Too Lazy to be a Villainess - Chapter 312

Chapter 312: The Hair Ruffle Incident
[Lavinia’s POV—Hours After the Victory—Inside the Black Wall Fortress]

Smoke clung to the air—thin, metallic, and laced with the bitter scent of extinguished fire and fresh blood. The Black Wall had fallen, but it was not silent. Not yet.

Boots thudded along the stone corridors as Elorian soldiers swept the fortress, dragging out hidden Meren fighters, securing armories, and inspecting tunnels. The fortress groaned with the aftermath of battle—rustling banners, clattering equipment, and the occasional groan from wounded captives.

I walked through the main hall—my hall now—my footsteps echoing off stone carved centuries before my birth.

A messenger rushed to me, panting. “Your Highness… the prisoners have been secured. We found twenty-seven Meren soldiers hiding beneath the lower barracks.”

“Good,” I said. “Send them to the central courtyard. I’ll deal with them shortly.”

The man huffed and saluted. “Y-Yes, Your Highness!”

Sir Haldor approached from the side corridor, his armor still stained but his posture as steady as always. “Your Highness, the northern wing is secure. No more hidden archers. Marshi… finished them.”

I huffed a soft breath. “Of course he did.”

Marshi strutted in behind Haldor, fur gleaming even under blood and dust, swaggering like he alone had conquered the fortress. His earlier roar still rang faintly in my ears—a divine declaration.

I reached down and ruffled his head. “Well done, Marshi.”

He purred—a deep, rumbling sound that made the floor vibrate.

WHOOSH—!!

Solena swooped down from above and landed squarely on my shoulder, nudging my cheek with a smug chirp.

“Yes, yes, you did well too,” I said.

She squeaked triumphantly and glared at Marshi like a queen asserting dominance. Marshi huffed. I rolled my eyes at both of them chuckling lightly—and that’s when I noticed it.

A dark, wet patch on Sir Haldor’s exposed arm. Right where the armor didn’t reach. I narrowed my eyes. “Sir Haldor… are you bleeding?”

He blinked, visibly confused. “Pardon?”

He looked down, finally noticing the trail of blood running along his forearm.

“Oh,” he said mildly. “I… didn’t notice.”

I stared at him. This man could get stabbed through the chest and still act like someone handed him a grocery list.

I sighed. “Follow me.”

He stiffened. “Your Highness, with respect, we still have parts of the fortress to inspect—”

“Haldor.” I turned to him, my expression turning dark, serious, and dramatic.

“Yes, Your Highness?” he said immediately, straightening.

“Do you know what happens,” I began slowly, “if you get wounded by a sharp object… and you don’t clean it?”

He blinked. “No…? Your Highness?”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice like I was delivering the darkest truth of war. “Infections spread, Haldor.”

His eyes widened a little. “W-what?”

“They crawl up your arm… inch by inch…” I traced a finger up his sleeve with exaggerated menace. “Turning the skin black.”

Haldor swallowed.

“And then it weakens… stiffens… dies.”

“What—dies?” he whispered.

I nodded gravely. “Yes.”

His face paled.

“And do you know what happens next?” I leaned in.

He blinked, tiny panic beginning to appear. “N-no, Your Highness…”

I let a wicked glint spark in my eyes. “We have to chop your arm off.”

He froze. Like fully, completely frozen.

“C… chop—?” he croaked.

Behind him, a knight passed by and inhaled sharply—from laughter or disbelief, I wasn’t sure.

I folded my arms. “Yes. Chop. Off.”

I gestured dramatically. “Clean cut. No hesitation.”

Haldor’s soul visibly left his body.

“I—I see,” he said, voice trembling just a little, trying to salvage his composure. “Then… I understand the urgency, Your Highness.”

“That’s why,” I said with a smug smirk, “you’re coming with me so we can clean and bandage that wound before we end up performing medieval surgery.”

He stared at me like I had just saved his life.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said quickly. “I will… obey.”

I smirked.

Cute.

Even Solena let out a chirping sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

***

[Later—Inside the Command Tent]

Sir Haldor followed me inside like a soldier marching toward execution—straight-backed, stiff, and pale. I lit a small oil lamp on the table. Warm light spilled across the tent.

“Sit,” I ordered.

He hesitated for exactly half a heartbeat before obeying, sinking onto the wooden stool with the guilt of a man who thinks he’s inconveniencing the universe.

