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Book 2: Chapter 3: Tired, Not Broken
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 22:43:35 +0000 UTCChapter 3:
Tired, Not Broken
Elen had stopped counting her steps sometime around sunset.
The trail of flowers had not wavered. Even after a full day of walking, through damp moss, bramble-choked underbrush, and silent glades where no birds dared sing, the blossoms still glowed faintly in the deepening dark. Each one a soft, pale green. Each one a whisper: This way, child. Just a little further.
Her legs burned. Her mana core, newly forged and fiercely nurtured, felt like a cracked shell rattling in her chest. She had drained her core not in battle, not through spell work, but simply to keep walking, step after step, hour after hour, until exhaustion bled through every part of her. Drawing mana into her limbs for endurance, warming her blood when the wind turned sharp, sharpening her vision when the woods grew too thick. Over and over, until there was barely anything left.
Now, as she crested a small hill and stepped into a clearing, her knees gave slightly. She caught herself on a tree trunk, panting, then slowly lowered her pack to the ground.
From here, she could see it. Valewick. A wide, glittering stretch of light and motion in the distance, its walls a pale crescent, the great citadel towering above the rooftops like a black crown. Somewhere inside that maze of stone and celebration was Grace. And Clara. And the life she had chosen to run from.
Elen let herself fall onto the grass, too tired to care how cold it was. She pulled open her bag, fingers fumbling with the leather strap, and retrieved a small cloth-wrapped parcel. Inside, a hard lump of travel bread and a slice of dried apple. She chewed slowly. Mechanical. Barely tasted it.
Her stomach didn’t hurt. It was just hollow, like her thoughts.
Fifty miles. Maybe more. She had walked nearly all of it since dawn, and most of the night before that. One gold crown. Three silvers. Not enough to buy a future, but maybe enough to rent time. Time to figure out what came next. Time to breathe.
Was I right? she thought suddenly, staring out over the hill toward the faint pinpricks of firelight in the city. Was I ever really right about her?
Her thoughts circled back, always, to Grace.
It felt like a dream now. The speeches. The laughter. Clara’s endless bubbling affection. Grace’s perfect poise. It had all seemed so genuine… until it didn’t. Until you looked a little too long. Watched a little too closely.
She never treated me cruelly, Elen admitted, eyes narrowing faintly. She gave me a place. She welcomed me in. Even protected me.
And yet...
She remembered the way Grace’s eyes gleamed when no one was looking. The flickers. Not anger or hatred. Something worse—disinterest. As if nothing truly mattered unless it was hers to control. She had always worn the right expression: warm when expected, sad when necessary, proud when praised. But it was always... too precise. Too clean. A puppet playing a perfect little girl.
Elen clenched the bread tighter in her hand. Her fingers shook.
She’d seen it. Clear as day. That afternoon during tea, when Elyne had turned away to pour more honey. Grace had smiled at her governess with such affection it had made Elen ache with jealousy. But then—only for a moment—Elyne had turned, and Grace’s face had shifted.
Blank. Cold. Almost disgusted.
Then, as if stung, she slapped her own cheek. Softly, barely audible. And the smile returned, this time with a perfect little blush.
No one else saw it, Elen thought. But I did. I keep seeing it.
She exhaled, breath fogging slightly in the night air. The clearing around her was quiet. The forest loomed, but the flowers still glowed gently along the path’s edge, like stars trapped in moss. They had never failed her.
So why am I doubting?
Because Lirien had spoken only once since the path began. Because the goddess’s voice had vanished into silence, leaving Elen alone in a world that suddenly felt too big, too sharp. Because she had no real plan, just a bag, a few coins, and the word of a goddess she’d never met.
And because Clara had chosen Grace.
Her heart twisted again at the memory. The argument still echoed in her ears.
"You left me!" Clara had shouted. "You abandoned me, and now you want me alone again!"
"Grace is my only friend left…"
Elen curled forward slightly, arms wrapping around her knees. Her mana core throbbed dully in her chest, brittle and aching.
She didn’t cry. The tears had come the night before, when she left her bed behind and stepped onto the trail. She had shed her childhood then, dropped it like a cloak at the edge of the woods. There was only forward now.
