My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

After checking that the surrounding woods were completely empty of any residual demonic magical signatures, Ulrich adjusted his sword belt and walked quietly back toward the makeshift camp. The clatter of iron cookware and the low hum of conversation grew louder with every step, but his mind remained detached from his surroundings. A deep crease lined his forehead as he filtered through Silas’s memories.

An assassination attempt on Queen Kaliantha was scheduled during Princess Camellia’s birthday and coming-of-age ceremony.

Ulrich mentally scoured the novel, searching for any fragment of text that matched Zagon’s words. It was an impossible task to retrieve every single line of exposition he had ever read, especially considering the Queen was nothing more than a historical backdrop by the time the protagonist’s actual story began. She was dead before the narrative even started. Why would Silas have paid meticulous attention to the exact dates of failed political coups against a deceased Queen?

Yet Ulrich forced his concentration deeper. He recalled reading that Kaliantha had survived numerous assassination attempts throughout her reign. The political landscape of Skargardia was inherently treacherous. But he could not pinpoint a single memory explicitly detailing a strike during the Princess’s highly publicized birthday gala. Because of that crucial missing detail, he could not determine whether this impending attack was a pre-ordained plot point or a massive deviation from the established timeline.

If the assassination was a deviation, the blame rested squarely on his own shoulders.

The double game he currently played, straddling the deadly line between the demon command and the Kingdom of Skargardia, was something the original Ulrich of the novel never did. That version of himself had fully committed to the enemy, working in the background as a loyal, invisible facilitator for the invasion. But the current him was working on both sides. It had been two years since the integration of Silas’s memories. Two years of altered decisions, withheld resources, and calculated shifts in strategy. A single altered variable in a timeline meant nothing, but the accumulation of his deviations over twenty-four months could easily provoke the demons to escalate their timetable. It was not surprising they would orchestrate such a daring assassination attempt against the Queen now, feeling the pressure of their shifting momentum.

Just like in the novel, Kaliantha’s monumental infrastructure project terrified the demon side. The Seven Pillared Bridge was designed to isolate the Demon Lands of Shintanmara by constructing an impenetrable, magically warded blockade beneath the ocean surface. Kaliantha was the thinker, architect, the main funder, and the undisputed symbol of that defense network.

The demons thought that severing the head of the monarchy would permanently stall, if not cancel, the construction.

They were partially correct. According to Silas’s memories, the project suffered delays following Kaliantha’s eventual assassination. However, the stall was not due to a lack of engineering capability, but to human greed. The moment the Queen fell, a vicious political scramble erupted over the ownership of the pillars. Skargardia naturally demanded supremacy over the structure, while Arcadia and the other allied nations, which had contributed raw materials, demanded equal administrative control.

Kaliantha had envisioned a unified, cooperative wall defending humanity against the demonic threat. Instead, the alliance fractured. The Seven Pillared Bridge was never properly finished. There was no grand cooperation, no seamless exchange of military intelligence transmitted across the miles between the connected monoliths. The rival kingdoms simply seized the pillars closest to their borders and hoarded the defensive capabilities for themselves.

They completely abandoned Kaliantha’s intended design: a synchronized network capable of detecting demon vessels miles offshore and coordinating instantaneous, concentrated magical strikes to sink them before they ever reached human waters. With the network fractured and operating independently, the defense grid possessed massive blind spots.

It was no wonder the bridge was breached by the demon armada in the novel eventually.

A destruction that the original Ulrich had personally helped orchestrate.

Ulrich stepped clear of the tree line, the sharp scent of roasted pork and woodsmoke dragging his consciousness back into the present moment as he approached the perimeter where the sisters waited.

Hendrick intercepted him before he reached the fire. The lead knight’s chainmail clinked softly as he halted, snapping to attention.

"My Lord," Hendrick said, keeping his voice serious. "We have fully secured the area. The horses are watered, and the pickets are established in a rotating watch."

"Maintain the perimeter," Ulrich ordered, his gaze sweeping over the armored men stationed at the edge of the clearing. "Do not allow anything to breach a hundred-meter radius. If a wild dog crosses the boundary, you kill it. Nothing approaches this camp."

