My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

"We hope all our honored guests are enjoying this celebration held for our royal princess," he declared. "But now it is time to entertain ourselves further and witness the beauty of the Skargardian waltz!"

The moment the announcement rang through the hall, the atmosphere shifted.

Voices rose at once, not into disorder, but into that lively swell of excitement that came when an event finally reached the part everyone had been quietly waiting for. Smiles widened, and groups loosened. Even the nobles who had spent the evening buried in politics and calculated conversations seemed lighter now. The promise of dance had done what speeches and formal greetings never quite could. It breathed movement into the room.

The Skargardian waltz was not treated as a mere pastime.

It was tradition.

More than that, it was one of those traditions the kingdom wore with pride, something polished by generations until it had become both symbol and expectation. People admired it, yes, but they also respected it. To dance it properly was not only to entertain. It was to show breeding, discipline, upbringing, and belonging. One could reveal a great deal on the dance floor without speaking more than a handful of words.

At the announcement, Airam, Hermione, and Esther all straightened.

However bitter the evening had been so far, this part mattered.

Elana had made certain they understood that.

For weeks, she had worked them relentlessly. Their feet had ached, their backs had stiffened, and more than once Hermione had looked ready to throw herself dramatically onto the floor and declare death preferable to another correction. Out of all the lessons forced upon them, the dance lessons had carved themselves most deeply into memory. Not because they were the most difficult, though they had not been easy, but because Elana had hammered the same truth into them again and again:

The Skargardian waltz mattered.

If they danced it well, people would be forced to admit something they might otherwise resent: that the three witches under Count Rubenhart’s name were not mocking the kingdom’s customs, but learning them seriously. That they were not merely dressed as noble girls, but making the effort to stand like them, move like them, and take part in what Skargardia prized.

Whether the sisters liked that or not was another matter.

They each had their own reservations. Their own discomfort. Their own resistance to bending themselves around traditions from a kingdom that had never shown witches much mercy. But all three understood the larger truth. If they wanted to survive the next few years without constantly inviting greater hostility, then some battles had to be chosen carefully.

And this was one of them.

"It is really time, eldest sister, big sister," Esther whispered, clutching her gown so tightly at the front that the fabric drew slightly under her fingers. "I am really nervous..."

Hermione folded her arms, more from habit than true confidence.

"Do not be so nervous," she said. "We practiced a lot. There is no reason to panic."

Airam nodded once.

"Hermione is the least skilled among us," she said. "So if anyone will disgrace herself first, it will probably be her."

Hermione whipped toward her.

"Hey, Airam!"

Esther let out a tiny, startled laugh despite herself.

Camellia, who had been observing them with quiet amusement, smiled at the exchange before lifting one delicate brow.

"Then I assume," she said, "that you know the steps and movements of the Skargardian waltz?"

There was curiosity in her voice, and genuine surprise as well.

Hermione answered first.

"Yes, but we are not experts. We only began practicing about a month ago."

Astrid gave a small shake of her head, and the faint smirk at the corner of her mouth returned.

"I doubt a month is enough to master the Skargardian waltz," she said. "If I may offer honest advice, you would do better to refrain. Otherwise you may only embarrass Count Rubenhart."

Esther’s face fell immediately.

"T—That..."

Her voice weakened before the sentence even finished, and she lowered her eyes at once. Whatever little courage she had managed to gather for this moment looked as if it might collapse all over again. The thought of making a mistake in front of everyone, of stumbling, of drawing laughter, of shaming Ulrich publicly, it all struck where she was softest.

Hermione shot Astrid a sharp glare.

Camellia spoke before that could turn into another argument.

"Astrid, please do not frighten them."

Her tone was light, but there was a quiet firmness beneath it.

Then she turned back to the sisters.

"The Skargardian waltz has several rhythms," she explained. "Many people choose the slower ones, especially those who prefer steadier movement over speed. Those are easier to follow and far less punishing if one is still learning. There are plenty of older nobles here who will choose such dances. If you wish, you may do the same."

Her smile deepened, warm and reassuring.

"And I am certain the gentlemen will be more than happy to follow the pace set by beautiful ladies such as yourselves."

Esther’s face lit up so quickly it was almost shocking to compare it to how dejected she had looked only moments before.

"T—Thank you, Princess!"

The title came out with such open gratitude that Camellia’s smile softened even further.

Beside her, Hermione watched the exchange with growing disbelief.

She had already understood that Camellia was different from the others, but every passing moment made the difference look larger. The nobles they had met earlier, especially those around the princess’s own age, had been smug, petty, vulgar, or all three at once. Camellia stood so far above them in conduct that it was difficult to believe they belonged to the same court.

And she, of all people, had the most reason to be spoiled.

She had been raised as a princess. Protected, served, praised, and watched from birth. Yet none of that had made her cruel. None of it had made her careless with others. She was educated without sounding arrogant, graceful without seeming distant, kind without turning foolish. There was discipline in her, yes, but there was also something gentler than discipline alone could explain.

That had to be Kaliantha’s influence.

No one looking at Camellia could fail to see traces of her mother’s careful shaping. The queen’s restraint. The queen’s grace. The queen’s ability to stay composed without growing stiff. Yet where Kaliantha often seemed cold from a distance, Camellia had warmth to her. Not careless warmth, not the sort that made one look weak, but a natural goodness that reached people before they realized it.

