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Book 2: Chapter 6: Mad Enough To Choose
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 00:39:45 +0000 UTCChapter 6:
Mad Enough To Choose
Stonecall. The day of law, order, and, apparently, slow, public disintegration. Grace supposed there was a metaphor in that somewhere, but if there was, she was too tired to find it. Not that she’d slept. Sleep was apparently just another privilege denied to princesses, right along with privacy, peace, and the right to a single quiet moment.
Sixty hours. Give or take. She was pretty sure she’d started hallucinating at hour forty, but what did it matter? Everything around her felt wrong, dreamlike, as if she’d wandered onto someone else’s stage and forgotten her lines. The world was bright, yes, but in the wrong way, blinding, sharp, every sound amplified. The courtyard was supposed to be “gloomy.” Gloomy, her ass. Even the shadows were glowing. The sun had it out for her personally.
She bit her lip hard, mostly to keep herself anchored and partly to keep from swearing at the nearest retainer. One of the guards dropped a helmet and the clatter felt like a battle horn inside her skull. If she lived through this day, she’d draft a law against helmets. Maybe against mornings, too.
She tried—really, truly tried—to blend everything out. To just fade into the stone, go limp and invisible, but people kept looking at her like she was supposed to do something impressive, say something clever, or at least stand upright without listing to one side.
Clara was buzzing nearby, bouncing on her toes. Grace could feel her watching, the way a little animal watches a hawk. There was nothing more annoying than being cared about when you just wanted to disappear.
“Grace, are you… are you feeling all right?” Clara’s voice was small, and she was looking up at Grace with those soft, wide eyes. She kept glancing at the dark rings beneath Grace’s eyes, those lovely, honest, unignorable rings no one else seemed to notice or care about. Of course not. Everyone else saw “poise.” Clara saw the corpse in the princess costume.
“Fine,” Grace said, as clipped as she could manage. If she used more words, she might scream. “Just tired.”
Clara hesitated, worry twitching at her lips. “You look… really tired. Maybe you could lie down? Or I could get you something?”
Grace gritted her teeth. Of course, she looked tired. She felt like she’d aged three years in three days. “I said I’m fine, Clara.”
The words came out sharper than intended, but Grace couldn’t bring herself to care. Not today. Today she was all sharp edges and static. Maybe she should’ve apologized, but the thought itself was too much effort. Her brain was melting and everyone else was worried about logistics and packing and who would ride in which carriage.
Elyne swept over, all brisk efficiency and sharp elbows, barking orders at the guards and staff. “Princess, the horses are ready. Your carriage is waiting. If you need anything—”
Grace cut her off with a small nod, already regretting the energy it took to move her head. “I’ll survive.”
Elyne blinked, then pressed on, undeterred. “If you feel unwell, say so. You can rest as soon as we’re on the road.”
Rest. That would be nice. Maybe she could rest herself into a coma. “Understood.”
Elyne’s concern faded into focus on the bigger picture. Grace was grateful. The less attention on her, the better.
She forced herself to walk to the carriage, every step an argument with gravity. She could feel the eyes of her retainers, her “new household,” tracking her, waiting for a show. Too bad for them; today, the princess was out of service.
Clara trailed behind, a little more subdued now. Grace could feel the guilt radiating off her. Grace wanted to tell her to stop, but her brain was too tired to compose a single comforting lie.
Inside the carriage, the world blurred even more. Clara slid onto the seat beside her, eyes shining with anxious energy. Grace stared at her reflection in the carriage window; pale, hollow-cheeked, those black rings under her eyes stark against her skin. She looked more like a villain than a princess.
“Grace, do you want to talk? I can just listen, if you want. Or I can be quiet. Or—”
Grace cut her off with a look. “Clara, please. Just… give me a minute.”
Clara nodded, shrinking back, chewing her lip.
The silence was a relief. Grace let her head fall back against the seat, eyes half-closing. If she squinted, she could almost imagine she was alone.
Inside her head, everything was a jumble, Light mana buzzing like a hive of angry wasps, the world tilting sideways every time she blinked. She tried to count her breaths, to block everything out, but even the silence throbbed. She wondered if this was how statues felt; posed, admired, quietly going insane with nothing to do but listen to people talk about how regal they looked.