“Show me the arm,” I said, rolling up my sleeves.

He extended it—carefully, as though afraid it might fall off mid-motion.

The cut wasn’t deep, but it bled steadily, slicing across the muscle. A graze from an arrow, perhaps. I dipped a cloth into warm water and placed it over the wound.

He flinched.

“…Does it hurt?” I asked.

“No, Your Highness,” he said too quickly, back stiff as a board.

I narrowed my eyes. “Haldor.”

He froze. “Yes?”

“Blink.”

He blinked.

“Again.”

He blinked faster.

“See?” I said dryly. “You can follow orders. Now admit it hurts.”

He stared at me. Then down at his arm.

“…It stings a little,” he admitted quietly.

“There we go,” I muttered. “Honesty.”

As I cleaned the wound, he held perfectly still—too still. Like a statue someone had mistakenly dipped in blood. I dipped the cloth again, this time squeezing water gently over the cut.

He sucked in a breath.

“Relax,” I said. “The infection won’t crawl up your arm unless you give it permission.”

His shoulders jumped. “I—Your Highness! I thought you said—”

I smirked. “I was teasing you, Haldor. Do you really think I’d chop your arm off without warning?”

He looked like he wanted to answer yes.

“Good,” I added, “because I would warn you first.”

He almost choked.

Silence fell for a while—quiet, warm, almost too intimate for a war camp. The lamp flickered shadows across his jawline. His breathing slowly steadied.

He finally spoke, voice low.

“Your Highness… why do you tend to this? There are healers. Medics. I can do it myself—”

“No.”

My response was too quick, too sharp.

Haldor froze.

I softened my tone. “You protect me with your life every day. The least I can do is protect you from infections and amputations.”

His lips parted—something like astonishment flickering in his eyes. Slowly, he bowed his head.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

When I applied the healing salve, he winced again.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, gentler this time.

“…A little,” he admitted.

“You’re allowed to say ‘a lot.'”

He glanced up. Our eyes met.

“…It hurts a lot,” he whispered.

The honesty—soft, reluctant, almost childlike—pulled a small smile out of me before I could stop it.

“Of course it does,” I murmured, tightening the bandage with careful fingers. “You’re not made of iron, Haldor.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched me with those steady blue eyes while I wrapped his arm with slow, precise motions. The silence between us was warm… too warm.

When I tied the final knot, my fingers brushed his skin. He inhaled sharply—quiet, but unmistakable. Then—before my brain caught up—my hand moved up.

And I—ruffled his hair.

A soft, gentle, pat-pat ruffle.

Like he was a child I’d just rewarded for not crying during a vaccination.

“There, there,” I said lightly. Too lightly. “See? It wasn’t that bad.”

And then—Haldor froze.

I froze.

AWKWARDNESS ULTRA PRO MAX

My hand froze mid-ruffle.

What?

His eyes went wide—blue and startled like a deer caught in torchlight. The stoic, unshakeable, terrifying Captain of the Imperial Guard… It looked like someone had short-circuited his soul.

And…I realized what I was doing.

I realized WHAT I WAS DOING.

My smile twitched. Died. Resurrected awkwardly. “Uh—I—”

I SNATCHED MY HAND BACK LIKE IT TOUCHED FIRE.

“Well,” I blurted, absolutely mortified, “go—go to Rey—he’ll finish… healing. Yes. Good. Go.”

Haldor blinked once.

Twice.

Then—face suddenly pink from ears to neck—he stood so quickly he almost knocked the stool over.

“Yes, Your Highness!” he managed, voice an octave higher than usual, saluted wrong, saluted again correctly, and then practically ran out of the tent like I had slapped him instead of patted him.

The curtain flap closed behind him with a soft thump.

I just stood there. And stared.

At nothing.

At everything.

Then—

“…WHY did I ruffle his hair?!”

I slapped both hands to my face.

“What am I, insane?! What part of ‘Crown Princess at war’ includes patting my captain like he’s a well-trained puppy?!”

I paced.

The tent suddenly felt too small.

“GREAT. WONDERFUL. Absolutely brilliant. I ruffled Sir Haldor’s hair. The most disciplined man in the Empire. He’s probably outside combusting from confusion.”

But when he rushed out of the tent—armor clattering, posture stiff, steps too quick—I saw it.

His ears.

Bright red. Flushed all the way to the tips.

“Well…?”