Too Lazy to be a Villainess-Chapter 124: Blades and Birthdays

[Lavinia’s POV ]

[Imperial Palace—Training Ground]

The sound of clashing metal echoed across the courtyard like thunder trapped in rhythm.

Clang. Slide. Step. Parry.

Then—Clang! again.

I gritted my teeth as Caelum’s blade glanced off mine and barely missed my shoulder by a dragon’s whisker. The wind that stirred tugged at my braid.

"You almost nicked me!" I gasped, stumbling back with all the theatrical flair I could muster. I planted one hand on my hip and narrowed my eyes at him. "Are you trying to assassinate the future empress? Or are you just showing off again, you idiot?"

Caelum flinched—only for a heartbeat—but there was no apology in his eyes.

Thirteen years old. A full three years older than me. Taller by a hand’s width. Broader in the shoulders. Quieter than a prayer. Sharper than the blades we held.

He moved like silence incarnate. Still as a statue when resting—but when he moved?

It was like watching moonlight spill across a blade. Fast. Fluid. Unforgiving. He held his training sword like it belonged to him more than his own breath.

"I wouldn’t dare to assassinate you, Princess," he said flatly, eyes unreadable. "Not during practice. And never in the future."

Tch, predictable. I know exactly what you’re going to do, you sword -snob

I squinted. "...That’s not the reassurance you think it is."

He tilted his head slightly—hawkish and curious. "You dropped your elbow again."

"Did not!"

"You did."

"Did not!" I repeated, louder this time, and lunged with all the dramatic fury of a tempest wrapped in silk and sarcasm. "And even if I did, it was a creative choice."

Caelum shifted one smooth step back, catching my blade with his in a soft whum of impact. "Creative choices get you killed in real battles."

"Well, duh," I huffed, circling him like a dragonling on her first flight. "But this isn’t a real battle, is it? It’s practice. I’m still allowed to be elegant."

He struck again—clean, calculated, almost bored. "No one’s elegant during battle, Princess."

Ugh. This bastard.

With a sharp grunt and a pivot on my heel, I twisted, raised my blade, and shoved him back—not hard, but firm enough to earn me a step’s worth of distance.

I grinned. "Well. I can be."

He blinked. Caught off guard. Then—

He smirked. It was rare. And dangerous.

"We’ll see that too, Princess."

And just like that, something shifted. The practice match no longer felt like practice.

We clashed again—clang! clang! clang!—faster now, louder, our blades ringing like bells on fire. I met every strike. Matched every step. Matched him.

Not perfectly.

But evenly.

I wasn’t the same little girl who once tripped over her own hilt. Not anymore.

My footing was steady.

My grip, sure.

My breath was measured.

I ducked, twisted, blocked, and parried—feeling the rhythm of it in my bones.

Caelum’s eyes narrowed—not with annoyance. With something far more dangerous.

Respect.

He twisted low, aiming for my ribs—I countered with a deflection that turned his blade wide, spun inside his guard, and nearly tagged his shoulder.

Nearly.

But it was close enough to make him flinch.

"You’ve improved," Caelum said under his breath, circling again like a panther made of patience and precision. His eyes scanned me—not with mockery this time, but with something close to... respect.

"I know," I replied, breathless but absolutely beaming, sweat glistening on my brow. "And I’m just getting started."

I twirled my sword once—because flair was important, even in a fight—and pointed it straight at his chest.

"Ready for another round?"

Caelum tilted his head, that familiar smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Sure. Why not, Pr—"

"THAT’S ENOUGH."

The courtyard froze.

Our blades lowered immediately as we both turned toward the booming voice.

Ravick stood at the edge of the stone platform, arms folded, face unreadable—but his tone carried that do-not-argue-or-I-will-dropkick-your-destiny weight he was famous for.

"Princess," he said, shifting into full instructor mode. "Training is over for today."

I pouted, wiping the sweat from my cheek with the back of my glove. "But we were just getting to the good part."

"I’m sure you were," Ravick said dryly, glancing between Caelum and me like he was cataloging all the ways we were about to accidentally destroy each other—or ourselves.

Caelum bowed his head respectfully. "Understood, Commander."

Of course he listened. Perfect little soldier boy.

I, however, requested, like a dignified future empress. "Just one more minute?"

