My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

With two hours to burn before the apothecary secured the palace guard roster, Ulrich moved for a secondary objective he had since recovering Silas’s memories. During his previous visit to the capital, he didn’t go there lacking time, so right now he chose to seize the opportunity.

He changed his path, pulling away from the bustling outer markets and plunging deeper into the neglected, labyrinthine residential districts pressed hard against the eastern city walls.

The novel mainly focused on the magical academy within Arcadia, at least as far as he had read. However, the Kingdom of Skargardia eventually transformed into the massive, blood-soaked theater of the middle arcs. According to the novel, Queen Kaliantha’s assassination triggered a disastrous downward spiral. Her successor was, of course, none other than the incompetent King and husband she had, secretly allied with the demon command to secure his crumbling throne. The original Ulrich, being one of the demons’ allies on human soil, had facilitated and supported that regime.

That alliance sparked a massive, kingdom-wide civil war. The resistance forces fought against the corrupted Crown and the infiltrating demons. The protagonist, dragged into the conflict due to his ally Ceres’s personal vendetta against Ulrich for murdering her adoptive grandfather, eventually spearheaded the rebellion.

That arc was a real tragedy. Airam, Hermione, and Esther, having survived their childhood trauma only to be warped by it, emerged during the civil war as the leaders of a witch coven they had founded. Their objective was to inflict maximum suffering upon the Skargardian kingdom that had sanctioned the slaughter of their village, including their mother, and also made them go through nightmarish tortures. They had acted, however briefly, allying with the protagonist to fight the demon-core-empowered Ulrich before inevitably turning their wrath back upon the royal family. Airam’s specific, bloody rivalry with Ceres concluded with Airam attempting to assassinate Princess Camellia to end the royal bloodline of the Kingdom, which had made her and her sisters suffer that much. In the end, Ceres and the protagonist and his whole group killed Airam to stop her.

That dark arc had permanently broken the novel’s lighter academy tone.

The current Ulrich had no intention of allowing that timeline to materialize, of course. He had already neutralized the sisters’ tragic trajectory by bringing them into his estate, and he intended to prevent the civil war by keeping Kaliantha alive tonight and as long as possible in the future.

Nevertheless, he needed to verify the existence of the man destined to lead that resistance.

In the novel, the resistance leader became a powerful supporting character for the protagonist. If the man were just like he was in the novel, he would serve as a valuable asset in Ulrich’s silent war against the demons. The timeline was years ahead of the Civil War arc, making the man’s exact location difficult to pinpoint. However, the original Ulrich had dismantled the resistance by tracking down the leader’s sister, taking her prisoner, and delivering her to the corrupt King, who tortured her to death.

The current Ulrich knew exactly where that sister was right now.

It took him a little time to reach the district, because this part of the capital lay far from the broad noble avenues and the government roads. Still, it was not some den hidden beneath the streets, nor a nest of thieves buried in the sewers. In the novel, the place had been described as a respectable tavern by lower-city standards, one of those houses that stayed full from noon until deep into the night because the ale was honest, the food was warm, and the owner did not cheat workers already cheated everywhere else. Men who carried crates at the docks drank there. Apprentices with soot still on their sleeves drank there. Messengers, drovers, laundresses, cartwrights, stable hands, even off-duty city guards with thin purses and thick tempers drank there. Not poor enough to beg. Not rich enough to choose.

Ulrich remembered it because of its name.

In the novel, that name had appeared only a handful of times. Never as something grand. Never as a place of destiny. It had first been mentioned almost casually, buried in a Chapter where the resistance leader’s younger sister was said to own a tavern and keep her brother fed while pretending not to notice the bruises, the late returns, and the suspicious coin that appeared in the till. Later, when the civil war had already broken Skargardia in half, the same name resurfaced again, and by then it carried blood with it.

That was how Ulrich had found the place now.

