Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 239

Chapter 239: The Weight of the Crown

[Temple—Ceremonial Hall—Lavinia’s POV]

The applause rolled through the hall, thunderous yet strangely distant, like echoes from another world. My chest still throbbed from the unseen threads of energy that had wrapped around me during the Benediction.

They hadn’t fully released me, and every breath felt heavier, weighted with a tension I couldn’t shake. My hands trembled slightly, rising unconsciously as if expecting that invisible pressure to coil around me once more.

Papa’s eyes were fixed on me, sharp, calculating, and unreadable. A tiny twitch at the edge of his jaw betrayed some thought he wasn’t voicing.

"You held yourself well," he said, voice low but resonant, carrying a weight that made even the claps around us feel muted. "Stronger than I expected."

I forced a polite nod, though the Benediction’s words still hummed through me: It reveals the truth you carry within yourself. It weighs your heart, tests your soul, and awakens the potential that destiny itself has chosen.

High Priest Calvein stepped forward, his robe whispering against the polished obsidian floor.

"You did well, Princess," he said, voice gentle but laden with reverence.

Before I could respond, another priest entered, carrying a small, ornate crown in his hands. The light of the torches danced across its golden surface, making it seem alive. He paused and turned toward Papa.

"Your Highness... please step forward."

Papa strode forward, his posture regal, every step measured. There was a faint smile tugging at his lips, pride radiating like heat from a forge. He took the crown, his fingers brushing the gold with a reverence I had never seen directed at an object before.

"Lavinia," he said, voice lowering, almost intimate, yet echoing across the hall, "remember this is no mere crown. It is not a decoration, nor a symbol of birthright alone. This... is the weight of the Empire itself. Its triumphs, its failures, its future—they rest on your head from this day forward. This crown will remind you that you are not a crown princess merely because of my blood. You are the heir also chosen by my god and people. The next ruler. And every choice you make... will ripple across every corner of this realm."

My knees threatened to buckle under the gravity of his words. I swallowed, forced my chest to rise, and dipped into a deep bow.

Papa placed the crown gently upon my head. Its weight was immediate—not heavy in the way a physical object might be, but in the way the air itself had grown denser, pressing down with expectation, authority, and the silent scrutiny of generations. The sun caught the gold, scattering fragments of light across the hall like stars set aflame.

Marshi stood beside me, silent and alert, his golden eyes flicking across the gathered nobles. And the applause erupted again, louder this time, but in it I saw everything: genuine pride, envy that could cut steel, jealousy masked behind polished smiles, and yes... some smiles that were entirely performative.

I could feel the crown pressing down—not just on my head, but on my mind, my heart. It was heavy with promises, with futures yet unwritten, with the knowledge that everything I had done, everything I would do, mattered more than I had ever imagined.

I raised my chin, trying to balance the weight of expectation, authority, and destiny. Every breath felt charged, every heartbeat a drum of the Empire itself. And in that moment, I realized—the crown was not just a symbol.

It was a responsibility.

A test.

A reminder that power always comes with a price... and that I was ready, even if the world might not yet know it.

And then I noticed... Lady Sirella’s glare. Sharp, cutting, and full of something I couldn’t name. Anger? Jealousy? It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

Did I imagine it, or did the air really just grow colder for a heartbeat?

Then my eyes found Elenia. Oh, she could hide her hatred behind a polite smile... but her eyes didn’t lie. That tiny, restrained flare of malice was enough.

Sigh. Honestly, their petty feelings were not my problem.

Before I could dwell too long on them, a booming voice broke through the hall.

"My precious!"

Grandpa Thalein, all long green hair and sparkling green eyes, swept toward me like a gale and engulfed me in a hug that nearly lifted me off my feet.

I giggled, squirming. "Grandpa... when will you stop hugging me like I’m still five years old?"

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes gleaming with mischief—or was it pride? "You’ll always be a child to me, my precious. Even the day you become Empress."

I smiled, touched despite myself, when Brother Soren, with equally elegant sharp features, suddenly popped into view. "And... even the day you get married," he teased, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

Before I could react, Thalein’s hand shot out—THWACK!—landing squarely on Soren’s shoulder. "Stop uttering that ’M’ cursed word from your mouth, you idiot," Grandpa barked, though his voice carried the faintest chuckle.

Soren rubbed his shoulder, pouting dramatically. "For the love of the stars... will you stop hitting me? You’re going to give me a limp before I even get married!"

I couldn’t hold back a laugh as Thalein’s grin widened. "Then stop talking like a fool!" he shot back, fingers twitching like he might strike again.

. . .

. . .

I leaned closer, voice low and teasing. "Then why are you staring at him like he’s... the last dragon egg in existence?"

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