Too Lazy to be a Villainess-Chapter 145: This Palace Hates Romance

[Osric’s POV—Throne Room]

The silence that followed my words could have shattered glass.

The nobles froze. Some gasped behind silk-gloved hands. Others glanced at the Emperor.

But my eyes never left the maid.

She sobbed now—finally realizing that this wasn’t just some royal formality. This wasn’t a slap on the wrist and exile. This was blood. Mine. Hers. And the price she was about to pay.

The Emperor didn’t speak for a long time. He just studied me—cold, calculating, as though weighing a new weapon he didn’t forge himself.

Finally, he said, "Then see it done."

A royal decree.

An execution, gifted to me.

"Guards," he commanded, "drag her to the execution chamber. Osric will deliver judgment himself."

The chamber doors burst open. Two imperial knights stepped forward, faces grim beneath their helms, and seized the trembling girl. She screamed, pleaded, and clawed at the floor like a beast about to be slaughtered.

I didn’t blink.

I simply followed.

No hesitation.

***

Execution Chamber—Lower Halls of the Palace]

The walls here were colder than the dungeon.

Older.

Stained with history that didn’t make it into the books. Chains still hung from rusted hooks. The scent of old iron and burnt incense lingered in the air like a ghost.

She was brought to the center. Forced to her knees. I stepped forward, the steel of my boots echoing across the stone like war drums. The ceremonial sword was handed to me. Gleaming. Heavy with tradition.

"This wasn’t personal," she sobbed. "I was ordered! I was threatened—I didn’t want to do it!"

I said nothing.

Because deep inside me... I didn’t believe her.

Poison doesn’t land in a teacup by mistake.

"You touched what you shouldn’t have," I said, my voice like thunder behind glass. "You served poison to someone sacred. And worse—you thought you’d get away with it."

I raised the sword.

Her eyes widened, mouth open in one final plea.

But I didn’t strike.

Not yet. Instead, I stepped closer, eyes locked to hers.

And I asked, slowly, quietly:

"Who ordered it?"

She blinked. Sweat rolled down her temples. "I... I don’t know his name... he came in disguise... he wore a hood... I couldn’t see his face..."

I didn’t move. "Then give me something. A voice? An accent? A ring? A scar?"

Tears spilled from her chin. "He paid me in foreign coins—I swear—I never even saw his hands clearly—he threatened my family—he said if I refused—"

I exhaled sharply through my nose and turned away from her.

"Enough."

She whimpered.

Then I spoke—voice icy, final.

"Starve her."

The knights blinked.

I didn’t turn around.

"Put her in the deepest cell. No food. No water. No light. Not until she begs for death... and even then—deny her."

And without another glance, I turned and walked out.

"Y-Yes, my lord."

"She doesn’t get to die until she talks."

And without another glance, I turned and walked out—my footsteps slow and deliberate, like thunder rolling in retreat.

A foreign coin.

My jaw clenched.

That meant this wasn’t just treason.

It wasn’t even local.

It was a message—from beyond our borders.

From someone who thought they could use Lavinia to shake the pillars of this empire.

I ran a hand through my hair, breath shallow with the weight of what I’d just done—of what I’d just begun.

"So... it’s not one of ours," I muttered, voice low and cold. "Which means things are about to get a lot messier."

***

[Lavinia’s POV – Dawnspire Palace Courtyard]

It had been a week since the whole I-almost-died-from-poison incident. Life, surprisingly, had returned to something resembling peace. Birds chirped, Marshi snored dramatically in the sun, and for once, I wasn’t being suffocated under layers of worry or divine tiger fluff.

I was enjoying tea with Papa.

Peaceful. Calm. Serene.

Until—

"PRINCESSSSSS!"

Theon came charging into the courtyard like a wild goose in formal boots. And then—he dropped to his knees. In front of me. In full daylight. Maids, gardeners, and everyone gasped with shock.

"Waaaahhhh, Princesssssssssss!" he wailed, eyes red and nose running, clutching his handkerchief like it was the last thread tying him to sanity.

Even Marshi stirred from his nap. The divine beast blinked, looked at the sniveling mess before him, and—honestly—looked deeply concerned.

Marshi’s face says it all; he’s wondering what species Theon belongs to.

Marshi sniffed at him once and sneezed, then slowly backed away like Theon might be contagious.

