I, The Villainess, Will Seduce All The Heroines Instead
Chapter 137: The Sword That Cannot Cry (Part Two: Clarina’s P.O.V.)

Chapter 137: The Sword That Cannot Cry (Part Two: Clarina’s P.O.V.)

Not until she understood how she was supposed to find out.

"Befriend Penelope, both of you!"

She couldn’t begin to comprehend what her lady was thinking or what tangled logic had led her to bring that woman into their circle. Penelope, of all people. The very catalyst behind the recent disgrace. A woman who not only tried to ensnare their betrothed with clumsy charm, but had also schemed something far more foolish beneath the surface.

This was a change she did not welcome.

Few things irked her more than those who chased desire instead of guarding their dignity—especially when cloaked in noble arrogance.

They were, in every sense, two women shaped by different wars.

She was raised on the edge of a blade; Penelope, in a battlefield of masks and whispered courtly games.

Perhaps it was the sword in her upbringing that made her despise anything lacking clarity.

She had no patience for tangled words or veiled intentions. To be fair, Penelope wasn’t the first unhinged woman Verena had dragged into their circle.

Beatrice, undeniably, had her own brand of madness.

And Evelyn? Clarina couldn’t place her. She bore the same quiet storm as Penelope.

It was all too strange—every peculiar, unsteady soul seemed to orbit Verena like moths to flame.

What, in the gods’ name, was happening?

This wasn’t the first time strange things had unfolded around this woman about how she somehow managed to land in hot water, even tangling with the prefect of discipline, despite representing the LGU herself.

And Clarina was certain Verena knew exactly how others felt about her.

Could she be... a playgirl?

Evelyn appeared shy, yet carried an intensity beneath her quiet exterior. Sera was fiery, but was truthfully shy. On the other hand, Beatrice was unapologetically intense, through and through.

The men were hardly spared from the madness swirling around them. Raphael, Norvan.

Norvan, now, was dead. Decapitated by Evelyn’s hand.

She still remembered it as clear as day, the moment she rushed to rescue her m’lady, knowing Evelyn would stubbornly come running.

To see someone so fragile, so innocent, drenched in blood was nothing she had ever anticipated.

In war, all she knew was fury and rage.

This...

This was something altogether different.

Then, of course, there was Isolde.

Once again, she found herself drawn into Verena’s orbit, even though she had fought fiercely against her to protect the very same Verena. Yet here Verena was again, gathering Isolde like a lost duckling, following wherever she led. Enemies were meant to fall and vanish—kept at a distance, not cradled close or trusted so blindly.

Then, of course, there was Isolde.

Once more, that maddened soul circled Verena’s orbit, despite Clarina’s fierce resistance to shield her.

And there was Verena, gathering Isolde like a lost duckling trailing after her.

Enemies were meant to perish or be kept at a distance. Not drawn close, nor embraced with trust so easily.

She could not fathom this world where those who could so easily end your life were kept close, side by side, a breath away—risking a blade in the back with every shared moment. It was a cruel dance of trust and danger, where loyalty blurred into vulnerability.

The weight of such precariousness gnawed at her, a slow-burning frustration that settled deep within her bones.

How could one find peace when every glance held the threat of betrayal?

Clarina met Penelope once again in the arena, a place of echoes and shadows, where steel sang and silence weighed heavy.

The moment she saw Penelope standing there, sword in hand, a cold irritation settled deep in her chest.

She did not like this woman, not for what she represented, not for the tangled chaos she seemed to bring into their lives.

But it was the way Penelope held her sword, with a careless grace, a fragile defiance that unsettled Clarina more than she cared to admit.

She told herself firmly, "I do not like her."

The words tasted bitter, yet Penelope’s presence lingered like a stubborn shadow.

The woman moved with a strange mix of clumsiness and determination, striking with uneven strokes that bore the mark of someone untrained but fierce.

That same fierce fire, Clarina realized, was not so different from her own.

Penelope, somehow, convinced her to train her.

It was not a matter of kindness or friendship; it was a challenge, a puzzle that refused to be ignored.

Reluctantly, Clarina stepped into the role of mentor, a position she never sought but accepted with the discipline carved into her very bones.

Days stretched, and as they sparred beneath the glow of the arena’s lanterns, something changed in Clarina’s eyes.

She began to see Penelope, not just the woman she despised, but the reflection of herself.

Both forged in the fires of survival, both armored in pride and hardened by necessity.

Clarina, raised in a world where strength was a shield; Penelope, draped in the fragile armor of vanity and desperate hope.

They were the same woman, two halves of a fractured whole.

Clarina had to be tough, because weakness was a luxury she could never afford.

Penelope had to be prideful, for without it, she would have crumbled beneath the weight of scorn and solitude.

Both were protectors, not of each other, but of the broken pieces of themselves they dared not show.

In the quiet moments between their clashes, Clarina caught glimpses of vulnerability beneath Penelope’s defiant gaze.

The cracks in her armor, hidden from the world but exposed in the rhythm of their fight.

It was a fragile thing, this understanding, and yet it settled over her like a soft rain—gentle, insistent, impossible to ignore.

She thought of the battles she had fought, not just on the field but within her heart, the endless war between duty and desire, pride and pain.

Penelope’s presence was a mirror, reflecting the loneliness she wore like a second skin. And in that reflection, Clarina found a strange kind of solace.

"She’s more... amusing than I thought..."

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