North Drake
patreon
Book 2: Chapter 9: Masks Off
🕑 Added 2025-07-31 22:26:43 +0000 UTCChapter 9:
Masks Off
A smug smile spread across Steward Harold Winthrop’s face as he watched the procession approach through the castle gates. It was about time something interesting happened in Gatewick, he mused, adjusting his finely tailored sleeves. He’d held the castle comfortably for nearly a decade, comfortably indeed, lining his pockets at the expense of the absent nobility and oblivious peasants. The people of Gatewick scraped by, while Harold lived a life of quiet luxury behind the aging stone walls.
He had received word just two days earlier of Princess Grace’s impending arrival, and while it had initially set him on edge, he'd quickly concluded there was nothing to fear. After all, how could a child, a mere girl, pose a threat to his well-established comforts?
Now, as the carriage came to a halt in the castle courtyard, Harold moved forward to greet the arrivals, flanked by his well-dressed wife and pampered children, all donning forced smiles. His staff lined up respectfully behind him, hastily assembled and visibly nervous.
The carriage door swung open, and out stepped Princess Grace. Harold blinked in surprise. She was smaller than he'd imagined, delicate and almost doll-like, her features brightened by an innocent smile that only reinforced his confidence. Behind her came a girl he recognized vaguely from whispered reports as Clara of Bellgrave, some minor baron’s daughter, someone utterly inconsequential. He paid her no mind, his attention fixed instead on the imposing figure of Elyne Marren, whose stern gaze surveyed the castle critically. She was trouble, Harold decided immediately.
Surrounding them were knights in black armor, forming a protective perimeter around their young princess. Still, no matter, the knights would defer to the princess, and the princess was just a child.
Bowing deeply, Harold flashed a warm, welcoming smile. “Your Grace, Gatewick castle bids you welcome. Forgive us; with such short notice, preparations are regrettably limited.”
Elyne frowned deeply, eyes narrowing in suspicion, but before she could speak, Grace interrupted gently, her voice light and cheerful. “Please, there's no need to worry, Steward Winthrop. I didn't expect anything extravagant.” Her smile was disarming, naive even.
Harold straightened, reassured and more confident than ever. Such a simple child, he thought smugly. This would be easier than anticipated.
“Allow me to show you around,” Harold said grandly, gesturing toward the castle doors. “We have done our best to keep things comfortable in your family's absence.”
As they entered, Harold guided them through the main halls, lavishly decorated with golden goblets, polished silver plates, and ornate tapestries. Elyne raised an eyebrow critically. “You claimed there was no time to prepare, yet these halls seem quite lavish.”
Harold waved dismissively, unperturbed. “This is simply how we live here. Surely Her Grace wouldn’t wish us to dine in squalor?” He allowed a hint of indignation into his voice, as though affronted by Elyne’s suggestion.
Before Elyne could respond, Grace placed a gentle hand on her arm, beaming warmly at Harold. “Of course, Steward, you're absolutely right. Everything looks lovely.”
Harold felt another rush of triumph. This child would pose no threat. The grim governess could fume all she liked, but Grace clearly held her in check. Harold could already imagine sending Elyne packing at the first convenient opportunity.
Throughout the tour, Harold heaped lavish praise upon Grace, speaking to her as though she were the most intelligent and gracious ruler to ever grace Gatewick, all while carefully sidestepping Elyne’s darkening glances. He entirely ignored Clara, her presence inconsequential and easily dismissed. Every smile and gentle nod from Grace fueled his confidence. The child was practically eating from his palm.
When Harold finally showed Grace to her chambers, he purposely directed her to the secondary suite. His own lavish quarters, adorned with silks and velvets, were far superior, and he had no intention of surrendering them. “I trust you'll find these accommodations adequate, Your Grace?” he asked smoothly, his tone deferential but firm.
Grace’s eyes sparkled as she looked around, nodding enthusiastically. “Oh yes, this will do wonderfully. Thank you, Steward Winthrop.”
Elyne’s face darkened further, her displeasure evident, but Harold dismissed her concerns with silent amusement. Perhaps, he thought, he might soon persuade Grace to dismiss the troublesome governess entirely.
