THE VILLIAN FELL FOR ME

Chapter Two

( The Man Who Will Become a Monster)

Three days.

That was the absolute limit of my shelf life. I spent the next hour sitting on the edge of my mattress, staring at the grain of the wood flooring, desperately trying to convince myself that I was having some kind of hyper-realistic, fever-induced hallucination.

It didn't work. The wooden chair was solid beneath my hands. The cold stone floor bit into my bare heels. The woman who kept hovering by the wardrobe asking if I needed a fresh tunic was undeniably, inconveniently real. To top it off, the pulsing headache behind my eyes was getting more convincing by the second.

"Master Evan, would you like some breakfast?"

I looked up. The housekeeper whose name I’d figured out was Mara stood by the door frame holding a heavy tray.

"Yes," I managed, my throat dry. "Please."

She set the tray on the side table, revealing thick bread, a block of pale cheese, boiled eggs, and a bowl of steaming porridge. I stared at the spread, my mind automatically scanning my memory of The Crown of Ashes. In the original text, Evan Ardent was barely a blip on the radar, a minor noble from a family whose status was tanking by the day. His parents had passed away years ago, leaving him a modest estate outside the capital walls. He had zero political leverage, zero powerful allies, and absolutely no magical abilities.

He was a nobody. Which meant he had absolutely no business being anywhere near a royal function.

I looked up from the porridge, picking up a spoon. "Mara, why exactly am I attending this banquet?"

She blinked, smoothing her apron. "Because His Majesty invited the noble families of Avarion, Master."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone of importance, yes."

I almost choked on my first bite of porridge. "Then why on earth am I included?"

Mara gave me a faint, reassuring smile. "Your father served the crown faithfully, Master Evan. The invitation is a courtesy to your family’s name."

Right. A courtesy. The exact kind of high-society politeness that was going to get me a knife between my ribs.

I pushed the bowl away, the appetite completely draining out of me. "Mara, can I ask you something? Have I ever... have I ever actually met Prince Cassian?"

Her expression shifted. It wasn't a dramatic gasp, but her shoulders went rigid, just enough for me to notice the sudden tension. "Prince Cassian?"

"Yes."

She lowered her eyes, suddenly very interested in the floorboards. "No, Master. Not personally."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"I believe so, milord."

I leaned back against the headboard, letting out a slow breath. Okay. That was a relief. At least I hadn't already done something to put myself on his radar.

In the novel, Evan’s first and only encounter with the Blood Prince happened at the banquet. Cassian had been standing by one of the massive arched windows, surrounded by a crowd of nobles who were all too terrified to even breathe in his direction. Evan, being a clumsy extra, had accidentally stumbled and spilled a glass of red wine right across Cassian’s pristine black coat. Cassian had looked down at him with those dead silver eyes. Three days later, Evan was found dead.

The author never explicitly wrote that Cassian ordered the hit; it was just framed as an "unfortunate consequence" of the capital's rising body count. But the description of the crime scene lived rent-free in my head: a black carriage, a deserted stretch of road, a single neat puncture wound beneath the ribs, and a silver ring dropped in the mud beside the corpse.

I shuddered, a cold sweat breaking out across my neck.

"Master Evan?" Mara was watching me, her brow furrowed. "Are you feeling ill again?"

"No," I lied, forcing my lips into a stiff smile. "Just thinking."

"About the banquet?"

"Among other things. How long was I out with the fever, exactly?"

"Three days, milord. The physician was terribly worried."

I froze, the spoon slipping from my fingers and clattering against the tray. Three days.

Oh, great. Fantastic.

I hadn't woken up three days before the banquet with time to prepare. I had woken up three days before the banquet after already losing three days of the timeline to a coma. The clock wasn't just ticking; it was practically wrapping up. I needed information, I needed money, and I needed a fast horse out of the capital before the weekend hit.

"Do we have any horses available in the stables?" I asked quickly.

Mara looked startled. "Of course, Master. Why do you ask?"

"I might need to travel. Somewhere far. Anywhere, really."

