I fell in love with a villainess

The scar sang.

It began as a hum, low and resonant, vibrating beneath Jack's sternum as he saddled the horses at dawn. The rose-shaped mark Lira had carved into him pulsed faintly, its golden edges catching the light like buried treasure. Evangeline stood nearby, her back to him, scanning the horizon for threats she wouldn't name. She'd been silent since they left the Withering Vale, her gloves always on, her eyes always ahead.

"Listen," the scar whispered.

Jack dropped the bridle, his hands trembling. The hum sharpened into a melody—a lullaby in a minor key, the kind that coils in the marrow and pulls.

"Riven." Evangeline's voice sliced through the music. "Stop dawdling."

Riven. The name felt like a stranger's skin. He turned, his throat dry. "It's Jack."

She stilled. For a heartbeat, her mask slipped—a flicker of something raw, almost frightened. Then she tossed him a waterskin. "Drink. You look like death."

The water was tepid, metallic. The scar's song dulled to a murmur.

They rode north, skirting the ashen remains of a village the Vossaire army had razed years prior. Charred timbers clawed at the sky, and the wind carried the faint stench of old smoke. Evangeline's stallion pranced sideways, nostrils flaring at the rot.

"Keep up," she called over her shoulder, though Jack's mare lagged only by a stride.

He gripped the reins, the scar flaring as they passed a skeletal oak. "Closer," it urged. "Touch it."

Against his will, he dismounted. The tree's bark was blistered, its branches twisted into agonized shapes. Jack's palm met the wood—

—fire, screaming, a child's charred doll clutched in Evangeline's gloved hand. "Burn it all," she says, her voice hollow. "Leave no seeds."

He recoiled, the vision searing his retinas.

"Problem?" Evangeline's shadow fell over him.

"What happened here?"

Her jaw tightened. "A lesson."

"In cruelty?"

"In consequence." She remounted, her tone leaving no room for debate. "Move."

The scar laughed.

That night, Jack dreamed of roots.

They slithered through his veins, flowering in his lungs, their thorns carving hymns into his bones. Seraphine stood at the foot of the bed—his bed, in his old apartment, the walls papered with pages from Crimson Thorns.

"You're not the first vessel," she said, watering a potted rose with black ink. "But you'll be the last. The garden's tired of waiting."

He tried to sit up, but the roots held him fast. "What do you want?"

"What you want." She leaned close, her scar a seam of light. "To matter. To be more than a ghost."

He woke retching, the scar's melody crescendoing into a scream.

Evangeline knelt beside him, her dagger drawn. "What is it?"

"The scar—it's alive."

Her gaze dropped to his chest. In the firelight, the rose seemed to breathe, its petals flexing. She reached out, gloved fingers hovering. "Does it hurt?"

"Only when I think."

A flicker of a smile. "Then stop thinking."

He caught her wrist. "What did Lira take from you? When she healed me."

Her pulse raced beneath his grip. "A memory. Nothing of value."

"Liar."

She wrenched free. "Go back to sleep."

The letter arrived at midday, nailed to an inn's door with a bone dagger.

Evangeline tore it free, her face a storm. The seal was Senator Veyra's—a serpent coiled around a rose. She read it once, twice, then crumpled it in her fist.

"What does he want?" Jack asked.

"A audience." She tossed the letter into a horse trough, the ink bleeding. "He's hosting a ball. Requests my presence—and yours—to 'discuss recent misunderstandings.'"

"It's a trap."

"Obviously." She mounted her stallion, the scar's melody swelling as she gripped the reins. "But Veyra doesn't request. He demands. Refuse, and he burns another village. Accept, and he'll try to slit our throats between waltzes."

Jack glanced at the ruined letter. Come alone, Veyra had written. Or the gardener dies.

Oren.

The scar purred. "Kill him. Kill them all."

"We go," Jack said.

Evangeline's eyes narrowed. "We?"

He touched the rose on his chest. "I'm the door, remember? Can't have Veyra picking the lock."

For the first time, she looked at him not as a servant, nor a burden, but an equal. "Then we dance."

They forged invitations from a dead lord's signet ring and rode hard for the Capitol. The scar's song swelled with every mile, its notes threading through Jack's thoughts, sweet and corrosive. By the time Veyra's estate loomed into view—a marble monstrosity draped in ivy—the melody was a drumbeat, urgent and primal.

Evangeline adjusted her gloves in the twilight, her gown a masterpiece of violence: obsidian silk, razored hems, a neckline lined with pearl-tipped thorns. She'd braided her hair with silver wire, each plait a weapon. Jack's borrowed suit fit poorly, the cuffs too tight, but the scar glowed beneath his shirt, gilding his nerves.

"Stay close," she said, straightening his collar. "And don't drink the wine."

"Poison?"

"Bad vintage." Her thumb brushed his scar, deliberate. "If the thorns speak… ignore them."

He caught her hand. "What if I can't?"

She leaned in, her breath warm. "Then lie."

The ballroom was a gilded tomb.

Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light over silk-clad vultures, their masks studded with jewels and ill intent. Veyra stood atop a dais, his smile a sickle. He'd aged poorly since the novel's pages—bald, bloated, his eyes yellowed with spite.

"Lady Vossaire!" He spread his arms, sleeves billowing. "How… brave of you to come."

Evangeline curtsied, a blade sheathed in grace. "Senator. I hear you've taken up gardening. Adorable."

Veyra's smile curdled. He turned to Jack. "And the ghost. How fares your… condition?"

The scar's song surged. "His heart. Take it."

Jack bowed, blood roaring in his ears. "Alive, thanks to your nephew's incompetence."

The crowd stilled. Veyra's knuckles whitened around his goblet. "Careful, boy. Even ghosts can be exorcised."

Evangeline stepped between them, her laugh a silver bell. "Shall we dance, Senator? Or do you prefer to skulk?"

They waltzed. Jack watched from the shadows, the scar's melody warring with the orchestra. Oren was here, somewhere—alive, hurt, needing him. He slipped through the crowd, the scar guiding him to a servants' stairwell.

"Down," it urged.

The cellar stank of earth and ammonia. Lanterns flickered, revealing cages stacked like firewood. In the largest, Oren slumped against the bars, his face bruised, his hands crusted with dried blood.

"Jack?" The old man coughed. "Run—it's a trap—"

The door slammed.

Veyra's lieutenant—the stag-masked raider's twin—stepped from the shadows, a barbed whip in hand. "The master wants you alive. Didn't specify how."

The scar sang. *"Kill. Kill."

Jack smiled. "Lucky me."

Chapter 9 End.