My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

Following Kaliantha’s formal acknowledgment of Airam, Hermione, and Esther as noblewomen of Skargardia, the shock that had frozen the hall did not vanish at once. It loosened in stages. First came the return of the music. Then the servants resumed their paths between the guests. After that, conversation crept back in uneven strands, low at first, then fuller, until the hall was alive again. The silence had broken, but it had not disappeared so much as changed shape. It had become whispers.

That was expected.

A court like this could never remain still for long. Not during an event that drew together so many houses at once. Birthdays, royal ceremonies, and formal celebrations always pretended to be about loyalty, festivity, and tradition. In truth, nights like this served another purpose that every noble present understood very well. It was a chance to approach those above them, to secure introductions, test alliances, reopen negotiations, measure rivals, and place their children where useful eyes might fall on them. Some came for favor. Some came for marriage prospects. Some came only to make sure others gained nothing while they stood watching.

Respect for the royal family mattered.

Opportunity mattered more.

And in a room built on opportunity, Ulrich did not remain alone for even a minute.

The moment the path away from the dais opened fully, nobles began to approach him in careful waves. Some restrained themselves and waited until others had gone first. Some took advantage of the confusion around the sisters to step in early, eager to claim the first conversation. Others hung back with the cold calculation of people deciding whether association with him still carried more benefit than risk.

Quite a few had already chosen distance since he had adopted three witches.

That much was obvious.

Just as obvious was the fact that many others had seen in that distance a new opening for themselves.

A man like Ulrich Van Rubenhart did not cease to be desirable because some nobles chose to be offended. If anything, scarcity sharpened interest. The more cautious houses avoided him, the more ambitious ones hurried in to fill the empty space.

Noblewomen, especially, seemed to bloom around him from every direction.

Young women even near Hermione’s age drifted close in clusters bright with perfume, silk, and pretty smiles, each one finding a reason to speak. Older daughters with marriageable reputations came with calmer confidence and mothers close at hand. Widows with titles of their own joined too, elegant and knowing, far too skilled to pretend they had wandered over by chance. Every one of them found some opening, however small, to place themselves before Ulrich.

"Lord Rubenhart, you look splendid this evening."

"I had heard crimson suited you, but hearing it and seeing it are two very different things."

"My lord, when the dancing begins, I hope you will not deny me the honor of one turn."

"Or me."

"No, truly, Lord Rubenhart, you must save one dance for House Edevane. My daughter would never forgive me if I failed to ask."

They came smiling.

They came coy.

They came bold.

Ulrich endured them all with the same composure, neither inviting too much nor giving enough coldness to drive them away entirely. He answered where etiquette demanded it. He inclined his head. He gave short replies. He let none of it linger. Yet for many of them, that made him worse rather than safer. Some women mistook reserve for depth. Others mistook indifference for challenge. A few, more foolish than the rest, seemed to believe they would be the one to draw something warmer out of him if only they stood there long enough.

Hermione watched the entire spectacle with mounting disbelief.

They had not been inside half an hour, and already Ulrich looked less like a count at a royal gathering and more like a prey animal circled by heavily jeweled predators.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered.

Esther, still clinging close at her side, blinked. "What is?"

Hermione stared at her. "What is? Look at them."

Esther followed her gaze and immediately lowered her voice. "Oh."

It was all she could think to say though she felt uncomfortable seeing Ulrich surrounded by so many women.

Airam, on Hermione’s other side, looked much less shocked. Her expression had flattened into a cool, unimpressed stare as she watched another noblewoman lean slightly too close to Ulrich while pretending not to.

"They are embarrassing," she said.

"They are desperate," Hermione corrected.

"That too."

They stood a short distance away while Ulrich was gradually swallowed by people who wanted his name, his favor, his attention, or some combination of all three. The sisters had not been abandoned exactly. He had positioned them where he could still glance back and keep them within sight, and the first few nobles approaching him had seemed uncertain enough of the girls’ presence to avoid them entirely. But the separation still felt strange after entering with him beneath every eye in the hall.

Hermione folded her arms.

It only hit her properly then how coveted Ulrich truly was.

Young, powerful, wealthy, unmarried, and still unattached despite his position. Any woman who married him would become Countess Rubenhart in her own right and step at once into one of the strongest houses in the kingdom. That alone would have been enough. Added to it was his face, his name, the reputation of capability that clung to him even when people feared him, and the dark sharp beauty that noblewomen seemed to find impossible to leave alone.

It was easy to understand.

That did not make it any less annoying to watch.

Another girl, perhaps a year or two older than Hermione, laughed too brightly at something Ulrich had barely responded to.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed.

Esther noticed at once. "Big sister?"

"She is laughing too much," Hermione said.

"At what?" Esther asked, honestly confused.

"He did not say anything worth laughing at."

"Why are you being upset?" Airam asked.

"I am not upset," Hermione shot back at once, folding her arms. "There is nothing to be upset about. It is just that no one cares about us."

Esther looked at her in confusion. "Y—You think so? I feel like a lot of people are looking at us, big sister..."

Hermione almost dismissed it on instinct, but Esther was not wrong.

