My Step-Daughters Are The Villainesses

While Ulrich remained behind in conversation with Duke Gravenberg, Airam, Hermione, and Esther followed Astrid through the ballroom, leaving the older nobles to their voices and careful smiles.

Astrid did not look back often. She walked as though she expected to be followed, and people made space for her without being asked. Her gold gown caught the candlelight each time she passed beneath a chandelier, the embroidery along her sleeves flashing in brief threads of amber. The younger nobles had gathered near the far side of the hall, where the music reached them softened by distance and the supervision of their elders became less immediate, though never absent. Sons and daughters of counts, marquesses, and dukes stood in neat little circles, speaking with the same rehearsed ease their parents wore, some of them too young to hide their nerves properly, others already skilled enough to smile and measure at the same time.

Even here, among children and adolescents, the evening was no game.

These gatherings were made for alliance as much as amusement. The older nobles negotiated through land, marriage, office, and favor. Their children did the same through introduction, proximity, and memory. A pleasant conversation tonight could become a political advantage years later. A slight could live just as long. Most of those present had likely been given names to remember before entering the hall, families to approach, heirs to avoid, daughters worth flattering, sons worth enduring. None of their rank came to an event like this without purpose.

Astrid slowed only when they were close enough for the younger crowd to notice them. Then, in the middle of the walk, she asked without warning, "Do you happen to know who I am?"

The question was so sudden that all three sisters looked at her in confusion.

For a moment, it almost sounded like a trick. She had introduced herself already. Asking again like this could only mean she wanted something more than her name repeated back to her. Hermione felt Airam shifting beside her and answered first before her sister could say anything unwise.

"You are the daughter of Duke Gravenberg," Hermione said. "It is said your father holds more territory than any other noble in Skargardia."

Astrid gave a small nod.

"At least you know that much," she replied.

The words were calm, but the tone carried its own edge. Pride was filling her voice. She did not seem embarrassed by it, nor interested in hiding it. To Astrid, rank was not merely an inheritance. It was a fact of the world, as obvious and immovable as stone.

Hermione kept her expression polite, though her mouth had already gone stiff.

Astrid continued walking. "I am bringing you to several heirs from important houses," she said. "I expect you to conduct yourselves properly. Even if you are witches, Lord Rubenhart would not have brought you here unless he was certain you would not disgrace him."

Airam looked at the back of her head with a dead stare.

Esther, sensing the turn of the conversation and wanting to keep it from souring further, hurried to speak.

"Do you know Lord Ulrich well?" She asked.

Astrid glanced at her. "No. I have heard much about Count Rubenhart, but this is my first time seeing him in person. He was absent from many previous events."

There was a brief pause after that, filled only by the low music from the other end of the hall and the rustle of silk moving around them.

Then Astrid looked over her shoulder again, this time letting her eyes travel over the three sisters carefully, from their hair to their gowns.

"I suppose Lord Rubenhart has his own reasons for adopting witches," she said. "Still, you are treated very well."

It was true.

They wore gowns selected with absurd care, stitched from expensive fabric and fitted so precisely that even Hermione had been forced into silence when she first saw herself in the mirror. Their jewelry was delicate and real. Their skin had been attended to. Their hair had been arranged by careful and patient hands. Nothing about them tonight suggested neglect, pity, or charity. Ulrich had spent his own money on them without restraint, and every visible detail proved it.

"Lord Ulrich is very good to us," Esther said quickly with a smile.

Astrid gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, though it did not soften her.

"That changes very little," she said. "Lord Rubenhart has killed many witches. And the previous Count brought witch-hunting back on a large scale. Would you truly feel no resentment living in a house like that? Though perhaps noble pride means little to witches."

A vein throbbed in Hermione’s forehead.

The insult was not delivered with the delight of someone trying to provoke. That made it worse. Astrid was not speaking this way to wound them for amusement. She was speaking from conviction. She really placed them below herself and saw no vulgarity in letting it show.

Airam’s face had gone still, her gaze darkening considerably. She already didn’t like it when Ulrich would openly insult witches, but she was holding back because, well, he was Ulrich. But when it came to strangers, as expected, it was harder.

Esther blinked, trying to understand how a conversation that had begun with introductions had already started to feel like an examination she had not prepared for.

Astrid stared at them another moment, then asked, "Were any of you born from noble blood?"

The question stopped them.

They had continued walking until then, but that made Hermione slow half a step. Esther looked openly confused.

"Noble blood?" Esther repeated.

Astrid’s gaze stayed on them, scrutinizing. "You do not resemble common witches very much," she said. "If your mother were a witch, then perhaps your father was a nobleman who kept her imprisoned."

She was basically implying that they were born from rape.

Airam understood at once, Hermione did too, and it showed in the way their expression darkened.

The meaning slid under Esther’s guard only partly, leaving her with the vague feeling that something foul had just been said, though not yet the full shape of it. She was still too innocent in some corners of the world’s cruelty. She did not yet know all the ways men used powerless women and named the result with colder words.

Astrid, unaware or unconcerned with the change in the air behind her, went on speaking.

"I dislike the practice," she said. "It is vile. But it happens often enough. Witches give birth to bastard children fathered by nobles more frequently than polite society admits."

Astrid looked between the three of them as if sorting through a puzzle. "But there are three of you, and you are blood-related," she mumbled. "That makes it unusual."

This time, nobody answered her.

Seeing that none of them were willing to answer when it came to their parents, and especially their father, Astrid did not press the point any further.

Instead, she smiled.