Hendrick tapped his steel gauntlet against his breastplate in acknowledgment, then pivoted and marched off to relay the strict lockdown parameters to the outer sentries.

With that said, Ulrich turned his attention toward the center of the camp.

A wide fire pit crackled, built within a hastily assembled ring of river stones. The flames leapt upward, consuming thick branches of dry elm and illuminating further the surrounding area with a harsh, flickering orange light. The heat could be felt, even more so when the weather was also quite warm this afternoon. Positioned a reasonable distance from the flying embers, a massive felled oak trunk served as a makeshift bench.

Esther, Hermione, and Airam sat shoulder-to-shoulder along the rough bark of the log. Each balanced a battered tin plate on her lap, loaded with thick slices of roasted pork and boiled root vegetables.

Esther speared a piece of meat with her iron fork, her face bright with enthusiasm. She inhaled the woodsmoke and the scent of the pine needles. "Eating outside in the open air really is nice, isn’t it, big sister, eldest sister?"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, attempting to find a smooth patch of bark beneath her traveling skirts. She stared disdainfully at the dirt coating the toes of her leather boots. "I prefer the inside of the dining hall."

Esther giggled at Hermione’s words. "Geez, big sister. You have accustomed yourself too much to the lavish life. You sound exactly like a Count’s spoiled daughter now."

Hermione lifted her chin, adopting a posture of extreme dignity. She leveled a stern glare at her younger sibling. "We are now under the banner of a Count’s house. You should ensure you act as such, Esther. Maintaining standards is not a flaw."

Airam aggressively sawed through a thick cut of pork on her plate. She didn’t bother to look up from her food. "You are just acting like a spoiled young noble lady, Hermione."

Hermione bristled instantly, her face flushing red. "I am not spoiled! And you are the last person I want to hear behavioral lectures from, Airam. You possess zero decorum. You constantly hound Monika and the other estate servants for extra kitchen rations at all hours of the day and night."

Airam scooped a massive portion of meat into her mouth and chewed. She swallowed before offering an unapologetic response. "I train more. I require more nutrients to sustain my physical output."

Hermione pointed her fork accusingly. "I train the same hours you do in the courtyard, and I do not demand half the pantry to survive!"

"You are simply afraid of getting fat," Airam replied, cutting another slice of pork.

Hermione spluttered, scandalized by the blunt accusation. "That is completely false! And what about your own waistline anyway?"

Airam lifted a shoulder in a minimal shrug. "I do not get fat."

It was not an empty boast. It was a biological fact that surprised both Hermione and Esther to no end. Despite Airam consuming nearly double the daily caloric intake of a grown, armored knight, her physique remained exceptionally lean and delicate. She never gained an ounce of excess weight. The sisters strongly suspected this unfair metabolic advantage stemmed directly from Airam’s unique constitution. Her specific witch tree worked like an internal furnace, constantly incinerating energy to fuel the dense, chaotic magical currents running through her nervous system.

Hermione glared at Airam’s flat stomach and stabbed her own piece of pork with unnecessary force. "How convenient for you."

Esther laughed out loud at her older sister’s overt jealousy. She sliced a tender piece of meat, ready to take a large bite and join in the feast.

"Do not eat too much," Airam said, staring directly at the roaring fire. "Or you will not fit into your gowns anymore."

The casual statement acted as a paralyzing agent for both her sisters. Esther and Hermione froze entirely. Their forks halted mid-air, inches from their open mouths.

"Airam!" Hermione cried out, glaring at her sister, who interrupted them with the worst words.

Airam looked away from the flames, meeting their horrified expressions with total indifference. "I am just stating the truth of the situation. Rosaline tailored those formal gowns to our exact measurements a month ago. The bodices are heavily boned. The silk possesses zero stretch. If you overindulge in roasted pork and heavy roots right now, you will not fit inside the fabric tomorrow evening. You will both look very funny attempting to breathe in the royal banquet hall."

The terror of high-society Skargardian fashion eclipsed their hunger entirely. To arrive at Princess Camellia’s coming-of-age ceremony, the most scrutinized aristocratic gathering of the decade, with bursting seams or unlaced corsets, would invite social ruin and, more importantly, utter embarrassment.

