My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

"I can help you."

At Ulrich’s words, Ceres simply stared at him, her breath freezing in her throat as his words rang. She tried to parse the meaning behind his gaze. There had to be a mistake. He could not possibly mean what he had just said, not with such certainty.

"W—What?" She stammered, the single word scraping past her lips. Even knowing it was a fool’s hope, she had to ask.

Ulrich held her gaze.

"The Thornbreath is a curse," he said. "It first appeared five hundred years ago, born of a forbidden union between a Skyborn Elf and a Witch. Their child, a daughter, was brought into this world as both entities at once. She possessed the internal Tree of a Witch, yet carried the blood of an Elf. It was a fatal contradiction. That flaw severed her from the Spirits. They refused to accept her, making the ancient elven contracts and their pure magic impossible for her to grasp."

Elves were already a fading people; their birth rate was notoriously low, making any child precious. To squander that rare life on a union with a Witch was not merely considered a grave sacrilege; it was a biological impossibility.

The two races manipulated the world in opposing ways. A Witch commands magic by internalizing it, channeling raw power through the metaphysical concept of a Tree and its spreading Branches within their own soul. Elves require no such internal architecture. They do not hold magic; they simply speak to nature, communicating with the elements around them as conduits rather than containers.

Because of this unique connection to the world, elven bodies are inherently delicate. They possess the greatest natural affinity and control over magic, but their physical forms were never meant to bear heavy burdens. They lacked the unique, resilient physiology required to anchor the weight of a Witch’s Tree.

Because of this incompatibility, children conceived between the two bloodlines were never meant to draw breath. Most withered before they were ever born, while the rest were delivered silent and still.

Yet, five hundred years ago, one child survived. But she did not live freely. She was afflicted with a peculiar disease that healers would later name the Thornbreath.

"It happens when the Tree grows twisted. The ’wood’ becomes knotty, turning a diseased, rotting black at the edges. Instead of the Branches reaching outward in clean, natural division to distribute mana, the cursed Tree grows inward. It feeds upon itself. The Branches curl back toward the heart, and the internal Veins tangle with one another like barbed iron."

He paused, slightly poking in the firecamp with his branch.

"Some of these Veins end in blind, swollen sacs that fill with stagnant mana, eventually putrefying within the chest. Others connect to nothing. They dangle uselessly in the magical current, occasionally spasming and sending flares of blind agony through the body without command."

He looked at Ceres, who was paralyzed as if reliving the pain just by his description. "Those afflicted generally possess only a single Branch, the bare minimum required to keep the body tethered to life. That solitary Branch holds ten Veins. Of those ten, perhaps three or four are functional. The rest are completely scarred shut, torn wide open, or grown through with something that resembles cruel, thorny briars."

He took a breath. "Hence the name of the curse. It does not come from the ragged breathing alone, but from the Tree itself. A Witch’s Tree that has warped into a thicket of thorns, endlessly tearing the carrier apart from the inside out."

He let a silence fall, watching Ceres for a moment before continuing.

"However, the most dangerous part of those afflicted by the Thornbreath is not the pain, nor the slow decay of their own magic. No. It is what happens when the curse awakens."

His voice dropped, the firelight casting long shadows across his face.

"When the Thornbreath flares, whether from stress, fear, or the simple cruelty of time, it does not merely torment its host. It radiates, the cursed Tree, in its agony, screams into the world. Not with sound, but with mana, twisted, blackened, and thick as congealed blood. It pulses outward in waves, invisible to the naked eye but deafening to those who sense it. And it calls to them."

Ceres’s fingers dug into her knees, her nails biting through the fabric of her dress. She already knew what he was going to say.

Ulrich continued, however, unconcerned. "Magical beasts are drawn to it like moths to a flame. Not out of hunger, nor out of malice. But because the cursed mana resonates with their own cores. To them, it is a siren’s song, a beacon of raw power, ripe for the taking. And they will take it. They will tear through cities, through armies, through mountains to reach the source. Because the Thornbreath does not just attract them. It promises them something. A feast, a prize....a soul so saturated with wild magic that consuming it would make them stronger and faster. It is in their instinct as beasts."

He leaned forward slightly. "And the worst part being the afflicted cannot control it. The more they suffer, the brighter the beacon burns. The more they fight the pain, the louder the call becomes. It is a cycle with no escape. The beasts come. The afflicted runs. The pain worsens. The beacon grows. And the beasts...they never stop hunting."

Ceres’s face turned pale as a ghost.

