My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

"What is an elf doing here?"

At Ulrich’s question, Ceres’s hand instantly shot up, her fingers grazing the sharp contour of her ear. A jolt of pure panic struck her as she realized they were completely exposed. Panicking, her fingertips fluttered down to her collarbone, searching for her enchanted necklace that normally veiled her true nature. It was gone.

In a useless attempt at concealment, she dragged the wet strands of her emerald-green hair forward, pressing them flat against her cheeks. But the gesture was quite futile. The illusion was broken, and Ulrich’s piercing gaze had already caught the defining trait of her heritage.

Her heartbeat battered against her ribs like a trapped bird, the rhythm deafening in her own ears. A deep and cold shudder racked her delicate frame as she cast a helpless glance toward her grandfather. Mark lay slouched nearby, only half-conscious. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, unaware of the unfolding just inches away, unable to protect her.

She drew her hands back, tightly clenching her fists in her lap, and forced her eyes toward the floor in a vain attempt to gather her crumbling composure.

Though she was only a half-elf, the blood running through her veins was a direct threat to her freedom. Beyond the protective borders of Sylphara, elven kin had become highly coveted contraband across the human kingdoms. To any opportunist, she was a walking fortune, an exotic prize representing boundless wealth and dark exploitation. Even the highest-ranking nobles would pay a king’s ransom for the prestige of owning someone with her lineage.

Dark memories clawed at the edges of her mind, dragging her back to the day she had been driven from her Coven following her mother’s death. Alone and terrified in the harsh wilderness, she had crossed paths with a band of human scavengers. She could still vividly recall the greedy twist of their features when they recognized what she was, remembering the malicious hunger in their eyes as they lunged to capture her.

Had it not been for Mark stepping in to save a terrified seven-year-old girl from a lifetime of servitude or worse, she shuddered to imagine the nightmare her existence would have become.

Mark was an anomaly among his kind, a man who had rescued her, sheltered her, and raised her with unconditional love despite knowing exactly what she was. But she knew better than to expect that rare kindness from the rest of the world. Mark himself had drilled the harsh reality into her mind, gifting her the illusion necklace and constantly warning her to keep her heritage buried and to never trust a human.

Yet here she sat, stripped of her disguise by cruel circumstance. Her true face was laid bare before Ulrich, a man who, despite having just saved their lives, still carried the blood and ambition of nobility. To a man of his standing, a stranded elf was an unparalleled asset, and she had entirely lost the power to hide.

And regardless, she was in no condition to put up a fight. She could barely manage a scratch against a man like Ulrich, and fleeing while dragging her unconscious, adopted grandfather through the harsh terrain was impossible.

Mustering whatever courage she had left, she finally broke the silence. "Save my grandfather... please. I will do anything you wish."

If Mark hadn’t found her years ago, her life would have ended long before this moment. Perhaps she had merely been delaying the inevitable. If she had to surrender her freedom to this noble, she wanted it to be the price for her grandfather’s survival, as he was the only person in the world who cared for her.

Keeping her gaze fixed on the dirt, she waited. Ulrich offered no immediate response. The prolonged silence stretched her nerves, causing her to squeeze her fists together until her knuckles turned white. Her chest tightened, and her breathing grew erratic, beginning as slow, trembling gasps that quickly transformed into ragged intakes of air.

Then, that hateful, familiar sensation bloomed in her chest. It felt as though a vine of vicious thorns was coiling tightly around her ribs, driving sharp needles directly into her channels.

’No...’ She thought, a wave of panic washing over her. She knew exactly what was happening to her body, and of all the times for the affliction to strike, this was the worst.

Her vision began to blur, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes as the pain flared. She clawed at her own chest in an attempt to soothe the internal stabbing, but she was powerless to stop it.

Just as she hovered on the edge of surrendering to the unbearable torment, a startling cold touch pressed against her cheek.

Ceres froze. Blinking through the haze of tears, she lifted her head to find Ulrich. He had crossed the distance and dropped to one knee, bringing himself down to her level as she knelt in the dirt.

