Too Lazy to be a Villainess - Chapter 307

Chapter 307: The Empress of War
[Lavinia’s POV—The Next Day—Council Chamber]

The morning light slanted through the stained glass, spilling crimson and gold across the council table—colors that looked too much like war. The air was heavy with ink, steel, and the faint bitterness of sleepless fear.

General Arwin stood before the map spread across the marble surface, his calloused hands resting on the parchment’s edge. His voice rumbled low and grave, echoing against the vaulted ceiling.

“—The King of Meren has eleven children,” he began. “And their kingdom follows only one rule, Your Highness.”

I leaned forward slightly. “What rule?”

Arwin’s eyes flicked up, hard and tired. “Only one can survive among them.”

The room fell silent.

Even the candle flames seemed to hesitate.

He unrolled another scroll with deliberate slowness, the paper crackling like bones. “The King does not declare an heir. He breeds successors like weapons—lets them fight, scheme, and kill until only one remains. That survivor inherits both throne and bloodline.”

A ripple of shock tore through the chamber.

Nobles exchanged uneasy looks. Ministers whispered behind gloved hands. The faint sound of someone’s quill snapping broke the tension.

I frowned, my fingers drumming against the table. “So their crown is built on fratricide.”

Arwin nodded grimly. “Yes, Your Highness. By the time one child claims the throne, they’ve already learned to eliminate their competition—siblings, allies, even parents if they must. The Meren king has ruled for forty years because no one dares betray a man who trained his own children to kill.”

One of the younger nobles, Lord Meras, cleared his throat nervously. “That’s barbaric—surely even they—”

“They call it strength,” Arwin cut him off. “They believe compassion breeds weakness. In Meren, mercy is treason.”

A chill threaded through the chamber.

I looked at the map—at the jagged border dividing our lands from theirs. My reflection wavered over the inked rivers like a ghost.

“They’ve built a kingdom of wolves,” I said softly. “Then it’s no wonder they bare their teeth at us.”

General Arwin bowed his head slightly. “Exactly, Your Highness. They do not fear war. To them, it’s merely survival—another test to prove they deserve to live.”

The nobles shifted uneasily, their silks whispering like dry leaves.

The nobles shifted uneasily, their silks whispering like dry leaves. The tension felt thick enough to touch. I leaned forward, my finger tracing the jagged red line that marked the Meren border on the map.

Osric spoke up, his voice even but edged with suspicion. “So… the one provoking this conflict—is it the Emperor himself?”

Arwin hesitated, his jaw tightening. “No, Your Grace.”

He looked up, his expression grim. “The provocations began under the command of the youngest prince. Prince Kaelren of Meren.”

I frowned. “The youngest?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Arwin said. “According to our scouts, he’s only twelve years old.”

The words hit the chamber like a dropped blade. A ripple of disbelief spread through the council.

“Twelve?” a minister whispered. “You must be mistaken—”

“I am not,” Arwin interrupted, voice clipped. “The boy commands his father’s western army. He led the first raid at the border himself. Reports say he fights with a blade taller than his shoulder and shows no mercy, not even to prisoners. The Meren soldiers call him the Viper’s Son.”

A murmur ran through the room, half fear, half awe.

I blinked once. Slowly.

“A twelve-year-old,” I repeated flatly. “Leading an army.”

Arwin nodded grimly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

At that age, I was eating cookies and macarons while plotting how to skip sword lessons. I feel so offended right now.

“Your Highness, are you all right?” Sir Haldor whispered from behind me.

“I am Fine,” I muttered, rubbing my temple. “Totally not offended.”

He stared at me for a beat, then blinked and looked away. I took a breath. “So—our enemy is a twelve-year-old, then?”

Arwin let out a small, humorless chuckle. “We could say that. But the prince is backed by his father—the King. So the provocation comes from both crown and regent, not a child playing at war.”

“Then this isn’t merely politics,” I said, feeling the cold clarity settle. “It’s his trial for the throne.”

“Precisely,” Arwin agreed. “To him this is a test of worth. To us it’s an invasion disguised as ambition.”

I leaned back in my chair, the silence thick enough to bite through. Then, deliberately, I let my voice carry—calm, measured, but cutting.

“Then let it be known,” I said, “that Elorian will not become the proving ground for a child king’s ambition.”

I rose to my feet, the golden light of the chamber catching the edges of my gown like flame. Every gaze followed.