She heard Clara sigh, a tiny noise. Guilt twisted in her gut, sharp and hot. Why did Clara have to care so much? Why couldn’t she just be like everyone else and pretend not to see what was right in front of her?
Grace’s thoughts spiraled, turning mean. She cursed the day, cursed Stonecall, cursed the gods, cursed her own core for keeping her awake. She cursed the Light for being so relentless and herself for being so weak. She cursed Liliana for being Liliana, Elyne for fussing, and Clara for being sweet. She cursed the carriage for existing, the road for being bumpy, and the universe for making her do all this with a child’s body and a head full of static.
The carriage rolled out of the gates. The city receded, replaced by countryside blurring past the windows in streaks of green and gold. Clara watched it with wonder. Grace tried not to look at anything at all.
She thought about sleep, how much she wanted it, how much she feared what might come if she finally closed her eyes. Every time she tried, the Light was waiting. Swirling, searing, relentless.
Elyne popped her head into the compartment. “Everything all right in here?”
Clara answered for her. “Grace is tired, but she’ll be fine. Right?”
Grace grunted. “Perfectly fine.” If she’d had the energy, she’d have rolled her eyes.
Elyne looked skeptical, but didn’t argue. “We’ll be there by sunset. Try to rest, both of you.”
The door shut. The carriage rocked on.
Clara reached out, hesitating, then gently laid her hand over Grace’s. “I’ll be here if you need anything,” she whispered.
Grace closed her eyes. For a second, the world almost faded away.
Maybe if I’m lucky, she thought, I’ll just black out and wake up when it’s all over. Or not wake up at all. Either would be an improvement.
But her body stubbornly refused to shut down, so she sat, hand in Clara’s, staring at nothing, blending everything out as best she could.
If she survived this day without killing someone—or herself—it would be a miracle.
Her vision blurred, then burned white at the edges. Light, so much light in her head. Was she going insane? Probably. She’d started asking herself that question on a biweekly basis lately. What does it say about me, she thought, when “am I losing my mind?” has become a scheduled check-in?
A sound bubbled out of her, a soft, breathless giggle, more unhinged than amused. Clara’s hand squeezed hers, alarmed. She felt the worry rolling off Clara in waves, the way her friend kept glancing between Grace’s face and the passing landscape, as if someone might appear with an instruction manual for broken princesses.
Clara probably thought Grace was just sad about Elen. Poor, naive Clara. If Grace saw Elen right now, she’d probably kill her. No, not kill, skin her alive, tear her apart piece by piece. The thought flashed through her mind with a weird, savage satisfaction. Yes, that would feel good. She’d take care of anyone who tried to steal what was hers.
She flexed her hand in Clara’s, a possessive twitch. Clara… She wasn’t just a friend. She was hers. Grace’s, and no one would take her away. Not Elen. Not anyone. She’d burn the world to the ground before she let it happen.
Another little snort escaped her lips. She could feel Clara tense, grip tightening as if she could anchor Grace back in place with sheer concern. Sweet, loyal Clara. Always worrying, never realizing how close the edge really was.
Grace’s vision began to fade again, the world leeching color, dissolving into a sea of white. Light, everywhere, inside her, behind her eyes, a sun that wouldn’t set. She tried to blink, but her eyelids felt too heavy, or maybe too light, hard to tell.
She wasn’t in the carriage anymore. Couldn’t feel the seat under her, couldn’t hear the wheels on the road. She couldn’t even feel Clara’s hand, except for the memory of it, pressed warm and soft against her palm.
Did I black out? No, that would be too easy. This wasn’t lights out, it was so bright she thought she might burn away from the inside.
Somewhere, far off, she could hear Clara’s voice. Distant. Calling her name, maybe, or just gasping in alarm. It barely registered. Grace drifted, swallowed whole by that endless, unyielding brilliance, thoughts scattering like moths in a bonfire.
She wasn’t sure if she was falling or rising.
And then…
There was only light.
An endless, merciless brilliance, stripping away everything but herself. Grace hovered, weightless, raw, nerves screaming for sleep. But sleep was for the weak, and she was past weak, she was on the edge of erasure. Every flaw, every failure, every half-formed doubt stood naked and glaring in the white-hot void. She tried to find her footing, but there was nothing beneath her, no ground, no gravity, no comfort. Maybe she didn’t have a body here at all. Maybe she was just thought, stretched thin and fading, like a wisp of smoke in a hurricane.