At dinner, Harold seated himself confidently at the high table’s center—the seat he'd occupied for years—his wife and children beside him, Grace and her entourage relegated to places clearly marked as guests. Elyne bristled, visibly angry, but Grace silenced her with a gentle touch.
“I hope you find our humble hospitality satisfactory, Your Grace,” Harold offered, his tone dripping with superficial charm.
Grace smiled sweetly. “It’s delightful, Steward Winthrop. Truly, you've outdone yourself.”
Harold preened under the praise, his mind already spinning with new opportunities. “Your Grace, if I might be so bold, perhaps you could assist us with certain troublesome tax matters? Some misguided subjects have sought to withhold funds due to the duchy.”
Grace tilted her head, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You mean the Empire now, my dear Steward.”
He paused momentarily, correcting himself hastily. “Ah yes, the Empire. Of course.”
Though Grace had not explicitly agreed, Harold’s mind raced excitedly. If he could leverage her royal name and perhaps her knights, he could secure even greater wealth, and perhaps even a noble title.
He waved to the servants. “See to the Princess’s meal and ensure her retainers are comfortable.” Clara sat beside Grace, still unnoticed by Harold, her presence of no more significance than a shadow.
As he settled comfortably into his chair, Harold felt profound satisfaction. Everything was unfolding exactly as he'd imagined when he'd first heard that a naive young princess was reclaiming Gatewick Castle. The child was easily managed, Elyne's irritation was amusing but ultimately powerless, and the other girl with her was utterly forgettable. His grip on Gatewick had never felt stronger.
“Enjoy your stay, Your Grace,” he said magnanimously, raising his goblet in a toast. “May it be long and prosperous.”
It had truly become the perfect day for Steward Harold Winthrop. As the feast began, he smiled indulgently at the lavish spread he'd ordered. Expensive meats, fine wines, it was a calculated investment in his prosperous future. He took another sip, savoring the rich taste as warmth and confidence spread through him.
As the banquet progressed, Harold turned his attention back to Princess Grace, who sat demurely beside him. She was a delicate thing, all golden curls and innocent smiles, her wide blue eyes reflecting only the polite naivete befitting a child of her age. Harold saw opportunity in that innocence.
“Your Grace,” he began warmly, his voice carefully gentle, “it must have been a frightening journey for one so young, so far from your home at the Ashford Estate. Dangerous roads these days.”
Grace offered a polite smile, nodding along as she responded quietly, “It was manageable, thank you for your concern, Steward Winthrop.” Her voice was soft, compliant, exactly as he'd hoped.
Emboldened by her agreeable nature and the wine coursing pleasantly through his veins, Harold's mind raced with ambition. Why stop at mere stewardship? Perhaps this young princess could secure his family's place among the empire’s elite. His gaze slid sideways to his son, Jon. At fourteen, Jon was spoiled, overweight, and utterly convinced of his own importance, ideal traits in Harold’s view. A perfect match, he mused gleefully. Jon might even be king one day.
“Jon!” Harold called out, his voice booming cheerfully across the table. “Come, my son. Allow me to introduce you to Her Grace, Princess Grace of Ashford.”
Jon sauntered forward with lazy arrogance; his pudgy face smug. He bowed slightly, far too shallow and casual for the occasion. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered indifferently, clearly ignorant of—or indifferent to—the enormity of his disrespect.
Harold's pride blinded him to his son's obvious impropriety. “Isn't he splendid, Your Grace?” he beamed.
Grace smiled softly, a sweet, angelic expression that made Jon blush and Harold beam even brighter. “Glad to make your acquaintance,” she said gently.
Harold leaned forward eagerly, his wine-dulled senses spurring him on. “Perhaps, Your Grace, we could seal this friendship with a marriage between you and Jon? You seem quite taken with him.”
Jon, emboldened, laughed heartily, “Yes, I agree! Let’s do this!”
A profound silence fell. Grace’s eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment. She inhaled slowly, deeply, once, then twice. Harold, lost in his grand plans, barely noticed her hesitation, convinced the princess was merely processing the proposal.
