compromise, senior. You are much smarter than the rumors say."

Selvara just gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. It was the closest thing to agreement he was going to get from her.

The meeting was over. They all stood up to leave, the awkward silence returning.

'What a disaster,' Azrael thought as he walked out of the cafeteria. 'This isn't a team. It's a collection of ticking time bombs.'

Tomorrow was going to be hell.