Too Lazy to be a Villainess - Chapter 309

Chapter 309: The Moon and the War
[Lavinia’s POV—On the Road to the Elorian War Camp—Nightfall]

CLANG!!

The night split open with steel. Sparks burst between my blade and the assassin’s—too close, too fast. I pivoted, caught his wrist, and—

STAB.

The sword slid in clean, almost too easily. The man’s eyes widened before the light went out of them. He hit the ground with a dull THUD, his blood spreading dark against the frost.

My breath clouded in the cold air. The metallic tang of it mixed with iron and smoke.

“Is that all of them?” I asked, wiping my blade against the dead man’s cloak.

Sir Haldor’s sword dripped crimson as he turned to me, armor streaked red. “No, Your Highness. We’ve taken care of every last one.”

I sheathed my blade with a sharp click. “Good.”

I turned slowly, taking in the aftermath: seven bodies, dark shapes sprawled across the snow, their movements stilled. The faint sound of crackling torches echoed across the hills.

Osric knelt beside one of them, pulling a knife from the corpse’s belt. His expression tightened. “They’re not from Meren.”

I stepped closer. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. This isn’t Meren craft. Their assassins wear obsidian rings. This…” He tossed the badge toward me. “This is Elorian-made.”

The air went still.

I caught the badge, wiping it clean with my glove. The crest shimmered faintly under the torchlight—a coiled hawk with twin blades beneath it. I recognized it instantly.

“…So, the bandits?”

“No. They’re too well-trained to be bandits, and they’re carrying false identification,” Osric said.

A chill crawled up my spine. “Which means someone sent them—to kill me before I reach Meren.”

Silence.

I exhaled slowly, anger simmering beneath my calm tone. “Our soldiers are dying at the borders, and yet these nobles have time to play their little games.”

Swinging onto my horse, I looked down at General Arwin. “Find out which house did this. Then send a letter to Papa.”

Her gaze hardened. “As you command, Princess.”

***

[Elorian War Camp—Mid-Night]

By the time our column reached the camp, the scent of smoke, leather, and iron filled the air—war’s perfume.

The world here was nothing like the palace’s polished marble. This was real: dirt, firelight, and men forged out of fatigue and faith.

As we entered, tents parted for us. Soldiers straightened at the sight of my banner, their armor catching the faint torchlight. Some dropped to one knee, others saluted with weary pride—faces marked with mud, ash, and quiet resolve.

I dismounted, boots hitting the frozen ground with a muted thud.

“At ease,” I said.

The command passed through the air like a ripple. They obeyed instantly.

“I want reports,” I continued, stripping off my gloves. “All of them. Now.”

Sergeant Horen stepped forward, his helmet tucked under his arm, eyes bright despite the exhaustion.

“Your Highness,” he began, bowing low. “The first and second battalions have secured the eastern ridge. The third division is fortifying the western trench as we speak. The men are ready to move on your command.”

I nodded once. “And casualties?”

He hesitated—a flicker of hesitation that told me more than words could.”Five injured from the ridge patrol,” he said finally. “Two frostbitten. One scout… didn’t make it.”

I exhaled softly. “Was Rey able to heal them?”

Before Horen could answer, a dry voice cut in from behind one of the tents.”I did.”

Rey emerged from the shadows, hair a mess, his healer’s robes smeared with soot and blood. His usual easy smile was gone, replaced by something dangerously close to irritation—and exhaustion.

“You look—” I began.

“Don’t,” he interrupted flatly, running a hand through his hair. “If you’re about to say I look terrible, I already know. I’ve been awake for thirty-two hours trying to keep your soldiers alive, Your Highness. Healing is not as easy as closing your eyes and whispering a spell.”

. . .

“Still alive enough to talk back, I see.”

From behind me, Sera’s face lit up the moment she saw him. “Rey! You’re—”

“I am all good, Darling,” he smiled warmly at her.

I turned back to Horen. “Report everything in detail, Sergeant. Supply flow, patrol routes, scout rotations. I want every weakness known before sunrise.”

He nodded sharply. “Yes, Your Highness.”

I stepped into the command tent as Marshi padded in behind me, tail flicking lazily. Solena swooped in next, landing on the ridgepole above us, feathers shimmering faintly in the lamplight—watching, patient, silent.

The air inside the tent was warm and thick with the scent of burning herbs. Maps littered the table, corners held down with daggers. I traced a hand over one of them, the rivers and ridges drawn in bold ink.

The tent door snapped open, the wind slicing through the warmth. Sergeant Horen stumbled in, breath sharp with urgency.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing swiftly, “scouts have returned from the Frostplain ridge. They confirm Meren movement—disguised units attacking under night fog.”

My eyes narrowed. “Disguised?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said grimly. “The arrows that hit our outer camps… they came from above. From the air. Which means—”

“—they’re striking from higher ground.” I finished, tracing my gloved hand over the northern stretch of the war map. The ridges, the cliffs, the forgotten watchtowers. I could almost see it—arrows descending like rain, soldiers dying without seeing their enemy.