"There are stories of entire villages wiped out because one afflicted person passed through—"

"...S—Stop!" Ceres cried out, cutting him off. Her hands slammed over her ears. Tears spilled over her lashes, tracing wet paths down her pale cheeks.

When Ulrich fell silent and looked at her, she squeezed her tear-filled eyes shut, her small frame trembling.

"P—Please... stop it..." She begged, her voice breaking into a sob.

Ulrich did not press the matter. In truth, he had merely been reciting the story he remembered from the novel, testing those written words against the fragile, weeping reality of the girl before him. Her reaction was all the confirmation he needed. The text had been accurate, it seems.

"How old are you?" Ulrich asked then.

"F—Fourteen..." She mumbled, keeping her face lowered.

"If you have survived that long, you are far from ordinary," Ulrich said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But that is a double-edged sword. It means you may harbor a much stronger strain of the Thornbreath, perhaps as potent as the first woman afflicted by it."

The Thornbreath acted like a sentient, parasitic weed taking root in the host’s soul. The more the body fought to reject it, the thicker and stronger its briars grew, overcoming that resistance. For Ceres to have battled it and survived fourteen long years... it spoke volumes about the terrifying depths of the curse writhing inside her.

"I—I can do nothing about it..." Ceres muttered. Her tears dripped, splashing against the tightly clenched knuckles resting in her lap. "It takes control over me... and it runs rampant."

"That is the nature of it," Ulrich replied. "You cannot stop the curse, but you can delay it. The Thornbreath feeds on your distress. A single surge of negative emotion, such as fear, despair, or anger, is enough to make you lose your grip, and in doing so, you feed the briars. Absolute control over your emotions is the only defense you have."

"I can’t... sometimes it’s too painful," she whispered.

The knotted branches and twisted veins inside her chest were like iron needles, piercing her from within whenever the curse flared. That pain was designed to shatter a host’s willpower, forcing them to give up. And the moment they surrendered to the pain, they surrendered control. No matter how resilient the mind, every mortal had a threshold for agony, especially a teenage girl whose delicate elven physiology was never meant to endure such a burden. It was indeed the evil brilliance of the affliction.

"If you want to protect that old man, you will have no choice but to accept it and endure," Ulrich replied. He shifted his cold gaze to Mark, who lay motionless nearby. "I do not think I am wrong to assume you are the reason he is in this state."

Ceres let out a sharp gasp, scrubbing at her wet eyes as guilt washed over her.

"And if that is true, then that old man is a fool," Ulrich continued, his voice dropping to a glacial chill. "To drag a girl carrying an explosive curse into a Den of Magical Beasts... it is beyond reckless."

Had things gone even slightly worse, it would have been Ulrich’s territory suffering the catastrophic consequences of Ceres losing control. A magical beast’s den was dangerous enough without introducing a walking cataclysm.

"N—No! Grandpa tried to help me!" Ceres immediately flared up to defend the only family she had.

"Your grandfather is an idiot," Ulrich retorted.

"H—He is not!" Ceres shouted, springing to her feet, her fists balled at her sides.

"If the Thornbreath had fully overtaken you here, what do you think would have happened?" Ulrich asked, staring back at her. "What would have happened to the Hunters in the woods? To the innocent people living near the Den? Did either of you spare a single thought for them?"

"T—That’s...!" Ceres faltered. The fire drained from her as the horrific realization of what she could have done finally settled in. She had no answer.

"It was reckless, stupid, dangerous, and irresponsible," Ulrich said curtly.

Ceres’s shoulders slumped at Ulrich’s merciless words.

"Hic..." A weak sob escaped her throat. Soon enough, she was crying again, harder this time. She threw her hands over her face, trying to hide her tears, but the muffled sounds of her despair filled the quiet room.

"I—I don’t want... hic... to hurt—"

"Stop crying," Ulrich said, frowning.

"I—I can’t... sniff... I—"

"I said, stop it."

His stern voice snapped her out of her spiral. Ceres stopped, lowering her hands to look at him. Her distinct, heterochromatic eyes were red and swollen, still shimmering with unshed tears, but she held her breath.

"Now," Ulrich said, holding her gaze. "If you want to get out of this place alive with your grandfather, you will obey me. Do you understand?"

She gave a small, jerky nod.

"I want an answer."

"Y—Yes!" She squeaked out in a hoarse voice.

"Sit down."

At Ulrich’s demand, Ceres immediately sank back into her chair, pressing her knees together and clenching her small fists tightly in her lap, waiting obediently.