North Drake
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Book 2: Chapter 5: Alone, But Not Lost
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 14:00:51 +0000 UTCHey, it’s me!
Don’t be surprised by the chapter spam! (:
I'm aiming to build a 10-chapter buffer, and then I’ll start posting one chapter per day for 7 days to kick off the next book on RoyalRoad. That way, Patreon will stay ahead by about 5 chapters.
Later on, I’m thinking about posting up to 10 chapters ahead for Tier 1 once I have more time, so Tier 2 will be later 10 Chapters +
Anyway, thanks so much for your support, and sorry for the ramble, you're amazing!
Here’s the next chapter! :P
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Chapter 5:
Alone, But Not Lost
Fire. Everywhere, fire and screams.
Elen stood frozen at the edge of the world, before a great stone castle swallowed in flames. The night sky was painted red, smoke curling up to blot out the stars. Below her, chaos, the wail of wounded, the clash of steel, the thunder of collapsing stone. The air reeked of ash and blood and something even worse: fear, thick and metallic on her tongue.
She ran. She didn’t remember deciding to run, but her body moved, sword heavy in her hand, boots pounding over scorched flagstones. She was late—Oh Lirien, she was too late—but she had to try, she had to get inside, she had to help. All around her, people surged, nobles in nightgowns, servants dragging children, soldiers both fleeing and fighting, a river of desperation pouring from the castle gates.
At the threshold, knights in black armor clashed with house guards in battered steel. For a moment, Elen hesitated, then saw a woman stumble to her knees, begging for mercy, only to be hauled up by a black-helmed giant. Elen’s hand twitched toward her sword, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t save them. She needed to get inside.
She shouldered her way through the press. Someone screamed for her help, but she didn’t turn. As she neared the keep, two black-armored knights broke from the melee, charging straight at her, swords raised. Elen’s heart stuttered, but then she channeled, drew the mana from the deepest root of herself, felt it surge up through her arms, into the blade that was far too large for a girl her size.
Her sword glowed green, blazing in the gloom. She met the first knight’s swing with a parry that rattled her bones, twisted, and let her blade flash up and across, armor split, a spark of light, then down went the first. The second lunged, faster, but Elen ducked beneath the swing and slammed her hilt into his helm. He staggered. She spun, the sword a crescent arc, and dropped him.
She didn’t look back.
Inside, the keep was a furnace, smoke rolling down the halls, fire crawling up the tapestries. She coughed, eyes watering, and pushed forward. Somewhere, she would find her. She had to.
And then, at the end of a burning corridor, Elen saw her—Clara.
Clara stood amid the bodies of fallen knights, white battle armor smeared with blood and ash. She wore no helmet, and her long, dark brown hair spilled loose down her back, the strands caught by a silver hairpin—Grace’s hairpin, Elen realized with a jolt, memory of their childhood blooming painfully in her mind. Clara looked taller, older, delicate and so terribly fragile. In her left hand, she carried a massive mace, too heavy for anyone but a monster.
Clara’s eyes flashed as she faced a kneeling man, Claras’s brother? Begging, and broken kneeling in front of her. Clara’s mace lifted, and with a sickening, joyous laugh, she brought it down. The floor shook with the shockwave. The man’s head vanished in a spray of red.
Elen screamed—“Clara!”—voice cracking, heart splintering.
The room fell silent. Black-armored knights drew back, giving Clara space. She turned, smile twisting into something cruel and wild.
“Elen… long time no see. What do you want here, traitor?”
Elen staggered. “I’m not—Clara, please, what’s happened to you? I came to help—”
Clara giggled, mad and sharp, eyes crazed then suddenly, horrifyingly focused. “Ah, snap it. To the side, boys, I’ll handle this myself.”
The knights parted. Clara stepped forward, hefting the bloodstained mace with impossible ease. Elen raised her sword by instinct, but she couldn’t bring herself to strike, not her childhood friend, the first girl who’d ever been kind to her.
In a blink, Clara was upon her. The mace came down like a thunderbolt. Elen caught the blow on her blade, knees buckling as the floor cracked beneath her. She barely rolled aside as Clara’s foot smashed into her gut, sending her flying out through the shattered doors.
She hit the ground, rolled, gasped. Clara appeared above her, swinging again. Elen scrambled to her feet, barely blocking the next strike, and suddenly knew, with perfect clarity, that the girl she’d come to save was now the architect of all this horror—the flames, the dead, the collapse of Bellgrave Castle.
Tears stung her eyes. Elen was strong—she could fight almost anyone—but not Clara, not like this. Not when every instinct rebelled at raising her blade against her oldest friend. It wasn’t Clara’s strength that forced her to flee, but her own heart, she couldn’t bring herself to harm the girl who once meant everything. There was nothing left to do. She had to run, because fighting meant losing more than just the battle. She had to live, even if it meant running from what she couldn’t bear to face.
Elen drew on her mana again, mind racing as she shaped the runes—ᚾᚨᛏᚢᚱᛖ ᚷᚱᛟᚹ. She spoke them aloud, voice raw and urgent, and power surged at her command. The earth heeded her call: a tree erupted from the ground, its trunk and branches twisting upward in an instant, shielding her for one desperate moment as Clara’s mace thundered against the wood. Elen leapt back, turned, and ran, Clara’s giggling chasing her through the smoke.
