Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 118

Chapter 118: The Return of the King... and His Gremlin

[Lavinia’s POv]

I ran.

I didn’t stop to ask when exactly he’d arrive.

I didn’t ask how far he was, whether he was tired, or whether someone had offered him tea or an unnecessary political report on his return.

None of that mattered.

Because all I knew was that my papa—my world.

My terrifying, tyrant, tree-trunk-sized-palm-slap-you-on-the-head Papa. My everything—was finally home.

My boots echoed wildly down the marbled halls, clattering like a small thunderstorm. Stunned guards straightened. Nobles flattened themselves against the walls. Somewhere, I heard a vase fall.

My skirt whipped around my legs like a cape. My braid slapped me on the back of my neck with every wild step. I was a princess-shaped hurricane, and no one was going to stop me.

"PRINCESS LAVINIA, SLOW DOWN OR YOU’LL CRASH INTO A WALL—!" Osric yelled from behind.

CRASH.

There it was. Followed by a groan. Possibly maid-shaped.

I didn’t stop.

I ran down the grand staircase, nearly slipped on the third step, recovered with the grace of someone who definitely did that on purpose, and burst through the corridor toward the East Wing.

Past the rose garden—where summer roses still bloomed in the middle of winter like they didn’t care about logic.

And then—I skidded to a stop at the great hall’s massive double doors.

And I just stood there. Breathless. Heart thundering.

He was at the border, they’d said. Which meant it wouldn’t be long now.

Just minutes.

Maybe half an hour.

Maybe less.

I could wait.

Behind me came the sound of two boys suffering the consequences of my cardio enthusiasm.

"Princess," Osric wheezed, leaning dramatically against a pillar. "You... run... like a madwoman."

Caelum was slightly better off, still breathing like he’d chased a wyvern. "She’s small... but deceptively fast. Like a squirrel on fire."

I didn’t answer them. I was too busy staring at the gate like I could will it to open with sheer daughterly determination.

Moments later, Theon shuffled into view, looking like he’d just lost a race against his own knees.

He bent slightly, placed a hand on the wall for balance, and muttered, "By the gods... I’m becoming old. Royal children should come with speed warnings..."

He straightened with a half-hearted smile. "Princess, His Majesty is expected to arrive in approximately half an hour."

I didn’t reply.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even breathe too loudly.

Because yes, it might take half an hour. Yes, I might be cold. And yes, I might be mildly hallucinating the sound of hoofbeats already.

But I would wait here.

Because he was coming home.

And I wasn’t missing a second.

The others seemed to understand. Because no one told me to move.

Instead, slowly, the ground filled. Bootsteps padded in behind me.

Maids. Butlers. Stablehands. Guards who had no reason to be here but didn’t want to be anywhere else.

And then—Marshi came.

My golden disaster of a divine beast, fur still mussed from napping, blinked his crimson eyes at the crowd, yawned like this was all far too dramatic for his celestial schedule... and then sat right beside me.

He leaned his weight against my legs, warm and heavy, like an anchor.

I didn’t look down.

I just smiled.

Nanny and Marella appeared moments later, both wrapped in their winter shawls. Nanny took one look at me and sighed like she hadn’t spent years training herself not to cry at moments like these. She walked over, placed a long woolen coat gently around my shoulders, and whispered, "His Majesty will be worried to see you standing in the cold, my princess."

I glanced up at her.

Nodded once.

And returned my gaze to the gate.

Everyone was quiet.

Not the kind of stiff, formal silence people used at court. But the kind of soft, waiting quiet you held in your chest when something important was about to happen. Something that might only come once in a lifetime.

Or, if you were very lucky—once every time your father came home from war.

And then—it happened.

The air changed. Just a breeze, at first. A shimmer of something through the stained glass.

Then—

TRUMPETS.

I heard them.

Far off, at first. Faint.

Then closer.

Louder.

Bolder.

The gates began to open.

And my heart?

It remembered how to beat like a drum of celebration.

He was here.

Papa was home.

Now, I was prepared for many things.

War changes people, they say. Leaves scars. Hardens gazes. Tan skin.

So naturally, I assumed Papa would return looking... well, war-worn. Maybe with a beard. Maybe with that rugged, I’ve-survived-thirteen-sieges look. Maybe slightly hunched, like he carried the burden of an empire and two ruined boots.

I braced myself.

Mentally prepared to throw myself into the arms of a hardened general, battle-scarred and gloriously muddy.

And then—the gates opened.

The royal banners unfurled. The golden sunlight hit just right.

And my father—

Waltzed in on horseback looking like a romance novel cover come to life.

Tanned?

"So... uh, my papa—did he de-age during the war? What kind of battlefield spa did he go to? Did the enemy just throw rosewater at him and call it a truce?"

"Are you telling me," I said, pointing toward the celestial apparition dismounting with the grace of a storm-born hero, "that he’s always shimmered like the Sun God’s personal favorite son?"

He landed with a soft thud that echoed like destiny across the courtyard stones.

Like gravity saw him and said, "My bad, Your Majesty—carry on."

Tears sprang instantly to my eyes. I didn’t even feel them fall—I just moved.

And then I stopped.

I approached with poise, posture, and dignity, like one of those tragic princesses in ancient tapestries who probably never once tripped over a stair.

(I almost tripped. But the important part is that I did not.)

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