Every step across the courtyard felt like walking through quicksand. My legs—Kaelen's legs—threatened to buckle with each movement. The morning sun painted everything in golden hues, but all I could focus on was the small crowd gathered near the center of the space.
Classic protagonist setup. Of course he'd want an audience for this.
Leo stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, that perfect golden hair catching the light like some kind of divine spotlight. Three other students flanked him—his usual entourage of sycophants and future party members. I recognized them from the novel descriptions: Marcel Blackwood, the dark-haired noble with the perpetual sneer; Elena Morgenthorne, the ice-blonde daughter of a marquis who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else; and Gareth Stoneheart, a mountain of muscle who served as Leo's loyal enforcer.
The Scions. The chosen ones. The narrative darlings who get to play hero while extras like me exist solely to make them look good.
Leo's sapphire eyes locked onto mine as I approached. There was something unsettling about that gaze—not just the arrogance I'd expected, but a cold assessment. Like he was calculating exactly how much force he'd need to break me.
"Kaelen Leone." His voice carried across the courtyard, clear and authoritative. Even his vocal cords were protagonistic. "You've kept us waiting."
I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it again. What was the script here? In the novel, Kaelen would bluster and threaten, trying to use his family name as a shield. But that would just give Leo more ammunition for his righteous fury.
No. Think like a reader, not a character. What does Leo want here? What does the narrative need?
Leo wanted to feel like a hero. He needed a villain who deserved punishment, someone whose suffering would make the readers cheer. But what if I didn't give him that satisfaction?
"I... yes, Young Master Valerius. I apologize for the delay."
Marcel snorted, clearly expecting more of a fight. Elena's pale eyebrows rose slightly—probably surprised I wasn't already making threats.
Leo stepped closer, and I could feel the weight of his presence. Not just physical presence, but something more. The protagonist's aura, maybe. The world's way of marking its chosen one.
"Do you know why you're here, Kaelen?"
Because the plot demands it. Because you need a punching bag to establish your moral superiority. Because someone has to be the villain in your little morality play.
"I... no, Young Master. Have I offended you somehow?"
Leo's jaw tightened. "Don't play ignorant. The servant girl, Armelle. You cornered her in the kitchens yesterday."
Ah. There it is. The inciting incident.
According to the novel, Kaelen had indeed harassed a kitchen maid—grabbed her, made lewd comments, generally acted like the entitled piece of garbage he was supposed to be. But I hadn't done that. The original Kaelen had, before my soul replaced his.
The smart play would be to deny it, claim innocence. But that wasn't what the scene needed. Leo expected defiance so he could crush it. The narrative expected a villain who deserved punishment.
What if I gave them something else entirely?
I let my knees buckle, dropping to the stone courtyard with a sharp crack. The impact sent pain shooting up my legs, but it was worth it for the look of surprise that flashed across Leo's face.
"Young Master Valerius, I... I can't deny what I've done."
My voice cracked—not entirely by design. The words came out higher, more pathetic than I'd intended. Perfect.
"I've been a disgrace to my family name, to my station, to everything my ancestors built." I let tears gather in my eyes. Not hard, considering the situation. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I see a pretty girl and I just... I lose control."
Marcel shifted uncomfortably. Elena's expression had gone from bored to actively disturbed. Even Gareth looked like he'd rather be somewhere else.
Leo stared down at me, his righteous fury visibly deflating. This wasn't the script he'd prepared for.
"You... admit to it?"
"How could I not?" I wrapped my arms around myself, the picture of pathetic self-loathing. "You're right to be disgusted with me. Everyone should be. I'm weak, I'm worthless, I'm everything a noble shouldn't be."
Come on, golden boy. Where's your heroic speech now? Hard to deliver a righteousness lecture when your target is already groveling in the dirt.
"I keep telling myself I'll change, that I'll be better, but then I see someone like Armelle and I just..." I let out a broken sob. "I know I don't deserve forgiveness. I know I should be punished. But please, Young Master, I'm begging you—help me be better."
The silence stretched on. Leo looked like someone had just handed him a script written in a foreign language. His friends were equally lost—this wasn't how these confrontations were supposed to go.
"You're..." Leo started, then stopped. His hand moved to his sword hilt, then dropped away. "You're pathetic."
There we go. Let that disgust build. Let it override your heroic instincts.
"I know," I whispered. "I know I am. I hate myself for it. Every morning I wake up and promise I'll be different, but then I just... I disappoint everyone again."
Elena made a soft sound of revulsion. Marcel was actively scowling now, like my display was somehow offensive to his sensibilities. Even Gareth, who probably spent his free time punching trees, looked uncomfortable.
Leo took a step back, his perfect features twisted in distaste. "Stand up."
I stayed where I was, hunched over like a broken thing. "I don't deserve to stand in your presence, Young Master."
"Stand. Up."
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