She ran until the world split apart, until fire faded and stone crumbled and all that was left was fear.
…
Elen screamed—bolting upright, heart hammering, breath coming in ragged sobs.
It was only a dream.
She blinked, disoriented, the world resolving around her in the dappled green light of the forest. Sweat clung to her skin, her shirt plastered to her back. Overhead, a wide-limbed tree sheltered her, roots curling in the moss. All around, clusters of wildflowers nodded in the gentle breeze, the same flowers that had led her these last days, weaving a path deeper and deeper into the woods.
For a long moment, she just sat there, hands trembling, eyes wide, trying to gather her thoughts. The dream clung to her like cobwebs, Clara in armor, the burning castle, blood on white steel. It had felt so real. Worse, in the dream she’d been older. Clara, too, taller, stronger, and… stranger. A version of themselves years from now, lost to war.
Elen pressed a shaky hand to her face. “Lirien… was that real?” she whispered, barely more than a breath. She waited, heart thudding, for a sign, some warmth, a gentle word, the goddess’s presence in her mind. But there was only the hush of wind in the leaves and the distant call of a jay.
No answer.
Slowly, she forced herself upright, steadying herself against the tree. Her limbs still shook, her mind still echoing with Clara’s laughter and the sight of a mace coming down like judgment. Was this the future? No, it couldn’t be. If she knew what would happen, couldn’t she change it? Maybe it was only a possible future. Maybe it was just a warning. Should she go back, try to find Clara, bring her along the path?
But the thought faded. She was too deep in the woods now. Her last rations were gone, eaten yesterday. Even if she turned around, she doubted she’d make it back before hunger dropped her where she stood. And… her mother. A sharp, guilty pang twisted in her chest. She’d left without a word. Her mother would be furious, might even try to kill her, for all the shame of a knight’s daughter running away. She’d always wanted to make her mother proud, to fulfill the dreams that weren’t her own. But if the voice was right—if Lirien had truly led her here—then staying would have been death. So, what did it matter?
Elen drew a long, ragged breath and forced her hands to stop shaking. She was eight years old. That was the age a squire left home to begin training as a knight. This wasn’t so different, was it? She’d come back. She’d bring honor to House Trivelle. She’d make her mother proud… someday.
Trying to convince herself, Elen wiped her eyes and looked up. Ahead, the path was still marked by blooming wildflowers, petals blue and violet, radiant even in the shade. She wasn’t forgotten. The goddess hadn’t abandoned her. The flowers kept appearing, always just ahead, always enough to guide her forward.
So Elen squared her shoulders, brushed the dirt from her tunic, and started walking again, following the winding path of blossoms through the endless green.
Elen walked for hours more, guided by nothing but the stubborn grit that had shaped her since childhood. Every step grew heavier: hunger gnawed at her belly, thirst scraped her throat, heat pressed at her from above, and exhaustion pulled her limbs into lead. Each footfall was an act of will, her own quiet defiance against everything telling her to stop.
At least there were no wild animals or monsters. That alone felt like a miracle, a small mercy she hardly deserved. If anything did stumble upon her now, she thought wryly, she’d make an easy snack. Even a big rat would probably be more than a match.
But turning back was impossible. She was too deep into the green wilderness for hope to matter, too far for rescue. The path of flowers remained, a slender lifeline, but even that was starting to feel like a joke, some cruel trick by Lirien to lure her out just to watch her crumble.
So, she kept going. Step by step. One more, and one more after that. And then, her boot caught on a root she hadn’t seen. She pitched forward, landing hard on her knees. Tears threatened again, hot and blinding, but she bit her lip until she tasted blood. Not yet. Not now. Now was not the time for surrender.
She forced herself up. She walked. Her world narrowed to a tunnel of green and violet, her vision tunneling, spots swimming before her eyes. Her will could push her only so far. In the end, her body betrayed her, and her legs simply gave way, she collapsed onto the mossy ground, breath shallow and ragged, the world fading into a blur of wildflowers and sky.
--::--
Clara awoke in the soft hush of her new chamber, sunlight brushing the stone floor in long golden stripes. She blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the pale morning. The ceiling overhead was high, coffered in dark wood and painted with scenes of birds and flowers, nothing like the low, creaky beams of Bellgrave’s country manor. It was strange, she thought, how quickly the unfamiliar could start to feel like home.
But this morning, her heart ached, heavy with memory. Yesterday, after all the noise and the lights, after the gifts and the speeches and the dizzying crowds, she had told Grace the truth about Elen. The words still stung at the edge of her thoughts: We had a fight. She said you scared her. That something was wrong. She hadn’t wanted to say it. She hadn’t wanted to see the way Grace’s face went so still, so careful, like someone holding a fragile glass to the light, watching for cracks.
“Oh, I see.” That was all Grace had said.