She gave me a deeply worried look. "Master, your family has already sent the formal confirmation to the palace. You are expected at court."

"Then we'll send a runner to unconfirm it."

"Your uncle will be displeased," she whispered, her voice dropping.

I frowned, a memory sparking. "My uncle?"

Mara's eyes widened slightly. "You... you don't remember Lord Edmund?"

"Right. Yes. I remember him," I muttered, though my stomach did a slow flip. Edmund Ardent. The man who managed the family's dwindling estate finances. He only showed up in Chapter Fourteen of the book, heavily implied to be selling secrets to the royal factions to keep his own head above water.

"He's expected to arrive at the manor this afternoon, Master," Mara added smoothly.

I stopped rubbing my temples. Today. Of all the days for a suspicious, cutthroat relative to drop by.

Lord Edmund arrived just after midday, his booming voice echoing up the stone stairwell before his boots even hit the landing.

"How is the boy?"

I sat straight up in bed, straining to hear Mara's muffled reply from the corridor. "Much better, my lord."

"Has he been behaving strangely?" Edmund's voice had a sharp, calculating edge to it. "Has he asked any unusual questions?"

There was a heavy pause from Mara. "Strangely, milord?"

"About the royal family, perhaps?"

My pulse went into overdrive. I couldn't make out Mara's whisper, but a second later, heavy footsteps marched down the hall. The door swung open, revealing a tall man in his late fifties. He had graying brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and wore a rich, dark velvet coat. On his right hand, a heavy silver signet ring bore the crest of House Ardent.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, studying me with eyes that felt like ice water. "Evan."

I tried to remember how the original Evan treated this guy, but the novel hadn't given him enough page-time to establish a personality. I settled for a guarded nod. "Uncle."

Edmund closed the door firmly behind him, letting the silence stretch between us for a few agonizing seconds before stepping closer. "You look better. The fever nearly took you."

"I feel better. So I've been told."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "You don't remember it?"

"I remember being sick."

"That isn't what I asked, boy."

I looked away, fixing my gaze on the window. There was something deeply unsettling about him. He didn't look like a cartoon villain, just an ordinary, sharp-faced nobleman, but every single syllable out of his mouth felt like a trap.

"How long are you staying?" I asked, trying to shift the weight of the conversation.

"Until tomorrow morning."

"That's unfortunate."

Edmund’s eyebrows shot up. "Unfortunate?"

"I mean..." I cleared my throat, trying to smooth over the slip. "I thought you might stay longer. It's been a long time since you visited the manor."

He stared at me, the tension in the room thickening until, completely unexpectedly, his face softened into a dry smile. "Your mother always used to say you were a terrible liar, Evan."

I stiffened, the words hitting me like a physical blow. His mother.

The real Evan’s mother had been dead for five years. But this man knew her. He had known the actual kid whose body I was currently occupying. For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, the raw terror gave way to something else: an ugly, hollow pang of guilt. I was a ghost wearing a dead boy's skin, lying to a man who had looked at his face since he was a child.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, staring at my hands.

"For what?"

"For... not remembering things clearly. The fever made everything foggy."

Edmund sighed, taking the wooden chair beside the bed. "You nearly died, Evan. Nobody expects you to be perfectly sharp today." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick parchment envelope. The seal was made of heavy red wax, stamped with a golden crown.

The royal invitation. The catalyst for the whole damn tragedy.

"You must attend," Edmund said, holding it out.

I didn't reach for it. "Why? I've been bedridden for three days. I'm weak."

"Your physician declared you fit for travel this morning."

"Then the physician is a complete idiot."

"Evan," his voice rose, warningly, before dropping into something that sounded dangerously like genuine worry. "Please don't make this difficult. The royal family is changing. The king is failing, the succession is a mess, and every noble house in Avarion is being forced to pick a side."

"What about Prince Adrian?" I blurted out.

Edmund went entirely rigid. "Why would you mention Sir Adrian?"

I cursed myself mentally. Right. Adrian Laurent wasn't a prince—he was just the kingdom's favorite high knight at this point in the timeline. "I... I just heard his name. People talk."