The sign hung above the door on two black iron chains, swaying a little each time the wind pressed through the street. The Ashen Stag. The paint had faded in places, but the antlers were still clear enough. The door itself had been sanded recently. The stone threshold had been scrubbed. Flower boxes stood beneath the front windows, simple and modest, though the blossoms had begun to tire under the heat. It was exactly the kind of tavern a working district prized: clean, sturdy, unpretentious, and busy enough to survive.

Ulrich paused across the street and stared at it for a moment.

In the novel, the man he sought had gone on to lead the resistance against the corrupted King of Skargardia, against the demons moving openly through the kingdom, and against Ulrich himself. He had never been written as some shining hero without stain. He stole. He lied. He used smugglers, bribes, and knives in alleys when that was what the moment required. But he had also held together the people who still wanted Skargardia to remain Skargardia. When the kingdom had rotted from the throne downward, he had become one of the few pillars left standing.

Ulrich was very curious about the man, thinking perhaps he could find himself useful. Well, truthfully, he just came here on a whim, but knowing he wasn’t that far, Ulrich wanted to check.

He crossed the street, kept his hood low, and stepped inside.

Warmth met him first, along with the smell of roasted onions, yeast, spilled ale, old wood, and wool damp from the day’s labor. The place was crowded, but it was not filthy. Tankards knocked against tables. A serving boy wove past two men arguing over cards. In one corner, a woman laughed so loudly three heads turned toward her. Near the hearth, a mason still in his dust-covered work clothes bent over a bowl of stew, eating with the concentration of a starving man. The room carried noise, but it was ordered noise. Benches were straight. The floor had been swept. The serving trays were scrubbed. Whoever ran this tavern ran it with care.

Ulrich did not stand near the entrance gawking like some country fool. He moved inward and took a table along the wall, angled so he could see the room, the stairs at the back, and the door all at once.

A few men glanced at him before they returned to their drinks.

He waited.

It did not take long.

A very pretty young woman approached with a cloth thrown over one shoulder and an apron tied about her waist. Her dark brown curly hair was pulled back with lively blue eyes. She was around his age, perhaps a little younger. She came to his table upon spotting him and, after a brief pause, watching his hooded figure, she spoke.

"What can I bring you, sir?" She asked. "Ale, broth, bread, wine if you have more coin than sense." She said jokingly.

Ulrich lifted his gaze to her.

She stopped.

Even under the hood, there was enough of him visible: the clean line of his jaw, the cut of his features, and above all, the red eyes, too visible to mistake for anything ordinary. She did not step back, but she did hesitate. He saw the instant her mind began scanning him again. Not a carter. Not a clerk. Not a soldier off duty either. Noble, it guessed.

"Wha’s your name?" Ulrich asked bluntly, ignoring her question.

At the next table, three rough-looking men burst into laughter.

One slapped the table with the flat of his palm. "You hear that? Straight to the point."

Another leaned back, grinning through a broken tooth. "Give it up, lordling. Livia doesn’t hand out her name because a pretty face asks for it."

The third, red-nosed with drink, lifted his tankard toward the woman. "You want my advice, stranger? Order the ale and save your pride."

Ulrich did not even turn his head. He kept his eyes on the woman.

She cleared her throat, still a little thrown by the bluntness of him. "Livia," she said at last. "My name is Livia, sir."

So it was her.

Ulrich watched her for one beat longer, confirming the last of it against the memory of the novel about the Resistance’s leader’s sister. Dark hair. Tavernskeeper. Younger sister.

Around them, the men were still amused.

"Well?" One called out. "Now you’ve got the name. Will you ask for her hand next?"

"Or her keys," another said. "Those are worth more."

Livia shot them a look. "Mind your cups."

That quieted them only a little. They kept snickering into their drinks.

Ulrich finally spoke again. "Bring me something to drink."

She blinked. "Only that?"

"For now."

"What kind?"

"Ale."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, perhaps because she had expected some strange noble demand after such an entrance. "Ale," she repeated. "That, at least, we have."

She turned away, but before she took a third step, Ulrich said, "Do you own this tavern?"

