"I'm a Villainess in a Historical Novel"
The smell of smoke lingered in the air. Not the pleasant kind from burning wood — but the acrid, iron-rich stench of blood and ash. Somewhere, people were screaming.
And yet, the ballroom was quiet.
Gilded chandeliers dangled like skeletons overhead, shattered glass crunching under heavy boots. The once-pristine marble floor was stained red, and at the center of it all, a single woman stood in tattered lace and wine-colored silk.
Her hands were bound behind her back.
Across from her, sword drawn and jaw clenched, stood Arthur Penrose, the rebel prince. Wearing a mask and his black coat was torn at the shoulder, a slash across his stomach still bleeding, but his eyes were steady. Sharp. Unforgiving.
He pointed the blade at her throat.
A heartbeat passed. Then another. Then—
"Who are you?"
His voice wasn't angry.
It was cold. Curious. Suspicious.
She should've answered with fear. Or silence. Or arrogance like the real Elizabeth would've.
But instead, she looked him in the eye and said:
"I'm Elizabeth."
A pause.
Not Lady Elizabeth.
Not Duchess Shelberg.
Just... Elizabeth.
Arthur's brows furrowed. A flicker of something passed through his gaze confusion, or perhaps doubt. This wasn't the woman he remembered. This wasn't the monster who laughed during executions and signed death warrants like invitations.
This woman... seemed serious and her eyes is like fighting for something.
Like she had lived too many lives.
"You're lying."
His voice dropped.
"You're not her. So, who are you really?"
Elizabeth didn't flinch.
(You wouldn't believe me if I told you...)
She took a breath, standing as tall as her ruined body would allow.
"I am Elizabeth Portalff Shelberg. Daughter of Duke Shelberg.
The woman you came to kill."
Her lips curled not in defiance, but conviction.
(But I wasn't always.)
And as Arthur raised his sword, she thought,
(I died once saving a puppy. Now I'm trying to save myself.)
Then the blade fell.
And so did the story begin.