When Grace opened her eyes, however, their gentle warmth had vanished, replaced by cold steel. Her voice was chilling, all prior sweetness erased in an instant. “You know, dear Steward, I genuinely wondered if you might surprise me. And indeed, you have. If not for your nasty, fat excuse of a son in front of me, maybe—just maybe—we could’ve made something work.” Her voice dropped, venom dripping from every syllable. “But this utter pile of shit disgusts me so hard I almost puked up all that dog food you served tonight.”
She didn’t even look at Jon, just let the words hang, vicious and clear. “Next time, try to present something that doesn’t make me want to cut my own tongue out just to stop tasting the filth around here.”
The hall became deathly quiet, every face turned toward Grace in shock. Harold’s mind struggled to grasp the sudden shift, his alcohol-clouded thoughts sluggish and confused. Beside him, Jon’s face reddened with fury.
“What did you say, you dumb bitch?” Jon roared, his voice echoing harshly.
Harold raised a desperate hand, attempting to silence his son, but he was too slow. Jon lunged forward, his heavy fist swinging toward Grace’s delicate face. No one intervened, not even Elyne, who watched impassively from Grace’s side.
An invisible force halted Jon’s fist mid-air. Grace tilted her head slightly, every mask now completely discarded. “Disgusting,” she whispered softly, uttering cryptic words.
ᚷᚱᚨᚹᛁᛏᚢᛋ ᛈᚱᛖᛋᛋᚨ. (Gravity press)
Jon was abruptly slammed to the stone floor, bones cracking audibly. He screamed in agony as the unseen force continued pressing mercilessly, breaking his back, blood spurting from his mouth. Harold sprang to his feet, horror gripping him. “Stop! Please!” he begged desperately.
Grace turned her icy gaze toward him, the force still pinning Jon behind her. The screaming intensified, becoming shrill, before finally ceasing. Jon lay twitching, crawling pathetically like a worm in his own blood, babbling incoherently.
Ignoring Harold’s pleas, Grace calmly addressed Clara beside her. “Clara, what is the punishment for high treason?”
Clara, previously unnoticed, now radiated a fierce certainty. “Punishable by death in the cruelest manner. It was one of our earliest lessons...”
Without hesitation, Grace picked up a knife from the table, stepping deliberately toward the broken form of Jon. Her eyes remained locked with Harold’s as he finally realized his grave mistake.
“Please, Your Grace!” Harold’s voice cracked with panic.
Grace’s voice was firm, commanding, devoid of emotion. “As Princess Imperial, I declare this boy guilty of treason against the Empire for his attempt to harm me. I sentence him to death, here and now, before witnesses.”
With brutal efficiency, Grace plunged the knife into Jon’s neck. He ceased moving immediately, blood pooling rapidly beneath him.
Harold screamed in anguish, stumbling toward his son’s lifeless body. His wife and other children rose, panic-stricken, but the knights swiftly drew their swords, encircling the hall and silencing any resistance.
“Throw this filth into the dungeon,” Grace commanded coldly, her voice echoing.
A heavy iron gauntlet collided with Harold’s skull, knocking him to the ground. As consciousness faded, his final vision was of the old Lady Ashford from his youth, proud and unyielding. In his last lucid moment, Harold understood clearly the gravity of his error. He had forgotten his place, and darkness swiftly overtook him.
--::--
Grace was disgusted.
At first, it had been amusing, entertaining even, to play the naive little princess. Watching the Steward's smug, self-satisfied face had filled her with quiet delight as she waited patiently for him to overstep. She knew exactly what he was; vile, greedy, and deeply corrupt. It had been clear from the start how he treated his people, his home, and the castle itself. Grace had planned to frighten him into submission later, to gently remind him who held power here. Yet, as always, she'd underestimated the staggering stupidity of such people.
When Jon lunged at her, she'd had no choice. Any hesitation, any sign of weakness, and she'd have lost all credibility. The pressure of being Liliana's daughter weighed heavily on her, the former duchess, now empress. Everyone watched, expecting strength, ruthlessness even.
From a six-year-old girl.
Grace felt a surge of annoyance at the constant burden placed upon her young shoulders. She'd vowed long ago that she would never again be ridiculed or belittled.
Yet, part of her had also enjoyed watching Jon die. That thrill of dominance was not entirely unfamiliar, it had stirred in the dungeons with Lennard, and certainly, Jon had not been the first she'd killed. Still, this was different. There was no Void whispering in her ear this time, clouding her judgment. This act was purely hers, born from pride and necessity.
