Chapter 21 The Villain’s Ending
The night was quiet.
Too quiet.
Ulrika Vincent lay flat on her back, arms folded over her chest like a corpse laid out for burial, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling of her bedroom. Gold filigree curled across white-painted panels, elegant and expensive and—right now—completely wasted on her. The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long, dancing shadows across the room, but she did not see them. She was seeing him.
“…This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, the words a soft, frustrated whisper in the still, silent air. But the memories wouldn’t stop. They played out behind her eyes, a relentless, unending loop of injustice and sorrow.
She had read Dreaming Kiss more times than she cared to admit in her past life. At first, it had been simple entertainment—something to distract herself between missions, something soft and romantic in a world that had long since forgotten what soft even meant. The pages, worn and dog-eared from countless readings, had been a small, fragile escape from the harsh, brutal reality of her life. But somewhere along the way, one character had ruined everything.
Grand Duke Aric Solheim.
The villain.
The man who wasn’t supposed to matter.
In the original story— He stood alone in the final arc. No allies. No support. No one who believed him. Not even the kingdom he had bled for. A solitary figure, a tragic hero sacrificed on the altar of political expediency, a convenient scapegoat for a corrupt and decadent system.
Ulrika squeezed her eyes shut, a desperate, futile attempt to block out the images that burned in her mind. The memory sharpened anyway, a high-definition, surround-sound nightmare that was more real than the room around her.
A battlefield. Rain falling like needles, a cold, relentless downpour that soaked through clothes and armor, turning the ground into a quagmire of mud and blood. The air was thick with the smell of iron and death, a sickening, cloying scent that was a testament to the brutality of war. Aric stood at the center of it all—armor shattered, cloak torn, sword buried halfway into the ground just to keep himself standing. He was a broken, bleeding ruin, a testament to a battle that had been fought and lost, a sacrifice that had been made in vain.
Surrounded. Not by enemies. By his own people. Knights wearing the royal crest, a symbol of the very kingdom he had sworn to protect, a symbol of the very people who had turned against him. The same crest he had defended for years, a banner he had carried into battle, a promise he had kept with his blood and his sweat.
“Grand Duke Aric Solheim,” the accusation had been read aloud, cold and clean, a voice that was devoid of emotion, a voice that was a testament to the cold, bureaucratic cruelty of the system. “You stand charged with treason against the crown.”
A lie. A carefully constructed, politically convenient lie. A web of deceit and manipulation, woven by those who feared his power, those who coveted his influence, those who saw him as a threat to their own fragile, corrupt authority.
Ulrika remembered the details too well. Lucien’s influence, a subtle, insidious poison that had infected the court, turning allies into enemies, friends into traitors. The nobles who feared Aric’s power, his efficiency, his unwavering integrity, a constant, painful reminder of their own corruption and incompetence. The fabricated evidence, a carefully constructed narrative of lies and half-truths, a testament to the power of propaganda and the gullibility of the masses. The witnesses bought and silenced, their testimonies a chorus of false accusations, a symphony of deceit that sealed his fate.
Everything aligned to make one truth irrelevant: Aric had saved the kingdom. Repeatedly. Border wars. Beast incursions. Internal rebellions. Every time something went wrong, they sent him. And every time— He fixed it. He was a problem solver, a crisis manager, a one-man army who had single-handedly held the kingdom together, a bulwark against the chaos that threatened to consume it.
And when he came back? They called him a monster. Too efficient. Too ruthless. Too dangerous. A necessary evil, a tool to be used and discarded, a scapegoat to be sacrificed when the time was right.
The trial had been a formality. The verdict decided long before he ever stepped into the courtroom, a foregone conclusion in a system that was rigged from the start. A spectacle of justice, a sham of a trial, a performance designed to legitimize a premeditated act of betrayal.
Ulrika’s fingers twitched against the bedsheets, a small, involuntary movement that was a testament to her rising anger. Her jaw tightened, a hard, stubborn line that was a reflection of her growing resolve.
She remembered the moment that broke her. The moment she had slammed the book shut so hard she’d nearly snapped the spine, a raw, guttural cry of frustration and rage that had echoed in the small, cramped room she had called home. A moment of pure, unadulterated fury that had been a turning point, a moment of realization that had changed everything.
No one stood up for him. Not one person. Not a knight. Not a noble. Not even the heroine. Selene had hesitated—hesitated—but in the end, she said nothing. A moment of weakness, a failure of courage, a betrayal that was as painful as it was predictable. Because the story wasn’t about him. Because the story didn’t care about him. He was a plot device, a stepping stone, a convenient obstacle to be overcome, a villain to be defeated, a sacrifice to be made.
So Aric stood there alone. As always.
“I see.”
That was all he said. No rage. No denial. No desperate plea. Just… acceptance. A quiet, dignified acceptance that was a testament to his strength, his courage, his unyielding integrity. A final, defiant act in a life that had been a constant, unending battle against a world that was determined to break him.
And then— The execution.
Not even a proper one. Not a clean death. No. They sent him back to the battlefield. Stripped of command. Given a suicide mission dressed up as “atonement.” A final, cruel twist of the knife, a way to dispose of him without the messiness of a public execution, a way to erase him from the pages of history, a way to pretend that his sacrifice was a noble, voluntary act.