Until then, Hermione had been too busy glaring at the cluster of women circling Ulrich to pay proper attention to what was happening around them. Now, when she let her gaze move across the hall, she noticed it immediately. Eyes kept returning to the three of them from every direction. Not only from curious noblewomen whispering behind painted smiles, but from men and boys their age as well, and from others older than that. Much older, in some cases.

Their attention clung.

The three sisters had already stood out the moment they entered. Dressed as they were now, with silk, jewels, and noble styling framing what had always been there, they outshone nearly every other young woman in the hall. That much Hermione could admit without vanity, because it had nothing to do with pride and everything to do with fact. Esther’s softness drew the eye first and held it. Airam’s darker beauty caught people looking twice. Hermione herself carried the sort of sharp presence that invited attention whether she wanted it or not, especially because she looked the most eye-catching.

Skin, hair, eyes, carriage, gowns, everything about them drew notice.

Many of the young men across the room clearly wanted to approach. That much showed in their posture, in the way conversations broke when one of the sisters turned slightly, in the glances exchanged between sons and their fathers, or between brothers nudging each other without actually moving forward. But hesitation held them back. Part of it was simple uncertainty. The sisters were witches, whatever titles had been placed over that truth. Any noble with half a mind would wonder whether approaching them was wise for his house. The other part was Ulrich. Even surrounded by ambitious women, he kept a portion of his attention fixed on the girls, and the effect of that was enough to make most men reconsider whatever courage they thought they had.

There was something else too.

The sisters did not feel entirely real to the people looking at them. It was the kind of reaction humans sometimes had when faced with something too striking to fit neatly into the ordinary. Witches already carried a certain distance in the imagination of the kingdom. Add beauty to that, add the cold light of the hall, the luxury, the fact that they had entered at Ulrich’s side and been acknowledged by the Queen herself, and the result left people staring as if unsure whether they were meant to desire, fear, or resent what stood before them.

Hermione noticed all of this in a rush.

And then she noticed the expressions attached to some of those stares.

A few were merely curious.

Some were admiring.

Others made her skin crawl.

"Esther," Airam said.

Her voice changed slightly, enough to put both sisters on alert. Before Esther could even ask what was wrong, Airam stepped closer, took her lightly by the arm, and pulled her behind her.

"Stay there."

Esther obeyed at once, startled.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she followed Airam’s line of sight. Yes. There it was. A little too much interest from men standing safely at a distance. Too much time spent looking. Too much comfort in their own gaze. They were not speaking. They were not moving. In a way that made it worse.

Airam knew very well how nobles could be.

Cruelty toward witches did not always come dressed in swords and accusations. Sometimes it came in the slow, entitled look of men who believed women like them existed beneath protection, beneath dignity, beneath ordinary rules. Witches had been hunted, used, broken, and excused away for generations under every rotten justification a kingdom could invent. Airam did not trust noble restraint for a second, especially not around Esther.

She cared little if they stared at her.

Her younger sisters were another matter.

Hermione felt the same revulsion settling under her skin. It would almost have been easier if someone had approached openly and said something rude. Then there would be a shape to the offense, something clear enough to push back against. This was worse. Watching from afar. Smiling to themselves. Assessing. Imagining. And the sisters could do nothing except stand there and be seen.

That angered Hermione far more than being ignored ever could.

They had wanted to look beautiful tonight. Of course, they had. They had endured hours of washing, oils, pins, laces, gowns, and jewels. They had wanted to shine. They had wanted to look worthy of the place they had been forced into.

Not for this.

Not to feed the fantasies of leering men too cowardly to come closer.

Not to be watched by old nobles who should have known better and clearly did not.

At least not every gaze in the hall felt filthy. Some noblewomen looked at them with straightforward admiration, especially older women who had already seen enough life to recognize beauty without bitterness. Others, particularly girls around their own age, looked less admiring than sour. Jealousy showed plainly there, despite how hard some of them tried to hide it. The sisters’ beauty irritated them. So did the ease of it. Witches in noble silk were one thing. Witches who could outshine them in noble silk were another.

Airam shifted just enough to block Esther more fully.

She did not care about being observed herself, though she disliked it intensely. She had always hated being stared at. Being assessed. Being looked over as if she were an object laid on display. But she hated even more the sight of those same looks crawling over her sisters. That was where patience ended.

Hermione noticed and moved a fraction closer to, making the three of them stand tighter together.

For a few moments, they each endured the attention in their own way.

Esther stayed quiet behind Airam, trying not to look up at anyone for too long.

Hermione kept her chin high and her expression sharp, hoping it would kill at least some of the more shameless stares before they settled.

Airam simply looked back whenever someone held her gaze too long, and most of them had the sense to look away first.

Then footsteps sounded across the marble.

The women crowding Ulrich noticed the new arrival before the sisters did. One by one they drew back, some with polite smiles, some with poorly hidden irritation at being interrupted. The small circle around Ulrich loosened, opening just enough for the approaching figure to come fully into view.

Ulrich turned his head.

The man walking toward him was a handsome man who looked to be in his late thirties, with blond hair arranged neatly away from his face and a quite strong presence. His white coat and matching suit had been cut from fabric fine enough to rival Ulrich’s own, every detail expensive without descending into display.

He was a duke.

That alone would have explained the quality.

Duke Markus Van Gravenberg.

At his side walked a younger girl around Hermione’s age.