A Villain by Default

I swear, Silva watches me like she's got a checklist hidden under that prim maid's apron. Every glance is an evaluation, every movement a judgment. It's unnerving—and coming from someone whose job involves hiding daggers in tea towels, that's saying something.

She's polite, of course. Too polite. The kind that makes you wonder if she's secretly cataloging your weaknesses.

"Master Eclipse," she says, her tone as smooth as silk but with an edge sharp enough to shave with. "Would you like assistance selecting your attire for the trial tomorrow?"

I look up from the mountain of books and weapons I've been staring at, feigning productivity. "What's wrong with this?" I gesture vaguely at my current outfit: a half-buttoned shirt and trousers that might've been fashionable a decade ago.

Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but definitely a reaction. Progress.

"While your current attire is… charming," she says, "it may not convey the dignity befitting a noble of your standing."

There it is. That word again. Dignity. It's like my entire existence is a bad joke centered around it.

"Fine, pick something," I say, waving a hand. "But no cravats. I draw the line at neck torture."

She dips into a curtsy so flawless it could probably summon applause at a noble's ball. "As you wish, Master."

As she disappears into the adjoining wardrobe—a room so absurdly large it could double as a ballroom—I'm left alone with my thoughts. And by thoughts, I mean my overwhelming sense of impending doom.

The trial. The Academy's way of weeding out the weak from the… less weak. It's a glorified death trap disguised as a rite of passage. Even the Hero and his shiny band of protagonists will be there, laughing and glowing and—

"Master," Silva's voice cuts through my spiral of despair, calm and steady. She's back, holding up a suit that looks like it costs more than my soul.

"No," I say immediately.

"You haven't even tried it on," she replies, a brow arching in quiet challenge. Her violet eyes—sharp, calculating—lock onto mine, and I'm pretty sure she's daring me to argue.

I sigh. "Fine. But if it's uncomfortable, I'm blaming you."

"Of course, Master," she says smoothly, handing it over.

As I'm tugging at the ridiculous collar in front of the mirror, she steps behind me, her reflection calm but… watchful. There's something in her gaze that makes my skin crawl. Like she's not seeing me but dissecting a problem she needs to solve.

"You've been acting… different lately," she says, her voice casual. Too casual.

My stomach knots. "Different how?"

"Less… predictable," she says, and for a second, her tone slips. There's an edge to it, sharp and dangerous.

I force a laugh, though it's shaky at best. "Guess I'm just full of surprises."

Her reflection doesn't smile. Doesn't flinch. It just watches. "Indeed."

I feel a bead of sweat slide down the back of my neck, and it's not because of the suit.

For all her polished manners and perfect curtsies, Silva is… unsettling. She's always been competent, always a step ahead of what I need. But lately, it's like she's studying me. Waiting for something.

And if I've learned anything about maids in stories like this, it's that the ones with sharp eyes and hidden knives are the most dangerous.

"You'll do fine in the trial, Master," she says suddenly, stepping back and smoothing her apron. "Just remember to… avoid offending anyone important."

"Gee, thanks," I mutter, pulling at the stupid collar again. "Great pep talk. Really inspiring."

"I aim to please," she replies, bowing just low enough to hide what I'm pretty sure is a smirk.

As she leaves the room, my eyes fall to the daggers she's tucked neatly into her apron. Not exactly standard maid attire, but then again, Silva isn't exactly a standard maid.

Something tells me she knows more about this trial than she's letting on.

And that thought? That's more terrifying than any Hero.