Ulrika’s breathing slowed, but her chest felt tight. Heavy. A weight of sorrow and anger that was a physical, palpable thing, a pressure that made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to feel anything but a cold, burning rage.
He fought anyway. Of course he did. Because that was the kind of man he was. A warrior, a hero, a man of honor and integrity, a man who would not go quietly into the night, a man who would face his end with courage and defiance.
Alone. Outnumbered. Already wounded. Still standing. Still fighting. A one-man army against an overwhelming tide of enemies, a final, desperate stand that was a testament to his unyielding spirit.
Until he wasn’t.
No dramatic last words. No one to hear them even if he had any. Just a quiet collapse into the mud, the rain washing over blood and steel alike, a final, lonely end to a life that had been a constant, unending battle.
And the kingdom? Moved on.
Declared him a traitor. Erased his achievements. Rewrote history. A villain in the story, a cautionary tale, a reminder of what happens to those who defy the system, who challenge the status quo, who dare to be different.
The end.
“…Bullshit.”
Ulrika’s voice cut through the silence of the room, low and sharp, a raw, guttural cry of frustration and rage. Her eyes snapped open, burning with something far too alive for someone lying so still, a cold, dangerous fire that was a testament to her resolve.
“Absolute. Bullshit.”
She rolled onto her side, glaring at nothing. At everything. At a world that hadn’t even happened yet—and still managed to piss her off. A world of injustice and cruelty, a world of corruption and deceit, a world that was determined to sacrifice the good for the sake of the convenient.
“That man carried your entire rotten system on his back,” she hissed, her voice a low, menacing growl that was a testament to her rising anger. “And that’s how you repay him?”
Her fingers curled into the sheets, a tight, white-knuckled grip that was a reflection of her growing resolve. In her past life, she had seen betrayal. She had lived in it. But there was something uniquely offensive about Aric’s ending. Because it wasn’t even personal. It was convenient.
He was useful. So they used him. He became inconvenient. So they discarded him. Simple. Efficient. Cruel. A cold, calculated act of betrayal that was a testament to the moral bankruptcy of the system he had sworn to protect.
Ulrika exhaled slowly, forcing herself to calm down. Getting angry wouldn’t change anything. Not by itself. But— This wasn’t her past life. This wasn’t a dead world filled with monsters and ash. This was a story. A predictable, structured, fixable story. And she had an advantage no one else did. She knew exactly how it ended.
Her gaze drifted back up to the ceiling. This time, she saw it. Really saw it. The intricate patterns. The stability. The peace. A symbol of the life she had fought for, the life she had died for, the life she had been given a second chance to live.
"Over my dead body.
I know what it’s like to die alone while everyone calls it noble.
I’m not letting it happen to him,” she said firmly. No hesitation. No doubt. A promise, a vow, a declaration of war against a fate that had already been written.
Her lips curled slightly. Not soft. Not gentle. Something sharper. More dangerous. A predator’s smile, a promise of retribution, a declaration of intent.
“Absolutely not. Also… he deserves someone to flirt with him properly.
Tragic oversight on the universe’s part.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. The movement was sudden. Decisive. A clear, undeniable break from the stillness of the night, a sign that a decision had been made, a plan had been set in motion.
“That man is getting a happy ending,” she continued, voice steady now, grounded with intent. A pause. Then— “If I have to commit crimes.”
Silence. Then— A slow, creeping grin. A dangerous, predatory smile that was a testament to her resolve, her cunning, her unyielding spirit.
“Actually,” she added thoughtfully, “I’m probably going to have to commit crimes.”
Her mind was already moving. Fast. Efficient. Structured like a battlefield plan. A series of objectives, a timeline, a set of contingencies, a strategy for a war that was about to be waged.
Step one: Prevent Aric’s isolation. Build alliances. Create a network of support that would not be easily broken, a web of loyalty and trust that would withstand the pressures of the court.
Step two: Disrupt the political setup that leads to his downfall. Undermine the corrupt nobles. Expose the lies. Counter the influence of those who sought to destroy him.
Step three— She paused. Tilted her head. A different idea surfaced. Cleaner. More direct. Ridiculously effective. A solution that was so simple, so elegant, it was almost laughable.
Her eyes sharpened. A glint of cold, calculating intelligence, a spark of dangerous, predatory cunning. “If he’s tied to me…” She tapped her chin. “…then they can’t touch him so easily.”
Stronger alliances. Social protection. A reason for the narrative itself to bend. A connection that would be a shield, a barrier, a protection against the forces that sought to destroy him.
But that alone wouldn’t be enough. No. If she was going to do this— She needed something undeniable. Something that forced the world to acknowledge a connection that couldn’t be erased or politically “adjusted.”
Her expression slowly shifted. From calculated… To something dangerously amused. A slow, spreading grin that was a testament to her resolve, her cunning, her unyielding spirit.
“Well,” Ulrika said, standing up, “there’s one method that’s pretty hard to ignore.”
She walked toward her desk. Sat down. Pulled out paper. Ink. And began writing. A plan, a strategy, a declaration of war against a fate that had already been written.
At the top of the page, in neat, deliberate script:
OPERATION: SAVE THE DUKE
She paused. Then added underneath—
(Step One: Seduction)
“…This is either genius,” she muttered, already continuing to write. A beat. A smirk. “Or incredibly stupid.”
She didn’t stop.
The plan was officially in motion.