“They’re watching us,” I said softly. “Every move. Every patrol rotation. The Meren eyes are already in the sky.”

“It’s possible, Your Highness,” Horen agreed, voice low. “Our scouts suspect a fortified position nearby—somewhere high enough to overlook the valley.”

“Then our first task,” Sir Haldor said, “is to find the vantage point. Until we know where they’re firing from, we’re blind.”

I nodded. “Agreed. Show me the terrain.”

Horen spread a parchment on the table, the ink still smudged from the scout’s trembling hands.

“Here, Your Highness.” His finger traced a rough circle north of the border. “There’s an abandoned fortress—locals call it The Black Wall. Built into the cliffs, half stone, half shadow. It overlooks both our ridge and the lower valley.”

Osric leaned forward, brow furrowed. “They can shoot from that far?”

“Yes,” Horen said grimly. “If they’ve reforged the towers with advanced siege ballistae or sky-bow mechanisms.”

“Advanced equipment,” I murmured, studying the elevation lines. “And enough cover to hide an entire regiment.”

The tent fell silent—every eye waiting for my next word.

Then I smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“Then we take it.”

The words hit like iron on stone.

Osric straightened. “Your Highness, that fortress is at least a league inside Meren territory—”

“Exactly,” I interrupted. “It’s the source of their vision. Their arrogance. And once we seize it…” I pressed a brass pin into the mark on the map—right through the inked name Black Wall. “…the rest of their army will be blind.”

Rey, half-asleep by the brazier, blinked awake. “You’re planning to attack a fortress. That means we are entering the Meren Borders?”

I smirked. “Exactly. I’m planning to take it. They occupied our borders portion by portion; It’s time to take it back.”

Haldor’s voice rumbled low with approval. “That would cripple their aerial advantage. And their morale.”

“More than that,” I said, eyes gleaming over the flicker of the brazier. “It will send a message. The Empire doesn’t defend borders… it erases them.”

The room fell quiet again—but this time, it wasn’t hesitation I heard. It was awe.

Osric’s jaw tightened, his voice measured. “You mean to make it a warning.”

“Exactly,” I said, meeting his gaze. “Once the Black Wall falls, the Merens will see our banner from their capital and remember who they are dealing with every time they raise a weapon.”

I pressed the dagger’s point into the parchment, dragging it in a slow, sure line across the border—through rivers, through valleys, through fortresses—until it stopped dead center, at a mark drawn in black and gold.

The Meren capital.

The royal palace.

“Our target,” I said, the word heavy as steel, “is not their border. Not their outposts. Not their generals.”

I slammed the blade down into the capital.

“Our target is their throne.”

“No one,” I continued, my tone sharp, unyielding, “in this empire will rest until that crown falls. Until the Meren king and his precious viper prince kneel—or burn.”

The dagger quivered in the map, its edge gleaming with reflected firelight. I looked up, meeting every pair of eyes in the tent. “No civilians are to be harmed. Not a single innocent. We fight soldiers, not shadows.”

“Understood, Your Highness.”

“Good,” I said, stepping back, voice calm but alive with purpose. “We will move when the dawn breaks. The first and third divisions march under my banner. The second will reinforce once we secure the Black Wall.”

General Arwin straightened immediately. “I’ll have the battalions assembled by morning, Your Highness.”

“Make sure the supply units keep to the forest routes,” I added. “Meren spies will be watching the open plains. I want them blind and desperate by the time we reach their gates.”

He nodded. “It will be done.”

One by one, they all stepped out into the cold night, their shadows merging with the flickering torchlight. The sound of orders and armor faded beyond the tent flaps—an empire shifting into motion.

I stayed still for a moment, eyes drawn once more to the map. My dagger still pinned the heart of Meren—their capital, their pride, their weakness.

Soon.

I would tear the throne from under them.

But for now, the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and the faint whisper of the wind beyond the canvas.

“Lavi.”

The voice came softly—familiar, careful.

Huh?

I looked up.

Osric stood, half-lit by the golden glow of the torches. Everyone else was gone. It was just us now—two people standing on the edge of a war neither could turn back from.

I tilted my head slightly. “You’re still here, Grand Duke?”

He hesitated, his eyes searching mine. “Can we talk?” His voice was low, almost tentative. “Just for five minutes.”

A pause. The kind that stretched longer than it should have.

I studied him for a heartbeat, the way his hand lingered near his sword not out of defense, but habit. The way his gaze softened when it landed on me.

Then I smiled. A faint, quiet curve of my lips—rare and real.

“Do you want to watch the moon with me, Osric?” I asked softly.

For a moment, surprise flickered in his eyes. Then—slowly—it melted into a small, almost boyish smile. “Yes,” he said, his voice steadier this time. “I’d like that.”

The war could wait.For five minutes.