Reincarnated as the Villainess’s Unlucky Bodyguard

It began with a vibration subtle at first, like the shiver of a glass touched by a distant thunderclap. Enara felt it in her bones before the castle walls even acknowledged it, the tiniest tremor thrumming through the marble beneath her bare feet as she stood by the open balcony, staring out over the obsidian cliffs of Narthalem.

The Demon Kingdom had never been quiet, not truly. There was always a hum, a song of subterranean magma and whispering winds, of wingbeats and tail flicks and the slow heartbeat of an ancient, breathing land. But this was something else.

Something wrong.

She didn't turn when the doors creaked open behind her. She didn't need to.

"I heard it too," came Daena's voice rough like stones grinding against one another, yet oddly soothing in the way only an old battle-scarred grandmother could be. "It's begun."

Enara's fingers curled around the cold balcony edge. Her nails were painted a deep violet today, but the color didn't feel regal it felt funereal. Her midnight eyes, usually so sharp and poised, flickered with something unspoken. Not fear. No. Fear was beneath her. But doubt?

Yes. Doubt lingered.

"They'll be at the border before sundown," she said quietly, her voice that of a ruler now, not the girl who used to sneak sweets into her tutor's desk or charm guards into letting her ride firewolves in the courtyard. "Azael moves like rot quiet until you realize the tree is already hollow."

Daena stepped forward, her obsidian skin reflecting the blood-orange sky, her massive horns casting long shadows across the stone. The former queen's wings were tucked against her back, but even at rest, she exuded something primal and furious an old storm forced into stillness.

"She has Liria," Daena said, softly this time.

Enara closed her eyes. That name burned.

A heartbeat. Then another. The tremor came again, this time followed by a low, distant howl—one that seemed to scrape against the soul. Azael's soldiers were close now.

"She doesn't have her," Enara replied coldly. "She broke her. There's a difference."

Daena didn't argue. She didn't have to. The silence that fell between them said enough.

It had been months since Liria's betrayal, but time didn't dull the wound. If anything, it sharpened it. Enara had trusted her. Loved her, in a way she didn't have language for. Not romantic. Not platonic. Something tangled and sacred, something born in fire and raised in shared ambition.

Now Liria wore different colors. Walked behind a different queen.

And Enara had to decide if she could kill the girl she once believed would reshape the world beside her.

"I don't want to do this," she murmured. "I want her back."

Daena placed a clawed hand on her shoulder, warm and heavy.

"And I want my youth and a bottle of red wine that doesn't taste like crushed beetles. We all have our regrets, sweetheart."

Enara almost smiled. Almost.

Behind them, the room buzzed with quiet activity advisors preparing war councils, maps laid open like flayed beasts across tables, scrolls unfurling with predictions of doom written in ink and desperation. Every corner of the castle whispered war.

And in the center of it all sat Ananara.

The pineapple.

Ananara, self-proclaimed "Familiar Supreme and Most Intelligent Being in the Realm", perched on a velvet pillow atop the main strategy table, sipping demonberry juice through a straw as if this were all mildly inconvenient and vaguely beneath her.

She glanced up from her goblet and scoffed, voice dripping with disdain. "Oh good, you're still brooding. I was worried you might do something useful, like act. Or gods forbid, make a decision."

"Remind me again why we haven't chopped her into rings and served her with roasted wyrm?" Daena muttered under her breath.

"I have a contract," Ananara sniffed, flipping an invisible lock of leafy hair. "And besides, I'm the only one in this room with any strategic intelligence that hasn't been dulled by heartbreak or age."

Daena reached out casually as if she might swat the pineapple across the room.

"Try it," Ananara warned, "and I'll rot your favorite wine from the inside out. I know where you keep it."

Enara walked past them both, her footsteps soft against the polished floor, and approached the war map.

It was a beautiful thing, in a terrifying way. The kingdoms were carved in obsidian and pearl, their borders etched with glowing runes that shimmered as scouts updated them in real time. Enara traced a fingertip along the northern line, where the border pulsed red—Elmire was gone. Completely. Not conquered. Not seized.