Hermione stared at the dripping piece of pork skewered on her fork as if it had suddenly transmuted into poison. Esther slowly, reluctantly, lowered her hand, placing her fork back onto the tin plate with a tragic clatter.

Ulrich stepped right at that time, the soft crunch of his boots against the gravel immediately drawing the sisters’ attention away from their bickering.

He looked down at their tin plates. The thick slices of roasted pork sat largely untouched.

The journey had drained their stamina, and the looming pressure of the Skargardian capital would clearly not help. He could not afford to let them starve themselves. Tomorrow required physical endurance.

"Eat," Ulrich spoke then, as usual sounding more like a prison guard than a guardian.

Hermione pushed a charred piece of pork across the tin surface with the tines of her fork. She refused to meet his gaze, staring stubbornly at the fire. "I—I am not really hungry."

Esther pulled her shoulders inward, echoing the sentiment. "Me too. My stomach feels weird."

Ulrich shifted his attention to the far end of the wooden log. Airam ignored the tension. She systematically stripped a large cut of meat from the bone, swallowed, and reached toward the iron spit to secure another serving. Her plate was already scraped clean of vegetables.

Ulrich stepped over a protruding root and took a seat on an empty wooden supply crate directly opposite the three sisters. A knight stepped forward then, offering a freshly loaded plate. Ulrich took the meal and cut a piece of the salted pork. He chewed the tough meat, letting the silence stretch across the fire as Hermione and Esther watched him nervously.

He swallowed and set his knife down on the tin edge.

"If I judge you inapt to stand tomorrow evening," Ulrich said, his tone completely devoid of sympathy, "I am not taking you to the banquet."

Hermione’s head snapped up. She gripped her iron fork so hard the metal dug into her skin. "That is not fair! We traveled all this way!"

"Then eat the food and get the necessary energy into your system," Ulrich replied. He delivered a dry stare across the flames. "You will need stamina to stand in that court of rats."

The heat from the fire reflected against Hermione’s face, but the deep red flush rising in her cheeks stemmed from frustration. She squeezed her eyes shut and shouted over the popping embers.

"I don’t want to get fat!"

Ulrich stopped moving. He processed the string of words, attempting to find the logic within the outburst. He failed, unfortunately.

"You don’t want to get fat." He repeated her words, making her further embarrassed.

He looked at her, scanning her from the lace collar of her travel dress down to the scuffed leather of her boots. Hermione possessed a very slight frame. The notion that a single serving of roasted camp meat would suddenly render her obese was clearly an exaggeration.

"You are not eating a whale," Ulrich said. "It is a piece of pork. It will not destroy your measurements."

Hermione’s cheeks burned darker. She opened her mouth to argue, but another voice interrupted the standoff.

"I do not wish to go to that place alone, so eat the food," Airam said. She leveled a serious look at her sisters.

Considering Ulrich wouldn’t say empty threats, she was afraid she would attend alone in that banquet hall.

Esther sulked at her eldest sister’s quick change of mood. "You are a meanie, eldest sister."

Hermione huffed indignantly in agreement. "Yes, honestly, we should force you to attend the royal court alone. Just you and with the great Count Rubenhart standing together. Goodness, you would make a fitting duo. No one in the entire kingdom will dare come to speak to you, and neither of you will speak to them. It would be quite fun! Hmph!"

Airam ignored her, much as Ulrich ignored Hermione, highlighting both characters’ asocial tendencies.

Despite her bitter complaints, Hermione finally skewered a piece of the meat and shoved it into her mouth. She chewed, glaring at the fire. Esther immediately followed her sister’s lead, cutting a small piece of the root vegetable and eating it.

Ulrich watched the three of them consume their meal, finally.

He listened to the mundane, trivial complaints of high society. The sound of their voices overlapping in the quiet forest washed over him, bringing an intense, unexpected wave of clarity.

He remembered the day he found them.

If he had not intervened, if he had not pulled them from that village. They would never have known the taste of a proper meal, let alone possessed the luxury to worry about the fit of a silk ballgown.

It was actually very gratifying for him to see all three of them like that, eating, not stained by humans’ vileness and, on the contrary, sheltered, fed, and protected.