“If the boy wants to play at war,” I said softly, “we’ll show him what real war costs.”

The words struck like iron.

Every general straightened. Nobles murmured low affirmations. Even Papa’s faint smirk returned. I glanced toward Arwin again. “Have we received any news from our northern battalions?”

Arwin straightened immediately, his tone turning grave. “Not yet, Your Highness—but the last report mentioned unusual movement along the Meren Ridge. Smoke was sighted beyond the third watchtower. The scouts are en route to confirm.”

I frowned. “Unusual movement?”

“Too organized to be bandits,” he replied. “And too quiet to be traders. It could be a Meren scouting unit—or worse, a feint to test our patrol routes.”

Ravick stepped forward from the shadows beside Papa. “If that’s true, they’re studying our response speed.”

“Exactly,” I said. “They’re testing how long it takes for Elorian to bleed.”

The thought settled heavy in the room. I looked around at the gathered faces—some pale, some eager, all waiting for my command.

“Send riders to the northern outposts,” I ordered. “No one moves without my word. If it’s a trap, I want them waiting for it, not walking into it.”

Arwin bowed sharply. “At once, Your Highness.”

I turned my gaze toward Haldor. “Captain, double the guard rotations near the eastern barracks. If the Meren are watching, I want them to see strength. I want them to see fear reflected back.”

He placed a fist over his heart and bowed. “As you command, Your Highness.”

As he moved to leave, I caught a glimpse of Osric at the far end of the table—his expression unreadable, caught somewhere between admiration and unease.

He’d seen me command before. But never like this. Never as the Empress I was becoming.

I met his eyes briefly, then turned away before the silence between us could swallow the moment.

“Prepare the next report,” I said coldly. “By sunset, I want to know exactly how close the Viper’s Son is willing to crawl toward my border.”

And just like that, the council moved—quills scratching, messengers running, and armor clattering in hurried rhythm.

The storm had begun to stir.

General Arwin turned toward me, his voice steady beneath the hum of motion. “When shall we leave, Your Highness?”

I looked down at the map one last time—at the crimson lines that carved borders, at the ink that would soon be replaced with blood.

“As soon as we are ready,” I said.

Arwin bowed. “Then by nightfall, preparations will be complete.”

I nodded once, turning toward Papa. His eyes met mine—sharp, proud, unflinching.

“Then announce it,” I said, my voice cutting clean through the noise. “By dawn, the banners of Elorian will march toward Meren.”

Arwin bowed deeply, the torchlight gleaming against his armor. “As you command, Your Highness.”

He turned and strode from the chamber, his voice echoing down the marble halls as he began to bark orders. Behind him, nobles scattered like startled birds, their silks whispering against the stone as news of the march began to spread—already rippling through the palace like fire through oil.

Osric lingered for a heartbeat longer, his gaze heavy with words he didn’t speak. Then, silently, he bowed and left—his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow that refused to let go.

Papa watched him leave, then stepped forward, his hand firm and warm against my shoulder.

“All the best, my dear,” he said quietly. “Make sure when the world speaks of this war, they say the Crown Princess of Elorian did not fight it—she conquered it.”

I smiled faintly, the fire in my chest steady and sure. “I will, Papa. I promise you—I’ll bring victory home.”

Ravick approached next, his expression unreadable but his tone heavy with meaning. “This war will test everything I’ve ever taught you, Your Highness. Every blade, every scar, every lesson. Remember them all.”

I met his gaze and smiled—a soldier’s smile, not a princess’s. “Don’t worry, Ravick. I’ll make sure they say your student surpassed the master.”

For a heartbeat, the old warrior’s lips curved into something like pride. “Then fight without hesitation. And don’t let mercy dull your blade.”

“I never do.”

Ravick turned to Sir Haldor, his eyes narrowing. “And you, Captain. Don’t forget your oath.”

Haldor placed a hand over his heart. “I haven’t,” he said, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “I swore to stand beside her until the end. I intend to keep that promise.”

Ravick’s gaze softened, just barely. “Then keep her alive—and yourself with her.”

“I will.”

This is the moment every lesson, every scar, and every oath had led to. The moment when the princess became the storm.

And just like that, beneath banners of gold and crimson, the Crown Princess of Elorian stepped into history—not as an heir, not as a daughter—

—but as the Empress of War.

END OF SEASON TWO.