My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

"Works," Ulrich repeated. The word left his mouth stern and cold, and his red eyes narrowed dangerously as he focused his full attention on the girl.

Ceres’s mismatched eyes widened in sudden panic as she realized the blunder she had just made. She slapped a hand over her mouth, too late to catch the words.

"Clamping your hand over your mouth will hardly make me magically forget what you just mouthed," Ulrich said. He pivoted slowly to face her. "Now, explain to me why that old man is toiling for coin when I have already provided more than enough wealth to sustain you both."

"T—That’s... um..." Ceres stammered, taking a reflexive step backward.

She had sworn to Mark that she would not breathe a word about his secret work to the Count. But her frayed nerves had betrayed her. Ulrich had given explicit orders for Mark to remain at the manor and guard Ceres at all hours. Discovering that the old man was disobeying his words to work half the day was very irritating.

Ulrich walked, his long strides closing the distance as Ceres continued to retreat. She scrambled backward, her heart hammering strongly, until her heels struck the wainscoting of the wall behind her.

"Hah..." She gasped, her breath catching in her throat. She snapped her head up, only to find Ulrich already looming directly over her.

Ulrich stared down at the trembling girl, his mind working to stay calm. Was the old fool actively trying to sabotage them? Leaving a host afflicted with a mature strain of the Thornbreath alone was an act of negligence. Mark was the girl’s only emotional anchor; he was the only one capable of talking her down if the curse flared and threatened to consume her mind.

In the original story, her master had fulfilled that role, forging her control through rigorous, constant discipline. But that woman was absent. Ceres was young, emotionally fragile, and walking on the edge of a cliff. This was the most critical period of her life, a time when she needed constant supervision. Yet it seemed the old man had found other priorities.

"Why is that stupid man working?" Ulrich asked, his voice dangerously quiet as he forced his fraying patience to hold.

"He is not stupid!" Hearing her grandfather insulted, a sudden spark of elven fire flared in Ceres’s chest. She lifted her chin, glaring up at him.

But her fire died almost instantly as it met the dead, freezing crimson of Ulrich’s gaze. She faltered, her shoulders slumping as she pressed herself against the wall.

"Why did he leave you alone, then?" Ulrich asked, a faint, mocking scoff escaping his lips. "Perhaps he does not actually care for your wellbeing half as much as he claims to."

"N—No!" She cried, shaking her head. "He loves me!"

"Then where is he?" Ulrich asked, leaning in slightly, his presence suffocating the small space between them. "Wandering aimlessly through the market? He possesses the reckless gall to drag you into a Den of Magical Beasts, but now he suddenly acts too timid to bring you along to buy bread and cabbage? Is his mind beginning to rot from age?"

Though Ulrich did not raise his voice by even a fraction, every word dripped with a corrosive scorn that pinned the young elf helplessly in place.

"W—Why are you being so cruel?" Ceres whispered. Her voice cracked, and a tearful, wounded glare cut through her fear as she looked up at him.

Ulrich stared down at her in silence. The hurt in her heterochromatic eyes gave him pause. To insinuate that the only person in the world who cared for her secretly did not love her, that was a step too far perhaps for a broken girl like Ceres.

Even Ulrich was not truly that cold-hearted, at the very least not anymore with Silas’s memories. He knew his harshness was born of physical exhaustion, fueled by the lingering adrenaline of the beast hunt and the irritation of discovering Mark’s disobedience.

Without another word, Ulrich took a step back. He released the pressure he had placed upon her and turned, walking away toward the grand living room.

Ceres remained pressed against the wall, her small hands clenched tight against her chest as she watched his retreating back. She blinked, surprised by how quickly he had withdrawn. Brushing her bangs forward to conceal her amber eye out of habit, she took a shaky breath and nervously followed him.

She found Ulrich already seated on the sofa. He had drawn his longsword from its scabbard, resting the steel across his knees. Retrieving a small, oil-soaked cloth from his coat, he began carefully wiping away the dark, coagulated grease and lingering beast blood that stained the blade.

Watching him work in silence, an idea struck Ceres. She hurried quietly into the adjoining kitchen, filled a large wooden bowl with clean, warm water, and brought it back. Hesitantly, she placed the bowl onto the low table before him, immediately taking two large steps back to give him space.

Ulrich did not speak, but his crimson eyes flicked up to acknowledge the gesture. Setting his oiled cloth aside, he rolled his dark sleeves up his forearms. He used the water to carefully rinse the steel of his crossguard before submerging his hands, washing away the stubborn flakes of dried blood clinging to his knuckles.

At that moment, the front door clicked open.

"Ceres, I am home!" Mark’s booming, joyful voice echoed through, followed by the thud of his boots. "I brought you some gifts from the market! I know you will definitely like—"

The old man stepped into the living room, his arms laden with wrapped parcels, and instantly froze. The warm smile on his face died as his eyes locked onto Ulrich. The Count Rubenhart was casually drying his clean hands with a linen towel, his gaze fixed on Mark with a freezing stare.