It felt like dying. Not the pain of injury or the terror of violence, but the numb, blank horror of being dissolved. She could feel her sense of self unraveling thread by thread, eaten by the light. She thought she might scream, but she’d already gone past the place where screams mattered.
And then, cutting through the glare, as sharp as a blade, came a voice she recognized instantly: nasal, blisteringly alive, and deeply unimpressed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. This again? What is it with you and the whole ‘edge-of-total-erasure’ thing? Can you not go a week without forcing a goddamn existential crisis?”
Grace turned, her mind turned, her soul turned, whatever she was here, blinking at the figure carving herself out of the white. It was her. Or, worse, it was her as she’d been: muddy brown eyes, black hair in a ponytail, school uniform hanging just right, radiating contempt and a kind of manic energy that felt both dangerous and painfully familiar.
The older Grace—Grace Blair, sixteen, ordinary—stalked up, arms crossed, looking ready to throw her through a wall.
“You look like shit, by the way,” she spat, eyes burning. “And don’t even try blaming the Light. You brought this on yourself. Last time you dragged me out, you’d nearly bled out on the carpet. Now it’s magical insomnia and a head full of radioactive mana? Honestly, you’re making this a habit, and I’m fucking sick of it.”
Grace tried to retort, but her words felt clumsy. “I didn’t… bring this… it’s just… too much. You think I want to feel like I’m being rewritten from the inside out?”
Blair’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I think you’re letting it happen. Which is worse.” She jabbed a finger right in Grace’s face. “You know what’s killing you? Not the Light. Not the void. It’s you, letting them make you doubt who you are.”
Grace’s jaw trembled, but she tried to muster some resistance. “You don’t get it, this place, these gods, they’re real. They can erase you. I feel it every time I close my eyes, something pulling at the edges, trying to rewrite me.”
Blair barked a laugh; savage, wild, and too loud in the white. “No, they can’t. You know why?” She stepped in close, almost nose to nose. “Because I never believed in oblivion. Not once. I walked into death knowing I wouldn’t cease to exist. You want to know why?”
Grace swallowed, genuinely lost for a moment. “Why?”
Blair grinned, a grin that would have been terrifying if it wasn’t so familiar. “Because I was always a self-fulfilling prophecy. There’s no belief in the universe—only truth. And when you are the truth, everything you do is truth. That’s what the pillars are for.”
Grace’s breath caught. “But… I don’t remember how to hold onto them. I forget. Things slip. It’s like… the more I try to fit in here, the more I lose.”
Blair’s expression flickered, somewhere between exasperated and strangely proud. “The pillars aren’t hope. They’re not prayers. They’re engines. Eruditas. Vitalis. Dominatus. Knowledge. Strength. Control. Not for wishing. For making. Every time you say them, every time you choose them, you make yourself real. You make yourself inevitable.”
Grace’s voice wavered, her hands shaking. “So, I just… decide. Over and over. Even when it’s hard.”
“Yes!” Blair roared, her voice bouncing off the endless white. “You don’t need to believe in yourself, you need to be yourself. You are the prophecy. You are the answer. You are the fucking truth in this world of lies. And as long as you keep remembering that, no god, no void, no magic, no Light can ever unmake you.”
For the first time since arriving in this endless, exposing light, Grace didn’t feel blind, she felt seen. And, more importantly, she felt dangerous. “I am the truth,” she whispered, uncertain but hungry for it.
Blair’s eyes flashed. “Say it again.”
Grace straightened. “I am the truth. I am the prophecy. I am Eruditas, Vitalis, Dominatus. I make myself real.”
“Again!”
“I am the truth!”
“Louder!”
“I AM THE TRUTH!”
They both laughed; harsh, free, indestructible. For a heartbeat, the void wasn’t empty, it was full of something untouchable.
But then the moment passed, and Blair’s glare snapped back into focus, razor-sharp. “So why the fuck are you letting this place—these people, this fucking Light—rewrite you into something less?”
Grace’s voice was ragged. “Because I’m tired. Because I’m alone. Because I thought if I tried hard enough, if I was good enough, I could finally be… more.”
“Bullshit,” Blair spat, no sympathy in her eyes. “You don’t need to be more. You need to be you. That’s enough. That’s always been enough. You think the world wants you to be more? The world wants you to be less, easier to use, easier to forget. But you’re not built for that. You never were.”