Clara knew that look. She knew it better than anyone. It meant Grace was hurt. Not angry, never that, but something softer and sadder. Clara wanted to take the words back, to smooth over the ache, to tell Grace it didn’t matter what Elen thought, but she couldn’t lie, not to her best friend. Not when Grace had always treated her like she mattered, not just as a friend, but as someone important, someone real.
A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. Ser Aldwin, her family’s old knight, opened the door with his usual quiet dignity. “Good morning, Lady Clara. The princess’s maid is here to assist you.”
Her personal maid, Maribel, entered with a curtsy, arms already full with fresh linens and a new dress, silk, of course, pale blue with a subtle gold trim at the collar. Clara let herself be fussed over, standing on the little stool as Maribel brushed out her hair and helped her step into the unfamiliar luxury of Imperial clothing. Even after months in Valewick, or to be precise; at the Ashford Estate, she sometimes caught herself thinking she was playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
Yesterday had been overwhelming. The coronation, the birthday banquet, the way everyone in the city seemed to look at Grace as if she had become something more than a person overnight. Even the fireworks still seemed to linger in the corners of Clara’s eyes, bursts of color and light, a world made new.
She should have felt lost. She should have felt small. But she didn’t. She felt proud.
Grace was her friend. Her best friend. The princess imperial. The cleverest, bravest, most wonderful girl she had ever met. And Grace had chosen her, brought her into her days, made space for her even when life grew crowded and frantic. Especially after that day in the orchard, when Clara had felt like she might vanish into the spaces between things, Grace had visited more often. She had asked Clara to join her for lessons, for walks, for meals, even just for quiet moments by the window. Clara knew how busy she was. She knew how much was expected of her. Every little gesture felt like a miracle.
But it still hurt to think of yesterday’s conversation. Of the look in Grace’s eyes. I didn’t want to hurt you, she thought, silently wishing she could say it out loud. But honesty was supposed to be a good thing, wasn’t it? That’s what everyone said.
Clara’s heart squeezed with a mix of pride and worry as Maribel finished the last buttons at the back of her dress. She glanced at her reflection in the polished mirror, dark brown curls tamed, cheeks a little pink, eyes a little too bright. Not the pretty, noble sort of girl Valewick was used to, maybe, but today she felt almost regal. She pressed a hand to her chest, where the golden hairpin Grace had given her was clipped—a silver rose with a pink gem, the single most precious thing she owned.
Ser Aldwin waited just outside her door as she stepped out, as always, a silent guardian from her old life. He smiled faintly, offering her his arm as they began their walk through the citadel’s endless corridors. Clara clung to the sense of being part of something vast and important. The Valewick Citadel was so much larger than Bellgrave; every corridor seemed to twist off in a dozen directions, the ceilings lost in shadow, the walls lined with tapestries older than her whole family line.
It was easy to get lost. She liked that, in a way. Getting lost meant there were always new places to discover, always the hope that the next door might lead somewhere unexpected.
Today, she would have breakfast alone. That was all right. The maid had said Grace had appointments, important ones, probably with the Empress, or maybe the imperial council. It made Clara a little sad, but also proud. She could eat alone. She could be brave.
As they passed a window overlooking the gardens, she paused, eyes lingering on the dew-covered lawns and the far-off shimmer of the city’s rooftops. Bellgrave was somewhere out there, beyond the fog and the hills. She missed it, missed her parents, her siblings, the familiar clatter of morning in the manor kitchen. But she had to admit, she’d been lonely there, too. Her family was always busy, always distracted. Here, she had Grace. Here, she was… someone.
The dining hall was vast, echoing, and mostly empty at this hour. A few servants moved quietly, setting out dishes and polishing silver. Clara took her place at a small table by the window, Ser Aldwin sitting at a respectful distance. Breakfast arrived on a silver tray: warm rolls, a soft cheese, stewed apples, a cup of milk. She tried to eat slowly, savoring the flavors, but her mind kept drifting, back to Grace, to Elen, to the strange, sparkling newness of the day.
She wondered if Elen would come back soon. If maybe they could talk things through, the three of them, and put all the strange tension behind them. Clara wasn’t sure what had gone wrong between her friends, only that she felt caught in the middle, wishing she could make things better for everyone. She picked at her roll, eyes on the gardens below.
Was it silly to feel this way? To want everyone to be happy, to hope for simple things, meals together, laughter in the sun, a world where no one had to pretend to be someone else? Clara didn’t think so. She believed in those things, no matter how grown-up the world became.
A soft sigh slipped from her lips. She finished her meal, wiped her hands on the linen, and glanced at Ser Aldwin, who nodded with that same, reassuring steadiness.
“Will you walk with me in the gardens after, Ser Aldwin?” she asked, voice quiet.
“Of course, my lady,” he replied, rising and offering his arm once more.
Clara followed him, her heart a little lighter. The day had only just begun. There was still time for smiles, for friends, for hope.
Maybe today, Grace would have a moment for her again.
And if not, Clara would wait. After all, that’s what best friends did.
Comments
Trytan
You're completely right, it's Clara's brother, and that’s Bellgrave Castle, Claras family's estate!
Snow2Reaper
"Clara’s eyes flashed as she faced a kneeling man, Elen’s brother?" I thought Elen didn't have siblings?