Hermione found herself thinking, rather unwillingly, that Camellia was exactly the kind of princess girls in stories were told to admire.

Beautiful.

Graceful.

Intelligent.

Kind.

The sort of person who would have seemed insufferably perfect if Hermione had not been standing right in front of her and finding none of it false.

It also explained Esther completely.

Of course Esther had taken to her so quickly. Esther was drawn to gentleness the way flowers turned toward light. A princess like Camellia, speaking kindly, smiling softly, and easing her fears without mockery, might as well have stepped out of one of the fairy tales Esther still half believed the world could one day resemble.

Airam, meanwhile, said nothing.

But even she did not look away from Camellia.

"Let’s just stay calm and smile. Remember what Elana told us. And you, Airam, especially," Hermione said, turning toward her sisters.

Airam looked at her with complete seriousness.

"I dance better than you."

Hermione stared, then scoffed.

"You may dance better, but I speak better. I just hope you do not punch the first man who gets too close."

Airam’s face did not change.

"If he touches me wrongly, or if anyone touches either of you wrongly, or insults you again, I will break their jaw and knock their teeth out."

Esther gave a tiny squeak.

"That is terrifying, eldest sister!"

"Goodness," Hermione muttered, though a reluctant smile still curled her lips.

Airam’s overprotectiveness should have sounded absurd. It often did. Yet after what had happened earlier, Hermione found herself less inclined to mock it than usual.

A few minutes passed.

At the center of the hall, nobles began to separate with instinct, stepping back in widening arcs to clear the floor before the throne. The movement spread outward quickly. Conversations folded into lighter murmurs as everyone gave space to the dance.

Soon a great circle had formed, leaving the middle of the hall open beneath the chandeliers.

Then the first invitation came.

"Your Highness."

At the sound of the voice, the sisters turned.

Ethan Van Rommels stood before Camellia with a smile, lowering himself neatly onto one knee as though he had rehearsed the gesture a hundred times in front of a mirror.

"Would you honor me with one dance?" He asked.

Camellia smiled and placed her hand in his.

"Gladly, Ethan."

He rose at once, looking quietly triumphant, and led her toward the open floor with the care expected of a boy dancing with a princess for the first time.

The second Camellia stepped away, movement broke around Astrid too.

Several boys approached her almost at once, too quickly for it to look elegant. They were likely companions or acquaintances of Ethan, each one wearing the same eager expression, each one seeing in the Duke’s daughter the next most desirable prize now that the princess had already been claimed.

"Lady Astrid, please grant me this dance."

"Would you honor me, Lady Astrid?"

"Choose me, my lady."

Astrid’s lips twitch for the briefest instant.

It was not enough to spoil her expression, but enough to show that the scramble annoyed her. Still, she recovered quickly, arranged a proper smile on her face, and placed her hand into the grasp of one of them.

The chosen boy gave the others a look of bright, petty victory before leading her away.

The rest turned.

Toward the three sisters.

Esther’s back went stiff immediately under their attention. But she remembered Elana’s lessons. Courage, posture, smile, wait. Do not look desperate. Do not lower your gaze first. Let them come to you.

So Esther lifted her chin and smiled.

Hermione waited too, composed and beautiful in her own sharp way. Airam stood beside them with her usual dark stillness, making no effort to look inviting, but at least remaining where she was.

The four boys looked at them.

Then one smirked.

Another let out a low laugh.

They exchanged glances between themselves, snickered as though sharing some private joke, and walked away.

Just like that.

Esther flinched.

It was small, barely visible unless one knew to look for it, but Hermione saw it immediately. Esther’s smile collapsed at once. Her eyes dropped. One hand tightened over the skirt of her gown.

"Ignore them," Hermione said quickly, her voice strained with anger. "Those are the same trash who spoke about us earlier. I would not have danced with them anyway."

"Yes, big sister..." Esther replied softly.

But the words did not mend much.

The music began.

One by one, couples formed and stepped onto the floor. Gentlemen crossed the distance with smiles and bows. Ladies extended their hands. Names were exchanged. Titles were spoken. The first sets arranged themselves into neat lines and turned with grace as the waltz started.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

And still no one came to the three sisters.

Not the boys who had mocked them. Not boys from houses they had not met. Not shy young men from the edges of the hall. Not even older unmarried nobles looking for beauty over propriety. Men and boys approached girls with less rank, less poise, and less beauty without visible hesitation. They crossed the floor for laughing daughters of barons, for awkward girls with flushed cheeks, for noblewomen whose gowns did not fit as perfectly and whose smiles held none of the sisters’ strange allure.

But when it came to Airam, Hermione, and Esther, they looked...

...and stayed away.

The three of them only began to notice the shape of it once Camellia and Astrid were no longer at their side.

Before, their presence had softened the problem. The princess and the Duke’s daughter had hidden the distance others wanted to keep. Now that both had been claimed for the dance, the empty space around the sisters stood out with ugly clarity.

No one stepped close.

No one drifted near by accident.

It was as if an invisible ring had been drawn around them, a space no one wished to cross. Nobles moved around that circle smoothly, instinctively, without ever naming what they were doing. Their avoidance was almost graceful in its cruelty.

They had been isolated.