Grace tried to look away, but the light was everywhere, reflecting back her own shame. “But I can’t remember everything. You say I keep forgetting. There are holes, things I can’t grasp. What did I lose? Was it something the Light took? Or the gods? Or did I just… break?”
Blair’s expression darkened. “You lost the fire. The refusal. The part of you that said no one—god, void, parent, friend—gets to decide who we are. You let them push you, remake you. Every time you forget that, you call me back. And I have to slap the pieces into place.”
She circled Grace, voice growing with every word. “You used to spit on anyone who tried to write your story for you. You turned loneliness into armor, pain into fuel, boredom into focus. You bent every rule you met. Now look at you, kneeling to a goddamn Light in your chest, crying because being alive hurts. It always hurt! That’s why you made the pillars. That’s why you built yourself from nothing.”
Grace squeezed her fists, voice small but steely. “What if I’m not strong enough this time?”
Blair’s reply was a snarl. “Then you’ll become strong. You’ll break and rebuild. Again and again. That’s what we do. That’s what makes us terrifying. They want to erase you? They’ll have to fight for every inch.”
Grace’s voice grew desperate. “But what if they win? What if I vanish, or become something I can’t recognize?”
Blair stopped, dead still, her eyes softening. “They can’t win. Not as long as you remember this: You are not made of hope. You are not made of fear. You are not made of Light, or Void, or borrowed faith. You are made of choice. Of will. Of truth. Everything you do is truth—because you refuse to let it be anything else.”
Grace’s mouth trembled. “But I—”
“Stop,” Blair snapped. “No more excuses. Say it.”
Grace hesitated, then breathed: “I am the truth.”
“Again.”
“I am the truth.”
Blair leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “When you are the truth, nothing can erase you. Not magic, not memory, not gods. Not even death.”
She stepped back, shaking her head in mock-disgust. “You know, I never once worried I’d cease to exist when I died. Never. Want to know why? Because I decided not to. I was always a self-fulfilling prophecy. The universe has no beliefs, only realities. And I am my own reality. So are you.”
Grace blinked away tears, exhaustion forgotten in the rush of remembered certainty. “I am my own reality,” she echoed. “No one gets to change that. Not Light, not Void, not fate. Not even—” she choked on it, but managed, “—not even Clara. Or Liliana. Or any of them.”
Blair’s eyes shone, hard and bright. “Good. Never let anyone else own your story. Not gods. Not mothers. Not the world. You write the law. You set the rules.”
She reached out, thumb tracing a brief, rough caress over Grace’s cheek. For a moment, she was all things; sister, enemy, teacher, friend, mother, self.
“You are the prophecy. You are the law.”
And then her palm snapped across Grace’s face and the light fractured.
But Blair’s voice echoed, implacable: “Wake up, princess. Make them regret ever trying to touch you. Burn a hole through the world.”
The brilliance shattered. The void collapsed into sensation. Grace gasped, heart pounding, as reality rushed back.
She blinked and found herself in the carriage, the velvet dusk pressing in through the window. Clara was still beside her, head tipped gently onto Grace’s shoulder, her hand tangled with Grace’s own. The warmth was startling after the void; real, weighty, grounding. Outside, the sky burned gold and indigo. They must be nearing Gatewick by now.
Grace let her breath slow. Something had changed, not just the old ache of exhaustion gone, but the static in her mind, the tension in her muscles. She didn’t feel tired anymore. In fact, she felt… sharp. Clear. More herself than she had in days.
A quiet laugh curled in her chest. What a joke. She wasn’t any less insane than the rest of Ashford; if anything, she fit right in. Maybe being mad was the only way to survive in this world. No, not maybe… definitely. That was the truth. She was here, breathing, because she’d always been just mad enough to choose the impossible. To seize the story and make it real.
She looked down at Clara, still asleep with her head nestled on Grace’s shoulder, breath soft and trusting. Grace’s fingers drifted up, gently tucking a curl behind Clara’s ear, tracing the curve of her cheek, almost tender, almost loving, but in her touch was something sharper. A promise. A claim. Clara was hers. In this world of madmen and monsters, Grace would keep what was hers, no matter the cost.
Let them all be insane, then. She’d be the maddest of all.
And as the carriage rolled toward Gatewick and the first stars bled into the dusk, Grace’s smile curled.