Erased.

"How many survivors?" she asked.

A nearby advisor, trembling slightly despite himself, replied, "None confirmed. Only reports of black fire and screaming."

She nodded, once.

"Raise the barriers. Alert all outer villages. Call in the Reavers. I want every child and elder escorted to the inner sanctum. We evacuate the Daylight Strip and reroute power to the Veil Cannons. Activate the throne seals."

The room fell silent.

"Activate... the throne seals?" one general asked slowly.

"Yes," Enara said. "I'm declaring war."

The words settled like ash.

Daena gave a low chuckle, the sound vibrating in her chest like a drumbeat.

"About damn time."

The throne room transformed within moments. Runes across the floor flared to life in deep crimson, crawling up the walls like veins awakening after centuries of sleep. The very air changed—heavier, laced with ancient power. This wasn't a place of diplomacy anymore. It was a battlefield waiting to happen.

From the high balcony, Queen Verida entered, horns glinting in the light, her massive sword slung across her back. Her skin was the color of rich garnet, her eyes molten gold, and every step she took announced that she was not merely a queen but a warrior born.

Beside her walked Queen Nyssara, graceful in a gown that shimmered like midnight rain, her silver hair cascading over one shoulder, her expression unreadable but eyes gleaming with quiet calculation.

Together, they were terrifying. And they were her mothers.

Enara straightened as they approached, her chin lifted, her body still trembling slightly from the weight of her decision.

Verida spoke first. "You've declared war, little shadow. Are you ready to see it through?"

Enara didn't flinch. "Yes."

Nyssara studied her for a long moment, then gave a slow nod.

"Then you'll lead the first assault."

"What?" Daena snapped. "She's fifteen."

"She's the heir," Nyssara said simply. "And if Azael wants this kingdom, she'll have to go through our daughter first."

Enara's mouth went dry. But she didn't argue.

"Where do I begin?" she asked.

Verida stepped beside the war table and touched a point on the glowing map—just beyond the Silverfold Veil.

"They'll strike here next. It's the cleanest path into our territory, and Azael never bothers with subtlety. She wants to be seen. We'll give her what she wants."

A long pause.

Nyssara added, "And when she does come, when Liria walks beside her, you cannot hesitate."

Enara said nothing.

Ananara sucked loudly through her straw, then muttered, "I can already tell this is going to be one of those battles. Blood, betrayal, dramatics. I should've brought a cushion and a backup body."

"You don't have a body," Enara snapped.

"Exactly. Which is why I'm extra invested in not being stabbed."

The ground trembled again.

This time, it wasn't distant.

Verida unsheathed her sword. The runes across its blade burned white-hot.

"Positions. Now."

The alarms sounded—ancient bells that hadn't rung in centuries. The demons of the castle moved like wildfire, wings unfurling, weapons summoned from tattoos, horns gleaming as centuries of warriors took to the skies.

Enara followed her mothers to the upper walls. The view stretched far across the kingdom. Mountains in the distance. Black rivers flowing between fields of red grain. And now, a storm on the horizon.

A storm in the shape of a woman with crimson skin, golden eyes, and fire trailing behind her like a cloak.

Azael had arrived.

Enara felt something hot and sharp twist in her gut.

And there at Azael's side stood Liria.

Not chained. Not dragged. But walking of her own accord, hair black whipping in the wind, her eyes unreadable.

And in that moment, Enara didn't know whether she wanted to cry or burn the world down.

Beside her, Daena growled low. "Permission to attack."

Enara's hand trembled as she raised it.

"Granted."

The war for the Demon Kingdom had begun.

The sky split with a roar as the first barrage of magic ignited the horizon crimson flares streaking toward Azael's forces like furious comets. Enara stood at the edge of the battlements, her cloak whipping around her like a living thing, heart pounding not from fear but fury. Liria didn't flinch as the spells crashed beside her, didn't even blink. She just looked up at the walls as if she could see Enara through the smoke. And maybe she could.

Enara's voice was quiet, lethal.

"Hold the line."

Because if Liria wouldn't stop walking toward her then Enara would be the one to make her.