Her hand trembled slightly, still clutching the bloody knife, knuckles white with strain. Jon was young. A revolting excuse for humanity, yes, but still just a boy. Her throat tightened briefly, a flicker of uncertainty washing over her. swiftly replaced by a hardened resolve. It would grow easier, she reminded herself. It had to.
Elyne stepped close, gently grasping Grace's trembling hand and peeling the knife from her grip. “It will be easier… Also, I’m proud of you, Grace,” she whispered, her voice soft and reassuring.
Grace nodded numbly, her eyes fixed on Jon’s still form. Clara approached slowly, her face pale yet determined, stepping carefully through the pooling blood without flinching. Grace turned to her friend, expecting fear or revulsion, but instead saw only compassion.
“He deserved it, Grace,” Clara whispered, her voice steady but sad. “But you don’t always have to carry this burden alone. Let me help you next time. I... I want to be strong enough to share it.”
Elyne smiled softly, placing a comforting hand on Clara’s shoulder. “Then you'll have to start training with us. We forgot to bring your teacher anyway, didn’t we?” she added, attempting a smile to lighten the mood.
Clara’s eyes widened in surprise and excitement. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” Elyne confirmed warmly. “Your education is now officially under my wing. Prepare yourself.”
The mood shifted, lightened slightly by Clara’s genuine delight. Grace felt gratitude swell within her chest. Clara’s earnestness was a balm to her weary spirit.
In the hall behind them, knights quickly lined up the castle staff, questioning each about their loyalty. Anger radiated off them, indignant at the mistreatment their princess had endured. Grace barely registered their actions. Exhaustion dragged at her like heavy chains. She was tired of being underestimated, of being seen as nothing more than a helpless child.
Finally, Grace reached out, taking Clara’s hand firmly. “Come on,” she said quietly. “Tonight, you're staying with me.”
Clara beamed, nodding enthusiastically as she allowed Grace to lead her away to the chambers the steward had intended for Grace, rooms far inferior to the royal apartments, yet Grace couldn't find the energy to care. She declared them Clara’s rooms instead, announcing with forced cheerfulness that tonight she was simply having a sleepover at Clara’s place.
Clara’s eyes sparkled as she closed the door behind them, instantly launching into preparations. She gathered pillows, blankets, and anything soft she could find, arranging them carefully on the large bed.
“We’ve never done this before!” Clara exclaimed, smiling brightly despite the shadows beneath her eyes. “I always wanted to have a sleepover.”
Grace watched quietly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Clara’s excitement was infectious, gradually pushing away the darker thoughts clouding her mind.
“I’ll brush your hair,” Clara offered shyly, holding up a comb she’d found on the dressing table. “Mother always said brushing hair was the best way to calm down.”
Grace hesitated briefly, then nodded, sinking down onto the bed. Clara moved behind her gently, running the comb carefully through Grace's golden locks.
“You were amazing today,” Clara said softly. “I know it wasn’t easy, but you protected us. You always do.”
Grace closed her eyes, letting herself relax into Clara’s gentle touch. “Thank you, Clara. Sometimes... it’s difficult.”
Clara's voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I know. But you’re never alone. You have me. You have Elyne. We'll always stand by you, no matter what.”
Grace opened her eyes slowly, feeling warmth seep into her chest, easing the heavy weight she'd carried all day. “I’m glad you’re here, Clara.”
Clara smiled, hugging Grace tightly from behind. “Always, Grace.”
Grace leaned back into Clara’s embrace, letting herself breathe for the first time that day. Clara’s arms were small, warm, and fiercely loyal, soft where Grace was sharp, pure where she was anything but.
Always, Clara had said… As if it were a promise, or maybe a vow. Grace felt a smile twitch at her lips, something possessive curling up inside her chest. Always. That was right. Clara was hers, her first real human friend, her light in the black hallways of power and blood and loneliness. No one would ever take her away. No one would dare. Grace would burn down the world itself before she let go.
She tightened her grip on Clara’s hands, holding her just a little closer. The candlelight flickered and faded, and for one night, the world was small enough to hold in her arms.