She stared into his deep, crimson eyes, momentarily captivated by his gaze. Ulrich, in turn, closely stared at her face, his attention locking onto her heterochromatic eyes. Her right eye, normally a bright and luminous amber, was currently clouding over with sickly dark lines that seeped through the iris like ink bleeding into water.

"Breathe," Ulrich said. His voice was, as always, calm, his tone steadying her as his fingers remained gently cupped against her skin.

He held her gaze, demanding that she anchor herself to his voice to pull through the pain. Slowly, the hand on her cheek began to radiate a soothing heat. He was weaving a basic warming spell, but the gentle magic sank deeply through her skin, sending a comforting, protective wave throughout her trembling body.

Ceres obeyed. Pushing past the lingering pain in her chest, she dragged in a slow breath, fighting to piece together her ruined composure.

"Breathe calmly," Ulrich instructed again.

She closed her eyes, shutting out the surroundings to focus entirely on the rhythm of her lungs. The warmth from Ulrich’s palm grew stronger and deeply soothing. It was a strange, disarming comfort coming from a man who held her fate in his hands, yet his support anchored her through the pain.

Gradually, the sharp needles withdrew from her ribs. The pain melted away into a dull ache, and her breathing smoothed out as her calm returned.

When she fluttered her eyes open, she found Ulrich still watching her intently. He lingered just long enough to see the dark, corrupted lines completely fade, watching her right eye return to its clear, luminous amber.

"Good," Ulrich said simply. Satisfied that the crisis was over, he stood up, turned his back to her, and reclaimed his seat on the rough log bench.

Though Ulrich maintained a mask of absolute calm, his pulse had spiked during the ordeal. He knew exactly what she was enduring, and a quiet panic had gripped his chest while he treated her. If she had truly lost herself to the pain, the consequences could have been catastrophic for them both.

Ceres, meanwhile, remained disarmed by his unexpected intervention. His sudden display of tenderness had anchored her through the worst of the pain, yet it left her bewildered. She stared at him, struggling to reconcile the gentle warmth of his magic with his imposing, dangerous presence.

"Why did you..." She began.

"The Thornbreath," Ulrich interrupted, cutting her off before she could finish her thought.

Ceres’s eyes widened, her eyes flashing with shock.

"That is your curse," he said.

"H—How..." She stammered.

Naturally, his knowledge stemmed entirely from the novel he had read in his past life.

"I recognized it," he lied. "It is an affliction that acts as a beacon for Magical Beasts. A foul curse."

Her lips parted as if to argue, but she could barely force a breath through them, let alone words. Ulrich was correct, and the truth paralyzed her. Watching her silent despair, Ulrich mentally connected the dots of her past. It made perfect sense why her Coven had so mercilessly discarded someone with her latent potential. Likewise, for Sylphara, perhaps her status as a half-blood had merely been a convenient excuse; the true reason for her exile from Sylphara was likely the danger this very affliction posed to others.

In the novel, the narrative had explored the Thornbreath in excruciating detail through the protagonist’s perspective, vividly documenting the torture Ceres endured. That meticulous description was the only reason Ulrich had recognized the symptoms so swiftly when the attack began.

"I was born with it..." Ceres said, as she lowered her gaze, and dug her fingernails into her lap.

"It must be agonizing," Ulrich said, his tone as emotionless as ever. "Like barbed thorns wriggling through your flesh, systematically tearing your internal organs apart."

Ceres bit her lower lip hard. His description was terrifyingly accurate, dredging up years of suffering.

"It brings an inhuman level of pain," he continued, musing aloud. "A torment so strong it forces the victim to abandon their very mind, begging to give in just to escape the mind-boggling agony."

"S—Stop..." Ceres pleaded, her voice quivering with unshed tears.

"Do you wish to stop it?" Ulrich asked, his crimson gaze piercing through her.

"I can’t..." She whispered, slowly shaking her head.

The curse incurable as far as she knew.

"I can."

Ceres gasped, her head snapping up as her heterochromatic eyes locked onto him. Ulrich wasn’t even looking at her anymore; his attention was casually fixed on the campfire, idly stoking the dying embers with a long branch.

He turned his head slightly, the warm firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. "I can help you."