"M—My Lord..." Mark muttered, the blood draining from his cheeks. He cast a questioning glance toward Ceres, but she immediately averted her eyes in guilt.

"It seems you have been rather busy," Ulrich said, rising from the sofa and lifting his sword.

"U—Um... yes," Mark stammered awkwardly, shifting the bags in his arms. "We were short on proper dishware. I merely had to go out to purchase some."

"Were you short on coin as well?" Ulrich asked. The steel of his blade rang sharply as he slid it back into its leather scabbard.

"O—Of course not!" Mark laughed, a hollow, nervous sound. "Your Lordship has been more than generous. You have provided us with enough wealth to sustain ourselves tenfold."

"Then explain to me why you are laboring in the city," Ulrich asked, his eyes pinning the old man in place.

Mark fell completely silent. He looked at Ceres, reading the tearful apology written plainly across her face.

"G—Grandpa..." Her guilty whisper was all the confirmation he needed.

"T—That is..." Mark swallowed hard, his posture stiffening as defensive pride took over.

"You left someone afflicted with a Thornbreath curse unguarded," Ulrich said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy tone. "You abandoned your post to toil for superfluous coin?"

Mark gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on his parcels. "I did not wish to live entirely as a beggar on your charity, My Lord. Ceres is my precious daughter. I intend to buy things for her and provide for her with coins I earned from my own sweat."

"Grandpa..." Ceres choked out, fresh tears welling in her eyes at the love in his voice.

Unfortunately for the old man, his sentimental declaration of paternal pride had no whatsoever effect on Ulrich.

"You may keep your loose emotions and sentimental pride to yourself," Ulrich retorted, his voice dropping colder with every step he took across the room. "They will be useless when you are weeping over her corpse."

Terrified by the strange malice radiating from Ulrich, Ceres rushed forward, throwing her arms around Mark’s elbow. She tried to wedge her small frame protectively between the two men, but Ulrich did not even spare her a glance. His burning blood red eyes remained locked on Mark.

"The Thornbreath Curse is parasitic. It feeds and strengthens the more resistance the host gives, and it grows deeper the longer it takes root," Ulrich said, speaking slowly, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a stubborn child. "It has been growing inside her chest for fourteen long years. That means if the briars are triggered and she loses control, the blast radius of her magic will be catastrophic."

"I know that—"

"No, you do not," Ulrich cut him off with a snap. "Because if you truly understood the sheer scale of the bomb she is carrying, you never would have abandoned her in an empty house."

"You provided this manor, My Lord!" Mark argued quickly. "If Ceres is not even safe behind walls owned by the Count of Rubenhart—"

"She is not safe anywhere in this world," Ulrich interrupted, coming to a dead halt just inches from the old man’s chest. "She is a Half-Elf and a Half-Witch carrying a matured Thornbreath Curse. She is hunted by nature, despised by mankind, and rotting from the inside out. Safety is a myth for her."

At his harsh words, Ceres flinched. She lowered her gaze to the floorboards, her shoulders trembling slightly at his ruthless directness.

"The only thing we can control is her emotional stability," Ulrich continued. "It is the only barrier keeping the curse from tearing her apart. Providing that emotional anchor is the only duty I assigned to you."

"I have been taking care of Ceres for the past seven years, My Lord," Mark fired back, his own anger finally boiling over. "I know far better than you how to protect her!"

"You have no idea what you are talking about," Ulrich sneered, a cold, mocking glare appearing on his face. "You have been wandering aimlessly through the dark like a blind fool. You nearly had her slaughtered in a magical den because you thought you could fight a curse with a sword. Is that your grand definition of protection?"

Mark gritted his teeth. The truth of the accusation stung, leaving him without a defense.

"The only thing you are going to achieve is triggering her curse, directly or indirectly, through your carelessness," Ulrich added. "Leaving her unguarded for hours, where anything could happen to her mind or body, all because you wanted to stroke your petty, fragile paternal pride. Tell me, old man, do you possess a single shred of intelligence, or did you lose your wits along with your hair?"

Mark fell completely silent. The fight drained out of him, and he lowered his gaze, his broad shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Grandpa..." Ceres whispered, hugging his arm tighter. Her heart ached terribly to see the only man who loved her being humiliated so much. But she couldn’t summon the anger to yell at Ulrich. He was terrifying, cruel, and mean, but every word he spoke was true. He was treating her curse with the life-or-death danger it demanded.

"All that matters," Ulrich said, his voice turning deadly serious, "is Ceres."

Ceres gasped, her eyes flying wide open as she stared up at him.

It was the very first time he had spoken her name.

Ulrich held Mark’s gaze for one final, freezing second.

"If you are incapable of protecting her properly," Ulrich spat, turning on his heel, "I will take her and do it myself."