Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 155

Chapter 155: Secrets, Sass, and a Spirit Bird

[Lavinia’s POV—The Whisper Cellar]

The moment I stepped through the hidden door behind the bar, the air changed.

Literally.

Gone were the smells of cheap ale and roasted meat. Down here, it smelled like secrets—like parchment and candle wax and the faint trace of something burnt. The stairwell was narrow and damp, the stone walls lined with glowing mushrooms (why is that always a thing in fantasy basements?) and carvings I couldn’t read. Ancient symbols. Wards, maybe.

"Third left... Knock twice, once... and hum," I muttered under my breath, counting doors.

Behind me, Osric followed like the ghost of overprotectiveness.

"You know," he whispered, his voice a low warning, "this entire situation feels like the start of one of those cautionary bard tales. The princess sneaks off. The cat is cursed. The bodyguard gets blamed for everything."

"I didn’t know you were so poetic," I replied sweetly. "But if I’m the heroine. I never die this early."

"...That’s not comforting."

We reached the door.

Plain. Wood. Heavy.

I knocked twice.

Then once.

Then... hummed. A soft little melody from the court—my old lullaby. It felt like treason humming it here.

Click.

The door creaked open, revealing—

Nothing.

Just shadows.

And the vague scent of ink and something metallic.

I stepped inside.

"You’re not seriously going in there?" Osric hissed.

"Too late," I whispered, already halfway in. "Stay here if you’re scared."

"I’m not scared. I’m responsible."

"Same thing."

He groaned. But he followed.

Good.

Because the moment we stepped into the room... we both stopped.

And stared.

Hard.

The dim, dusty stairwell had led us here, and here was... not what I expected.

Velvet chaise lounges. Gold-detailed walls. Floating crystal lanterns. A roaring fireplace. Art—actual framed oil paintings—hung like someone had robbed three noble estates and built a bachelor lounge from the loot.

Osric blinked at the plush surroundings. "...So the Guild Master is corrupt."

I nodded, eyes wide. "Corrupt and... weirdly excellent at interior design."

That’s when the sound of polished boots echoed in.

And he arrived.

A man stepped out of the backroom like he owned time itself.

Dark blue hair swept back like midnight waves. Ocean-blue eyes so cold and clever they could slice through lies. His robes? Casual, loose, expensive. Silk. Definitely enchanted. Every movement he made was liquid charm wrapped in barely leashed menace.

I blinked.

He doesn’t look like a bartender. It feels like a ’secret noble who probably plays chess with death’ energy.

He glanced at us—smiling like he knew our secrets already—and walked, slow and deliberate, toward the velvet couch. He didn’t sit. He sprawled.

Then he rested his chin on his knuckles, eyes glinting with amusement.

"Well," he said, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet and arrogance. "If it isn’t the Crown Princess, dressed like a tragic side character from her own funeral."

Osric bristled beside me. "How did he—"

But the man turned to him, tone maddeningly calm.

"And Lord Osric. Rynthall’s only heir. The shield of the Crown Princess. And the Empire’s next Grand Duke."

Osric opened his mouth, closed it, and muttered, "I hate him."

I wasn’t surprised he recognized us, because Rye Morven wasn’t just a guild master. He was also an unregistered mage.

Not sanctioned. Not bound by the Circle. But undeniably powerful. And for whatever reason—probably because he’s shady with a flair for drama—he kept his magical abilities hidden from the world.

And then I smirked and stepped forward.

Confident.

Calculated.

Deadly polite.

And sat down directly across from him, legs crossed, chin high, and spine straight.

"I see it didn’t take long for you to abandon your bartender disguise, Rye Morven," I said smoothly. "Fascinating. I expected someone less... decorative."

His smile twitched.

But I wasn’t done. I leaned forward slightly, my tone cooling like frostbite behind silk.

"...What I didn’t expect was such a blatant display of arrogance."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

I tilted my head, eyes sharp. "You didn’t bow."

Silence.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Even Marshi, still curled inside my satchel, stopped grooming his paw.

I continued, voice slow and crisp as crushed glass. "You’re in the presence of the Empire’s Crown Princess. And while your furniture may be velvet and your ego stitched in gold, your spine is still expected to bend."

Rye’s amused expression wavered.

Just slightly.

And then—

He stood.

No words.

And knelt.

One knee to the rug, head bowed low, voice steady but no longer cocky.

"My deepest apologies, Your Highness," he said quietly. "This unworthy servant of the Empire greets you with proper reverence."

I leaned back, watching him, letting the power settle in the room like dust.

Then smiled.

"Good," I said. "You may rise. I prefer my informants alive and respectful."

He stood slowly.

Eyes warier now. But a flicker of admiration shone behind them, too.

That’s right, Whisper Man.

You may know secrets, but I own the throne, and I hadn’t even gotten serious yet. He shifted slightly, lips curling back into that lazy, serpent smile.

"So..." he drawled, settling into his velvet throne like we were having afternoon tea instead of tiptoeing near treason. "Why would the Crown Princess of Elorian soil her boots and royal dignity to visit such a lowly, common... creature?"

His voice was silk-wrapped mockery.

I tilted my chin and met his eyes with ice. "I came for information."

He made a soft, thoughtful sound. "Mmm. Dangerous things, princess. Information. They burn more than fire."

"I’m immune to fire," I replied smoothly. "Born in it."

His smile grew wider. "...And I wonder about who our princess is curious about."

I was about to say it. To say her name, when—

WHOOSH!

SLAM.

A colossal golden eagle descended from the shadows and landed—regally, dramatically, and unapologetically—on his head.

The eagle let out a sharp, piercing screech that echoed through the chamber like a war trumpet before battle. Wings wide. Feathers gleaming like burnished gold. Eyes glowing with ancient judgment.

Comfortably stabbing his scalp.

There was a silence.A heavy, stunned, awkward silence.

The usually smooth, shadow-slicked Whisper Man blinked like he’d just been personally attacked by destiny. "Why... why do I feel stabbed?" he muttered, hand on his chest like the drama king he clearly was.

"Why," Osric asked through clenched teeth, "is a warbird nesting on my head?"

"She’s stabbing me."

Solena, the golden eagle, squawked once more—loudly, imperiously—and then hopped off his head, feathers ruffling in annoyance. She landed on his shoulder with all the weight of judgment and then, very delicately, nudged his cheek with her beak.

Solena fluffed her wings smugly and preened a glowing feather. Her entire aura screamed, You belong to me now.

Osric looked absolutely offended by the entire sequence of events. "But why me?"

"Oh no," I gasped, tears in my eyes. "You’ve been pretty-picked by an ancient bird. This is the best day of my life."

"Responsible? For what?"

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