Livia looked back at him. Now the wariness sharpened.

"Yes," she said carefully. "My family’s. Why?"

Ulrich let his gaze travel across the room. Bench by bench. Door. Stair. Bar. Hearth. Men with laborer’s hands. A pair of traders. Two women near the far side splitting a loaf. No sign of the man yet.

"No reason," he said.

Livia did not look as though she believed him, but she went to fetch the ale.

While she was away, Ulrich studied the tavern in greater detail. The bottles behind the bar had been arranged by color and size. The knives hanging near the kitchen arch had all been sharpened. Coins were counted into a locked drawer rather than left careless in a bowl. This was not the kind of place that made a fortune, but it was the kind that survived lean winters. Her brother, if he truly still lived as described, had something solid to return to. That mattered. Men became many things for causes, but where they returned when tired said more about them than speeches ever could.

Livia came back with a tankard and set it before him.

"Your ale," she said.

Ulrich wrapped his fingers around the handle. "You run it alone?"

"With help."

"What help?"

"My help," came one of the men nearby, prompting another round of laughter.

Livia rolled her eyes. "The kind that drinks more than it lifts, mostly."

A ghost of a smile touched the mouth of one of the men. "Cruel."

She ignored him and looked back to Ulrich. "Why are you asking?"

Ulrich took a small drink before his expression twisted.

As expected for his tongue used to the finest wines, this was not to his expectations.

"You keep the place well."

That seemed to disarm her more than flirtation would have. She glanced briefly around her own tavern as though seeing it from his eyes. "It has to be kept well," she said. "People come back for that."

"And the owner?"

"What about the owner?"

"Does she come back too?"

Now she looked faintly embarrassed. Not flattered, exactly. More uncertain of where to place him. Too direct to be a fool. Too calm to be drunk. Too neat to belong there.

"I am already here," she said.

Ulrich set the tankard down. "So you are."

Before she could answer, the door opened again.

A man entered.

Dark curly hair, a little overgrown. Broad shoulders. Lean rather than heavy. He looked to be in his middle twenties. He smiled when he came in, and several people greeted him, but the smile did not fool Ulrich. There was watchfulness in it.

The man’s eyes found Livia first.

Then they found Ulrich.

The smile changed instantly.

He crossed the room at once and came to the table.

"Livia," he said, still looking at Ulrich, "you’ve taken to seating interesting customers."

"He asked for ale," she replied. "I served him ale."

The man pulled out the chair opposite Ulrich and sat down without invitation. "And what is a noble doing this far from the finer districts?"

Ulrich raised his tankard. "Who said I was a noble?"

That drew a short laugh from the man. "You did. Not with your mouth. With everything else."

"Such as?"

"The way you sit. The way you look around a room. The fact that even under that cloak you don’t look like a man who has ever worried about the price of stew."

A few heads had turned. Not enough to create a scene, but enough.

Ulrich drank again. "What do you think men come to taverns for?"

The man leaned back in the chair. "Drink. Food. Company. Fights, if they have bad judgment."

"Then perhaps I came for one of those."

"Nobles like you usually take the better taverns in the capital. Softer chairs. Cleaner cups. Prettier lies."

Before Ulrich could answer, Livia stepped closer, carrying a plate she had forgotten she was still holding.

"Don’t be rude," she said under her breath.

The words were aimed at her brother, but there was more in them than simple manners. She had seen enough of Ulrich now to understand that offending the wrong man could bring trouble to their door.

Her brother tilted his head toward her. "Nothing will happen."

"You do not know that."

"I know enough."

Ulrich watched the exchange quietly. So there it was already: her caution, his habit of walking at the edge of risk and expecting not to fall.

"What do you do here?" Ulrich asked him.

The man looked back. "At the moment? I’m speaking with you."

"In life."

A faint grin returned. "I help with the tavern."

Ulrich’s eyes moved over him once, from his boots to his hands and back again. "You do not seem to be helping with anything."

Livia almost choked on her own breath, trying not to laugh. Her brother’s grin sharpened.