"Hm. Regardless, Her Majesty has acknowledged you, and I will respect her wish," Astrid said. "If you behave properly, act like noble ladies, and blend perfectly into Skargardian society, then I will have no reason to refuse to acknowledge you as well."

Airam looked at her without any visible change in expression.

"Why would we need your acknowledgment?" She asked bluntly.

Hermione nearly choked.

’Airam!’

She wanted to hiss it, to grab her by the sleeve, to tell her with one look alone that this was not the time. But when Hermione turned toward her, she realized Airam had not spoken with sarcasm at all. Her face was as calm as ever. She truly sounded as if she were asking a question whose answer she did not understand.

That somehow made it worse.

Astrid stopped walking.

She turned and fixed Airam with a sharp stare.

"Pardon?"

Airam met her gaze without flinching.

"I asked why we would need your acknowledgment," she repeated.

Astrid’s eyes narrowed. For the first time since taking charge of them, the control in her face shifted. Irritation came through clearly now.

"Because I am the daughter of a Duke," she said. "My status is high enough to open many doors for—"

"Skargardian society is patriarchal," Airam cut in before she could finish. "You have an elder brother. He will inherit your house, not you."

Hermione closed her eyes for half a heartbeat.

Airam kept speaking in the same calm tone, which only made Astrid’s expression darken further.

"Lady Astrid will most likely be married off to another noble house," Airam went on. "Probably to a man of lower rank, since there are no ranks above Duke besides royalty. So I am asking what exactly your acknowledgment changes for us."

Astrid’s cheeks flushed at once.

Color rose fast beneath her skin, bright and shameful on her face all the way to her ears. Anger came first, then humiliation followed right behind it.

The words had landed bitterly truthful.

That was what made them cruel. Airam had not dressed them up, had not softened them, had not even sounded malicious. She had said aloud the truth every noble girl in the kingdom already knew and was expected to endure without complaint.

Hermione let out a small breath through her nose.

As brutal as Airam’s wording had been, she could not deny that it was true.

That was the bitter shape of things in most kingdoms. Men inherited, men carried names, men decided alliances, and daughters were shifted where they were most useful. Their gowns might be made of silk and their marriages wrapped in ceremony, but that did not change what they were in the eyes of their fathers: valuable pieces to be placed carefully.

It was almost laughable compared to a coven, where women held the highest authority, and no man could claim power over them simply by birth.

Then Hermione’s thoughts froze.

A cold realization slipped into her mind so suddenly that it made her stomach tighten.

’Wait, if noble daughters could be married off like that...could Ulrich do the same to us?’

Her heartbeat quickened.

He had that power, didn’t he? Over their household, over their movements, over what place they held in the world while they remained under his name. If he wished it, could he simply arrange a marriage and hand one of them over as if settling a political matter?

For one frightening instant, Hermione could not hear the music in the hall anymore. She could only hear her own thoughts.

No.

No, that would not happen.

They would not still be there when such a day came.

They would learn what they needed to learn, grow stronger, gather what they could from his house, and then leave. That had always been the plan. A few years at most. Long enough to become capable, and then they would be gone without looking back.

So why did that thought not relieve her?

Why did there remain that faint, needling discomfort in her chest when she told herself they would leave him behind?

"How dare you," Astrid said.

Her voice cut through Hermione’s thoughts enough to pull her back at once.

Astrid was glaring at Airam now with no attempt at politeness left in her face. Her eyes had gone hard, her pride openly wounded.

Airam only looked back at her.

"Am I wrong?" She asked.

Astrid did not answer.

That alone was answer enough.

No, Airam was not wrong. She had been direct, almost offensively so, but there was no lie in what she had said. Astrid was a Duke’s daughter. Later, she might become the wife of a count, perhaps a marquess, perhaps even less, depending on her father’s interests and the alliances he wished to secure. Her title was brilliant now because she still stood under her father’s roof.

And her father was her father. No one could tell to what kind of man she would be wed to in the future, and clearly, there weren’t a lot of good men among the highest-ranked nobles, especially those who had been fed with a golden spoon since their birth.

The future might narrow that brightness very quickly.

"I—I am sure Lady Astrid will marry someone wonderful," Esther said quickly, stepping in before the silence could split any further. "Maybe even a prince...."

Her voice was gentle and hopeful, but the words landed awkwardly in the charged air.

Astrid turned toward her at once, seizing the opening.

"My father is already planning to negotiate with His Majesty soon," she said. "I may very well marry the Crown Prince and become Queen in the future, so you would do well to watch your mouth."

She turned her head as she said it, not quite looking at Esther alone anymore. The warning was meant for Airam, but the pride in it was meant for all three of them to hear.

Hermione, meanwhile, winced.

"The Crown Prince..." She muttered dryly.

She still remembered the creep Prince.

The twisted smile on his face when he had tried to enslave them two years ago. Even now, the memory made her skin crawl.

"Congratulations," Hermione said.

The word came out empty.

So dry that even Esther winced at it.

Astrid’s annoyance deepened at once. Hermione had technically said the proper thing, yet there was not a trace of admiration in her tone. No envy. Nothing, but perhaps pity.

Esther forced a small smile, but it looked painfully strained.

She clearly did not like Prince Albert either. None of them did. Esther feared him, even if she still did not always have the words for it. Back then, if Ulrich had not intervened, Hermione did not even want to think too closely about what would have become of them.

Astrid, however, mistook their reaction.

Or perhaps she understood it and simply chose to take offense.

"The Crown Prince is the future of this kingdom," she said coldly. "You would be wise to remember that."

Hermione pitied such a future, but she didn’t say out loud her thoughts.