Chapter 1

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PLEASE READ: 


Verinia is NOT someone who I made to ignite feelings of love and respect from my readers. She's not a role model, nor is she an inherently good person. 

The story is called Villain for a reason. 

I've always liked villains and honestly, I want one of them to win. 

So she IS going to be a VILLAIN. not just mean. A LITERAL VILLAIN. 

you have been warned. 


It was the way they stared at her as her head was smudged into the floor, like her face was a sponge meant to be cleaning the dirt off of the marble. It was the way they sneered and laughed when she was reprimanded by her father, publicly humiliated and shorn of her rights -her pride- in a room full of people who wanted nothing more than to feed off of her embarrassment. 

It was the way they hated her because she represented everything they were, especially in their small, meaningless lives. Useless in the face of royal power. And as the next in line to the throne of Virdaine, it was a stark reminder that even those with power, could do nothing against those with absolute power. The people loved her father - for his victories, for his beauty, for his charismatic cruelty. Everything about him screamed 'tyrant' but he cared for his people in his own small, small way. But his daughter? The next in line to carry on his legacy?

"You've disappointed me yet again, Verinia." He murmured, swirling the goblet full of wine in his long fingers, a barely present look in his topaz eyes. 

She understood his annoyance. She had stomped on a little boy's hand when he had dared to try touch her, after making careless comments about her lineage in front of other children. He had questioned her, and she had made sure he would never do so again. The only fault she honestly thought she had was in letting her anger take over her and making it known. And as the son of a Lord her father was already irritated by, Verinia had to make sure she went about her anger in different, subtle ways. But the boy's hand was broken in several different places and he would never pick up a sword, much less a fork, ever again. Her heart smiled inwardly. So, she supposed, she may deserve this punishment. 

But she was still a princess. 

And the knight who pressed her face into the stone floor was enjoying himself too much. 

"What do you have to say, child?" 

The knight let up his foot and she met her gaze with her father - no, the Emperor. But she didn't have anything to say, she simply felt a small smile curl her lips, the thrill of being unrepentant in the face of punishment fueling her. 

The Emperor stared down at her. An older, male version of her own features. Blood-red hair that fell in rivers down to his waist, a yellow-stoned glare, and the hard set of a jaw that would never back down. She knew that feeling all too well. 

The silence in the hall was heavy. Pregnant with desire to see her beaten, ripe with the expectation of pain for someone who reminded them of their own powerlessness. But Verinia was not powerless- not in the long run anyway. But the idiots the Emperor called his imperial court were too narrow-minded to think the same. Verinia knew each of their names, knew their children's and servants' names, knew who they dealt business with and who they were on tenuous terms with. 

But as a barely-there 16 year old with nothing and no one to back her up - her lack of presence was easy to understand. But she knew she had time. Knew that her father cared about his lineage just enough to not order her killed. And in that time, she could accomplish so much. The moments she spent here, in agony, would be worth it. Because later, she would slit their throats with her own knives and dance in the blood that would pool at her feet. Exterminate their progeny and stomp on the potential of their legacies in front of them, and enjoy

"20 lashings." 

The court let out a sound of surprise. At most, he had ever only given her 10, so a double of that number was harsh. Especially for a girl to be whipped openly in front of a crowd. The knight who held his foot against her head walked to the whip stand and cracked it experimentally, a dark look in his eyes that made sure Verinia knew his name. Atler Vaine. The public dirty hands of her father. Verinia smiled at him, even as the back of her dress was being ripped open, exposing the previous scars of her previous endeavours. Atler smiled back, his hand twisting firmly around the beautiful handle of the horrible weapon.

Verinia kept smiling even as he raised the whip, even as the courtesans leaned forward in eager anticipation. Even as her father took a long sip of wine and carelessly gazed upon her. 

There would never be a day where they would hear her scream.  

________




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⏰ Last updated: Dec 18, 2020 ⏰

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