I was having a perfectly peaceful non-existence, thank you very much.
Floating in the velvet nothing of post-death—no taxes, no responsibilities, no exams. Just blissful oblivion. If I could've picked an afterlife, that would've been it. Infinite quiet. Zero drama. Not even a single overdue library notice.
But no.
Apparently, the universe found that too boring.
The first thing I felt was warmth.
Then pressure.
Then... a voice?
"Why won't you hatch already?" the voice grumbled. Feminine. Regal. Terrifying.
I tried to scream. I really did. But it's hard to scream when you're a fertilized spirit beast egg.
Which, apparently, I was.
---
There was a softness beneath me, like velvet fur warmed by sunlight. Something draped over my shell—no, cradled me. I could hear it now. The voice. Repeating frustrated sighs.
"I fed you mana from my own bloodline," it muttered. "You're supposed to bond instantly. Did I get scammed?"
Scammed?!
My first coherent thought in this new life:
Who scams a villainess?
My second thought: Why am I part of that scam?!
My panic was rising, but slowly—because apparently eggs don't do adrenaline.
---
As I came into consciousness—a fuzzy, feathered, unreasonably confused consciousness—I became aware of two things:
1. I had been reborn.
2. My new owner was going to be the literal death of me.
Her name was Princess Arwen Nightveil. I recognized it immediately.
Not from her voice. Not from her presence.
From my memories.
Because before I became an emotionally unprepared egg, I had a previous life. And in that life, I read. A lot. Stories, manuscripts, fragmented prophecies, overhyped historical romances. Arwen Nightveil appeared in all of them.
The villainess. The doomed heir. The final flame.
She wasn't just infamous—she was the central pivot of every apocalyptic footnote ever penned.
In one version, she poisoned the empire's crown prince with a kiss laced in phoenix venom. In another, she summoned a rift in the sky and dueled her own mother on the steps of a shattered temple. In every tale, Arwen Nightveil fell tragically, gloriously, and dramatically.
> "And thus, Arwen Nightveil burned alone beneath a shattered sky, her soul pet weeping beside her corpse."
Yes.
That soul pet was me.
Or was going to be me.
Unless I did something fast.
---
But I couldn't move.
Couldn't scream.
Couldn't even twitch.
I was stuck. Encased.
A squishy soul-stuffed dumpling marinating in magical womb-juice.
If this was my reincarnation bonus round, it came with terrible UI.
I tried to remember how I'd died.
Ah. Right.
A vending machine.
I'd been trying to knock loose a bag of sour plum chips when the entire thing fell on me.
Not exactly heroic.
The afterlife must've taken pity on me. Or mocked me. Or both.
And now I was hatching in the lap of a future mass murderer.
Great.
---
The hatching was not majestic.
I cracked open with a moist squelch, like a rice dumpling that gave up on life.
No glowing aura. No triumphant fanfare. Just a damp, trembling blob that slithered from a cracked shell and plopped onto royal thighs.
I blinked up at her.
Or, rather, I tried. My eyes weren't working yet. Everything looked like shadows dipped in glitter.
I felt… fluffy.
Like I had fur, feathers, and shame layered in equal parts.
Probably majestic. Possibly cursed.
Definitely not pants-wearing.
---
"Oh," Arwen said, peering down at me. Her expression was unreadable. Her voice calm.
"You're uglier than I imagined."
Excuse me?
I was a rare spirit beast!
Possibly legendary. Probably adorable. Potentially deadly.
She was looking at me like I was a soggy kitchen sponge that started talking.
She poked my beak.
I flinched.
"You're shivering," she murmured. "Don't worry. I won't hurt you. Not unless you deserve it."
That was not comforting.
But then... something stirred.
A warmth. A golden glow. A tug, deep inside the part of me that still remembered how to panic.
It twisted between us like an invisible thread, soft as silk but unmistakable in weight.
> [Soulbond Initiated]
[Linked Partner: Arwen Nightveil]
[Familiar Designation: ???]
My name blinked as a question mark.
She smiled faintly.
"I'll name you later. For now, you're mine."
No. No I was not.
I had to escape. Immediately.
---
I flopped from her lap in a valiant attempt at freedom.
It was not graceful.
It was more like a penguin flinging itself off a throne in slow-motion despair.
Thud.
Arwen blinked. "Bold of you."
She watched me wriggle across the carpet like a cursed mop with legs.
"But you're mine," she said mildly, rising to her feet with all the casual dominance of a villainess who knew seventeen ways to win an argument with a stare. "Even if you bite."
I did, in fact, bite her.
Or tried to.
I missed and bit her boot.
She laughed.
Laughed.
Not a villain cackle.
Not a theatrical snarl.
A soft, amused little sound—like someone finding a poem scribbled by a childhood self, long forgotten.
"You're pathetic," she murmured. "I like you already."
This was very, very bad.
---
I lay on the rug, stunned by my own humiliation, when the palace doors slammed open.
"Your Highness!" someone cried. "The Empress demands your presence!"
A maid burst in, out of breath and clearly traumatized. Her eyes flicked to me, widened, then darted away like she immediately regretted witnessing my existence.
Arwen didn't flinch.
She sighed. "Tell Mother I'm busy."
"She said to bring the beast," the maid added, almost apologetically.
"The beast," Arwen repeated, voice deadpan. She looked down at me. Then back at the maid. Then down again.
"...Fine." She reached down, scooping me up like a spoiled cat who'd made a mess on the carpet.
I squawked. Loudly.
She ignored it.
"You're warm," she muttered. "That's good. I always wanted something warm to hold in the throne room while they lecture me."
"He bit your boot," the maid whispered behind her.
"Exactly. He's got taste."
She held me against her chest like a smug dragon carrying its favorite gem.
I had no claws. No wings. No plan.
Just indignity and a terrible sense of foreboding.
But as I was carried down the corridor toward my inevitable doom, I realized something.
For all the prophecies I'd read in my last life…
For all the histories that doomed Arwen Nightveil to die in fire…
None of them ever mentioned her laughing.
None of them ever said she held her soul pet like it mattered.
Maybe…
Just maybe…
There was more to this villainess than the legends had dared to remember.
And more to me, too.
If I was going to be the pet of the most dangerous girl in the world—
—I was going to change fate from the lap upward.