Reincarnated as the Villainess's Unlucky Bodyguard-Chapter 225: Freedom Tastes Like Burnt Bread and Bad Decisions

It's an odd thing, finding yourself alive after you'd spent the last several weeks wagering, with reasonably good odds, that you'd die inside a fortress lined with enough curses to make a banshee blush. Stranger still was being alive, alone, and completely, gloriously uncontrolled. Not a magical string, not a shadow whisper, not even a single, smug Azael monologue ringing in my skull.

Just me, the night air, and the muffled sound of my heart thudding against the inside of my ribs like an overeager drummer at a festival.

Freedom, as it turned out, was both exhilarating and absolutely terrifying.

I ran until my lungs burned, until the lights of Azael's fortress faded behind me and the only company I had were the distant howls of shadow creatures who would, I assumed, shortly be subjected to Azael's "motivational" speeches for failing to recapture me. I did not envy them. In fact, I offered them a moment of silent pity.

But mostly, I was busy trying not to collapse.

The world beyond the fortress was a ragged tapestry of stunted forests, half-dead moors, and the lingering stench of old magic residual aftershocks of Azael's earlier rampages. There were places where the grass had simply… given up. Ash fell from the sky like sulky confetti. The wind tasted faintly of sulfur and regret.

I staggered into a grove of twisted trees whose trunks had fused into improbable knots, forming a kind of cave at their base. It was the sort of hiding place a fairy-tale wolf might have chosen except no wolf would've put up with the prickly, magic-resistant thorns or the squelching sound the moss made underfoot.

But for me, it was paradise. Mostly because it was far from Azael. Partly because I could, for the first time in what felt like forever, sit down and let every muscle in my body send up a prayer of gratitude.

I slumped against the largest tree, trying to catch my breath. The system, ever eager for a post-trauma debrief, piped up at last.

[So, scale of one to "actually impressive," how would you rate your own escape?]

Can I choose "miracle brought on by dumb luck and spite"?

[That's not only fair, it's probably accurate. Congratulations, Liria. You've outlived at least half the castle's curses and all of Azael's patience.]

A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest half giddy, half hysterical.

"I'm free," I whispered, just to hear the words in the open air, to feel them vibrate in my bruised, battered lungs.

[Yes, you are. Well done. I was starting to worry you'd make a career out of tragic imprisonment.]

I ignored the jab. Or tried to. The truth was, I needed to hear it. I needed to say it. I needed to believe it.

But after a few minutes of glorying in the sound of my own heartbeat and the not-so-faint possibility of imminent death by exposure, hunger began to gnaw at me with the persistence of an abandoned puppy.

System, what are the odds we find food that doesn't curse us, poison us, or try to bite us first?

[You're in the demon wilds. Statistically, about fifteen percent. Less if you insist on hot meals.]

I glared at a nearby patch of fungus that was glowing in a way I didn't trust. "You don't look like you want to be eaten," I told it.

[Do not eat the fungus. You remember what happened last time.]

I only hallucinated that my own hair was plotting against me for a week.

[Exactly.]

Sighing, I rummaged through what remained of my pockets, which included: two mostly-melted healing candies, a broken charm, three coins from a kingdom that didn't exist anymore, and a slice of demon bread so hard it could double as a weapon in a pinch.

It wasn't much, but it would do.

I gnawed on the bread, which tasted faintly of burnt garlic and old shoes, and washed it down with a few drops of rainwater collected on a leaf. Luxury, this was not.

But after everything, it tasted like victory.

[You know,] the system said, [most people, after a traumatic escape, would take a moment to revel in their freedom. You're eating mossy carbs and plotting your next disaster.]

I am multitasking. There are several disasters to choose from. And speaking of, there's a tiny matter I'd like your input on.

[Let me guess. The matter of approaching your former friends and love interests after betraying them, nearly murdering half the kingdom, and possibly aiding in the construction of a skull-themed shadow palace?]

I wasn't myself!

[Try that line on Enara. See if it works.]

My heart thumped harder. Enara. Her name alone was enough to make the cold night feel less empty and infinitely more terrifying. I closed my eyes, letting myself remember her , her stubborn chin, the flash of her eyes, her laughter like cracked bells.

What if she doesn't believe me?

[She will. Eventually. Or she'll hex you. Possibly both.]

And what if that idiot hero got to her first?

[Ah, yes. The glowing sword-waver. Kael.]

I made a noise somewhere between a groan and a snarl. "If she fell for that haircut I will never forgive fate."

[Maybe he's only marginally heroic. Maybe he's the sort of hero who can't remember to wash his socks.]

"Still a risk."

But the risk I couldn't admit out loud was bigger than Kael's hair or Enara's temper. What if after everything I was truly unforgivable? What if Azael's magic had not only controlled me, but ruined me? What if all the jokes, the bravado, the stubborn spark that had kept me alive was only the ghost of a person no one wanted back?

It was easier to keep the tone light, to banter with the system, than to dwell on the sick ache of uncertainty burrowing through my chest. In the silence that followed, I became aware of the world again the wind, the restless shiver of trees, the distant sound of a nightbird too stubborn to migrate.

[You need rest,] the system said gently. [If you collapse from exhaustion, you'll never make it back.]

If I sleep, I'll dream.

[Better to dream in freedom than to live in chains.]

Sometimes, I wished my system had a face. I could have thrown my demon bread at it. Instead, I stretched out, made myself as comfortable as a fugitive could on a bed of crunchy moss, and let exhaustion pull me down.

I dreamed, of course.

I dreamed of running through halls of glass, of Enara waiting at the end of a corridor lined with torches, her expression unreadable. Of Kael stepping in, light blazing from his sword, offering her a hand I could never bring myself to take.

I dreamed of laughter, of betrayal, of the taste of Azael's magic twisting my mind until all I could do was scream.

When I woke, dawn was a pink smear on the horizon and the world smelled miraculously like hope and dew and not at all like demon bread. My body ached, but I was whole. Free.

And, I realized as my stomach snarled, still hungry.

[You know,] the system said, [you could try not making a mess of your first conversation. For once.]

No promises.

[Go on, then. Go to your princess. Or, you know, get punched in the face. Either way, it'll be entertaining.]

I dusted off my cloak, crunched a last bite of bread, and set out through the wilds toward the place where I guessed Enara and her unlikely army would be regrouping. Each step felt like its own small victory. The trees grew taller, the sky bluer. Even the world's most suspicious fungus seemed less menacing.

And as I walked, the system hummed quietly in the back of my mind, sometimes giving advice, sometimes reminding me to duck when a bird tried to use my head as target practice, always a presence equal parts annoying and indispensable.

By midday, I found the road a real road! and followed it toward the distant, crumbling towers of Enara's new camp. My mind was full of plans, of apologies, of sarcastic retorts in case I needed to defend myself with wit when magic failed.