"And what do I seem to be helping with, then?"

Ulrich rested one elbow on the table. "That depends. Have you ever heard a story about a man called Robin Hood?"

The brother frowned. "No."

Livia shook her head, too. "What sort of name is that?"

"A foreign one," Ulrich said. "The story is simple. There was a man who stole from the rich and gave to the poor."

Livia immediately drew herself up. "That is still stealing."

"It is."

"Then it’s not much of a noble story."

"I never said he was noble."

The brother’s face did not change much, but the way his grin had vanished instantly said a lot.

Ulrich continued, noticing that. "He hunted men who fattened themselves on other people’s labor. Tax collectors who squeezed villages dry. Merchants who used hunger to raise prices. Officials who sold justice by the handful. He took their silver, their ledgers, sometimes their pride, and he put what he took back where it had been bled from."

Livia hugged the plate to her chest. "It is still a crime."

"It is also a kind of answer," Ulrich said.

Her brother, James stared at him now without any pretense of light amusement.

"And why," he asked slowly, "would a stranger in a hood sit in my sister’s tavern and tell me children’s tales about thieves?"

Ulrich turned the tankard once beneath his fingers.

"Because," he said, "I wanted to see whether the man sitting in front of me was merely fond of ale, or whether he had any use beyond talking."

Livia, who had been standing with the plate pressed lightly against her apron, stifled a laugh.

She turned it into a cough at the last moment, though not quickly enough to hide it from either of them.

James cut her a look. "You find something amusing?"

"A little," she said, failing to hide her smile. "It is rare to see someone answer you without tripping over themselves first."

Her brother clicked his tongue under his breath. "You should be on my side."

"I am on my own side," she replied at once. "And mine prefers when somebody else bruises your pride for once."

That drew a low chuckle from one of the dockhands at the neighboring table. James ignored him. His attention had returned to Ulrich.

Ulrich, for his part, did not seem particularly invested in the exchange anymore. He had seen what he wanted to see. The man in front of him had not blustered in the wrong way. He had not flown into a hot-blooded rage, nor had he folded at the first pointed word.

He rose from his chair without haste.

He reached into his cloak and set a gold coin down on the table.

Even the men at the next table stopped muttering. Livia’s eyes widened immediately.

"I—It is not that much!" She said, panicking and shocked

"For your time," Ulrich replied.

Livia stared at the coin, then at him.

"T—That..." She looked away at last, color rising into her cheeks. "That is too much."

James leaned back in his chair again and exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself. "He spoke about both of our times. Will you stop blushing now, sister?"

Livia snapped her head toward him, shooting a glare. "Stupid brother."

She snatched the coin up from the table as if offended by it and spun away before either man could say anything more. The plate nearly tipped in her hand as she went, and one of the older patrons laughed into his drink.

James watched her retreat toward the counter, his expression briefly lighter.

Then that vanished.

By the time he looked back at Ulrich, the humor had gone from him almost entirely.

Ulrich turned and headed for the door.

He did not ask James to follow. He did not look back. He simply crossed the tavern as though the matter had ended the moment it ceased to interest him.

That, more than anything, made James rise.

Ulrich stepped outside into the street but as expected, behind him, the tavern door opened again.

"Hey."

Ulrich stopped.

"What do you want?" James asked.

Ulrich faced him properly then. "Why do you think I want something?"

James gave a short laugh. "Men like you do not go wandering into places like that for stale ale and tavern stories."

Ulrich said nothing.

James clenched his teeth and spoke seriously. "Do I have to be worried?"

"No," Ulrich said.

"No?" He repeated.

"No."

"That is all you will give me?"

"It is enough."

James narrowed his eyes. "For you, perhaps. What you said sounded like a threat to me."

"If I had meant trouble for your house, I would not have sat under its roof and spoken in riddles first."

James’ eyes narrowed slightly. "That sounded almost polite."

"It was not meant to comfort you."

Ulrich didn’t say more and turned away to leave.