"It’s—it’s just not fair!" Theon sobbed louder, pointing dramatically across the courtyard.

I followed the trembling finger...

And there was Papa.

Sitting calmly in a velvet garden chair, sipping tea, like this was exactly the right weather to ruin someone’s life. He didn’t even flinch. Just kept sipping. Calm. Unbothered. Radiating tyrannical tea-time energy.

"THAT MAN!" Theon howled. "That monstrous—cold-blooded, heartless bast— I mean Emperor—he’s RUINING MY LIFE!"

I winced, rubbing my ears. "My ears, gods above... I think they’re actually bleeding."

"They’re not," Osric said helpfully from where he stood nearby, not looking up from his sword-polishing. "Your ears are perfectly intact. Unfortunately."

I gave him a flat look. He smirked.

Back to Theon, who was now crumpled in a heap on the floor like a tragic opera character who forgot his lines.

I turned to him with all the compassion of a tired crown princess.

"I’ve never seen an old man cry this hard—"

He shot me a glare so sharp I could feel my soul wrinkle.

"Ahem. I mean, a distinguished imperial assistant crying like a baby." I offered him a tissue. "Careful, Theon. At this rate, you’ll be officially labeled ’The Emperor’s Crybaby’ in every noble circle within a week."

He blew his nose like a horn. "Let them! Let the whole empire know the pain I endure in this palace! When you serve under a cruel, anti-romance monster, your tears are justified!"

Papa set down his teacup with the kind of ominous finality usually reserved for the end of dynasties.

"I heard that."

"Good!" Theon wailed louder. "The whole continent should hear it! I—we—people of love—are suffering!"

Papa pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed like he was trying not to kill someone. "No matter how many petitions you send, Theon... I will never allow your wedding to happen in my palace."

Theon sprang to his feet, dramatic as ever. "But why, Your Majesty?! Why not?! What do you gain from destroying my chance at a romantic garden ceremony?!"

Papa’s jaw twitched. His eye twitched. I think his soul twitched. Then, with the same flat finality as someone pronouncing a death sentence, he said,

"Because. I. Hate. Marriages."

A hush fell over the courtyard.

Even the wind stopped to stare.

Lady Evelyn, who had been nervously fidgeting with her gloves on the sidelines, choked on air.

Sigh...

No, he doesn’t hate marriages. He just thinks I will start daydreaming about romance and fancy wedding dresses and dramatic love declarations if I see even one flower arrangement.

(He’s not wrong. But still.)

And then—Snap.

Theon’s head whipped toward me so fast I nearly screamed.

"I—Princess," Theon stammered, voice hitting new frequencies. "Do something. Say something. Or—or—I’ll go cry behind the hydrangeas again!"

Marshi let out a long, slow exhale. He was over this.

I pressed a hand to my forehead. "I’m going to lose my sanity before I even reach my coming-of-age ceremony..." I muttered to no one in particular.

Unfortunately, someone heard.

"You won’t," Osric said quietly. "I’ll make sure you don’t."

I blinked up at him. Our eyes met. He looked calm. Steady. Kind. And also—unfortunately—absurdly good-looking when he said heroic things like that with a straight face.

"Should I say thank you?" I muttered, narrowing my eyes.

He smiled. Not smirked. Smiled.

"I would like to hear that," he said softly.

This. Guy.

Why is he smiling handsomely at a time like this?!

Right. Focus, Lavinia.

Time to steer this conversation back before someone (Theon) proposes again.

I turned toward Papa.

"Pa—"

"No."

I blinked. "I didn’t even say anything yet."

"But I know what you were going to say."

He didn’t even look at me. Just stood there like the human embodiment of thunderclouds in royal robes.

Then his gaze snapped to Theon, who had attempted to blend into a bush (and was failing spectacularly).

"And if any of you try to host a wedding in this palace," Papa growled, voice low and dark, "I will burn the guest list... and exile the baker."

...

Silence.

Terrifying. Deafening. Existential silence.

Even Marshi went still. Somewhere in the distance, a harpist stopped mid-pluck and whispered, "We are all going to die."

Theon let out a tiny hiccup-sob and retreated three full steps with his hands in the air like a hostage. And just like that, Papa swirled his cloak like a villain in a midnight opera and strode away. No further threats. No explanations.

Just... gone.

And the silence that followed?

Way scarier than Theon’s screaming.

"Looks like I have to do something," I muttered to myself.