Ravick’s brow lifted a single terrifying inch. "Do you plan to run your empire on sore muscles and a broken wrist?"

"...No?"

"Then sheath your blade, Princess."

I sighed. Dramatically. Theatrically. Like a heroine denied her final duel by the cruel forces of adult supervision.

But I obeyed.

Because you cannot joke with Ravick when it comes to sword fights, and I had no plans of testing his patience—or his grip strength.

As I slid my practice sword into its sheath, I threw Caelum a sideways glance.

He was already watching me.

That smirk hadn’t moved.

"Next time," I said, chin high.

He nodded once. "Looking forward to it."

I turned away with a triumphant little huff and dashed across the courtyard, past the stone pillars and training dummies, toward the shade-drenched tree where Marshi was currently...

Growling?

Sniffing?

Jumping?

Oh no.

He was doing all of them.

"Marshi!" I called, watching as the divine beast sniffed at a bush with more suspicion than an old palace guard during a cake theft. "What are you doing?"

He snorted in reply, swatted a leaf with his tail, and proceeded to hop sideways like a very offended cloud with claws.

I squinted at the bush. "Did that plant insult you?"

Marshi gave a final snort of disdain and trotted over, falling into step beside me with a dramatic huff—tail high, nose twitching, every bit the royal beast of mystery and melodrama.

"Let’s go, then," I said, reaching out to pat his soft, smoky fur. "Enough diplomatic disputes with the garden."

He immediately followed me, all growls forgotten, like a puppy who’d just remembered he was actually a divine creature blessed by the gods.

As I strolled back into the palace hallway, still slightly sore from sword training but very pleased with myself, a familiar voice caught me mid-step.

"Princess!" Marella came hurrying toward me, clutching her skirts like they were trying to escape. "The designers have arrived."

I blinked. "Already?"

She nodded with the calm intensity of someone who had just been ambushed by five tailors, three color swatches, and a sentient measuring tape. "His Majesty summoned all the designers this time."

I stopped walking.

Let that sink in.

All.

The designers.

"...Why?" I asked, already feeling a headache start to bloom behind my left eyebrow.

"Because," Marella said delicately, "tomorrow is a very special occasion."

"I know that," I sighed dramatically as we turned down the corridor. "It’s my tenth birthday. And Papa’s birthday. And apparently, the day half the empire collectively loses its mind in celebration."

Marella gave me a look. The patient adult humor-me look. "It’s also your first time attending the Battle Parade."

Ah, yes.

The Battle Parade.

Where the Emperor—my father, Cassius the Scary—rides through the capital after every major victory, followed by trumpets, fireworks, flying banners, and thousands of cheering people tossing petals and praise like confetti.

And this time?

I was going with him.

Me.

My very first time seeing the city.

The real city.

Not from a tower window. Not from a royal map. But from the back of a parade steed, right beside the most feared man in the known world.

... I was very excited.

And slightly terrified.

"I don’t suppose Papa is going to let me ride a giant golden phoenix, is he?" I asked hopefully.

Marella chuckled. "I’m afraid you’ll be on horseback, Your Highness."

"Ugh. Boring. At least tell me the horse is enchanted."

"Not enchanted. Just... highly trained and mildly terrified of you."

"Well, that makes two of us," I muttered.

We reached the chamber doors just as Marshi growled again—this time at a decorative curtain that, in his expert opinion, was clearly plotting high treason.

I gave him a firm pat on the head. "Not everything is an enemy, you know."

He sneezed in violent disagreement. Loudly. Twice.

Classic Marshi.

And just like always, the moment I stepped into the royal design chamber, I was instantly—and very personally—assaulted.

Visually assaulted.

A full tsunami of sequins, silks, and sparkles crashed upon me like war drums in fabric form. Golds, silvers, and velvets so thick they looked like they had noble bloodlines. One designer was weeping dramatically over the tragedy of a crooked hem. Another was in a heated argument with a mannequin—who was definitely winning. A third had somehow gotten trapped inside a hoop skirt and was calling for help like she was drowning in taffeta.

I blinked once. Took a breath.

And then I clapped my hands like a commander rallying her troops before battle.

"Alright, people! Let’s do this!"

Because tomorrow wasn’t just any day.

It was my birthday.

Papa’s birthday.

And our first Battle Parade together.

Let the war of glitter and gown begin.

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