"People talk about treason," Edmund hissed, leaning forward. "Listen to me carefully, Evan. Go to the banquet. Show your face, pay your respects to the crown prince, and then get back to this estate. Stay away from the royal court. Speak only to the right people."

"And who are the right people?"

"The ones who won't get you executed," he whispered, his face turning an unhealthily pale shade. "The court is fractured. Half the guard answers to the crown prince. The other half..." He swallowed hard. "...answers to Prince Cassian."

"Cassian?" I repeated, my heart hammering.

"Do not look at him. Do not approach him," Edmund warned, his grip tightening on the parchment. "He is not a man you would want to notice you. If he speaks to you, be polite, answer quickly, and under no circumstances accept anything he offers you."

He stood up, tossing the invitation onto the blanket, and left the room without another word. I stared at the red wax seal. Everyone was warning me away from the villain I’d spent all night crying for on a phone screen. The universe definitely had a twisted sense of humor.

By evening, the anxiety was eating me alive, so I dragged myself down to the manor's small, dusty library. I needed to understand the real Cassian Valerius, not just the text on a screen.

I found a heavy, cracked-leather volume titled The History of House Valerius. Spreading it across an old oak table, I began to read. The book described the royal bloodline as the oldest magical lineage in the world, wielding a devastating, volatile power known as Ashfire. It could melt steel and turn entire battlefields to glass, but it carried a horrific cost: the stronger the magic grew, the more the Ashfire literally burned the user's body from the inside out.

I turned the page, coming across a faded family portrait. King Alaric, Queen Seraphine, Crown Prince Lucien... and finally, Cassian.

Even in a crude ink sketch, Cassian looked entirely separate from his family. Jet-black hair, sharp features, and eyes that were meant to be a striking silver. The book described him as the second prince, born under a blood moon—the child who never cried, whose shadow moved before he did.

A recent handwritten note was scrawled in the margin: The second prince's power continues to fracture the eastern front. He is twenty-seven.

Twenty-seven. The exact age he was at the start of the novel.

Feeling suffocated by the dusty room, I closed the book and walked out into the courtyard for some air. The rain had stopped, leaving the stone paths glistening under a dark, twilight sky. I took a deep breath, letting myself think of home for a brief second—my real room, my unfinished homework, the stupid glass of water that had somehow ended my life. Did anyone even miss me?

A sudden rustle of fabric shattered the quiet.

Someone was standing beneath the stone archway at the far end of the courtyard. A man. Tall, broad-shouldered, draped in a heavy black traveling cloak.

The wind shifted, catching his hood and pulling it backward. The fading light caught his face, and my breath completely trapped itself in my throat.

Silver eyes.

Cold, lethal, and devastatingly sharp. It was the exact face from the final pages of the novel. Prince Cassian Valerius.

I couldn't move. My boots felt like they were glued to the stone. He wasn't supposed to be here. He didn't know who Evan Ardent was yet. He wasn't supposed to show up until the banquet!

Cassian tilted his head, his gaze locking onto mine with the precision of a predator targeting prey. He took a slow step forward. Then another.

I instinctively stumbled backward, my heel catching on a stray stone.

He stopped, leaving barely ten feet of empty air between us. He didn't look angry; he just studied my face, his silver eyes tracing my features as if trying to solve a puzzle he hadn't expected to find.

"You're Evan Ardent," he said. His voice was low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm.

I swallowed, the sound loud in my own ears. "Yes."

His eyes narrowed slightly, a faint, dark amusement touching the corner of his lips. "Fascinating. I was told you died of the wasting fever three days ago."

The entire courtyard seemed to drop ten degrees. My mind raced back to the black carriage, the wound under the ribs, the silver ring. He knew I was supposed to be dead.

Cassian took one more step, closing the distance until I could smell the faint scent of ash and winter air radiating off his cloak.

"Tell me," he murmured, leaning down just enough that those piercing silver eyes consumed my entire vision. "Why does my inner circle keep insisting you're a corpse?".