Still... the silence hurt.
"Are you still there?" she whispered aloud, voice hoarse.
No answer. Just the rustle of wind through pine and the faint buzzing of night insects.
She lowered her head, brow pressing to her knees. Her thoughts spiraled again, Grace’s smile, Clara’s tears, her mother’s distant eyes. She had wanted so badly to be strong. To rise. To become someone worthy of the name Trivelle. And now she sat in the woods like a runaway, eating dry bread and praying that flowers kept blooming.
A crack echoed in the sky above.
She jerked upright.
Then another, this time not a branch snapping, but something distant. Bright.
A firework.
It bloomed above the city in a pale golden arc, then shattered into spirals of red and silver. A moment later, another followed. Then two more. The sky lit up in bursts, and the faint sound of celebration reached her ears like an echo from another world.
She watched in silence.
Grace’s birthday, she realized. They’re celebrating her.
And here she sat, wrapped in a travel cloak, with half a heel of bread and a few coins to her name.
Her chest clenched, but not with envy. More with distance. The weight of a choice she already made.
“Do you think I was wrong?” she murmured again. “Clara thinks so. She thinks I just… gave up. But I didn’t. Did I? I just… saw too much.”
Still no answer.
But the flowers remained. Their glow hadn’t faded. They pulsed gently beside her, like a heartbeat just out of sync with her own.
She looked down at her hand. It trembled slightly. Her knuckles were scraped. Her legs ached. Her mana core was no brighter than a dying ember. But she was alive, and she was free.
That had to count for something. And somewhere, Lirien was still watching. Elen had to believe that.
One more breath. Then another.
She stood, slowly, joints stiff. Shouldered her bag again. And when she turned back to the path, the flowers had already stretched forward into the trees, waiting.
She looked back once, toward Valewick. Toward the fireworks blooming like stars and the girl who had once called her friend.
“I hope I’m wrong,” she whispered. “But I don’t think I am.”
Then she walked into the dark.
And the forest closed behind her.
--::--
Grace hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours.
Not a lot for her former self. But for a six-year-old? It was a marathon of madness. Her birthday. The proclamations. The magics. The new empire, the speeches, the absurd gift of lands and titles. It had felt like a fever dream, and now the sun was filling her chamber through tall stained-glass windows, gilding the walls in shifting patterns.
She yawned as she tried to sit up, arms too heavy from exhaustion to lift her. “If I ever think I’m crazy again, I just have to remember the people around me”, she whispered to herself. Stifling a groan, she pushed her golden hair behind her ears and swung her legs toward the edge of the bed.
Walking toward the desk, she glanced at the glass sitting there. Half-empty. But instead of water? Wine. Of course. Kids drinking wine around here must be a tradition or something. She frowned. When I was five no one gave me booze. Was six the magic threshold? Is this the secret civic right of being Empress? She scowled, bugging at the cork. Argh, I just want water, you crazy fucks… She straightened, taking a steadying breath. Alright, calm down.
At the window, she leaned forward and looked out. The streets below were alive with motion. Flags everywhere, black and crimson, waving defiantly behind red banners. Ashford was now yours, Grace. They had declared it an empire overnight. She snorted softly. Wasn't an empire supposed to be a sprawling realm ruled by a single power? Usually you conquer territories, not just claim a castle and a name on your birthday... isn't there another empire on the southern border, you know, the actual one that counts? She raised an eyebrow. But sure, megalomaniacs unite, let's aim for the top title. Whatever.
She turned away from the window, pacing lightly across the stone floor. Every surface in the room was too ornate, tapestries depicting stags rising to wings, plush chairs painted with now royal crests, and sunlight pinning motes of dust in corners. She shivered. Luxurious prison.
Her mind wandered, past the laughter at the banquet, past the toasts that had sounded triumphant. To the moment on the balcony. She remembered the echo of her own voice, small yet clear. And then Liliana’s declaration that she—Grace—was now Princess Imperial. That Ashford had shattered its chains. And a wyvern had appeared, its claws on the rampart, wings spread wide as though announcing a new age.
She touched her throat. Still felt the echo of that moment. The weight of words. She swallowed, unsure whether she felt pride, fear, or nausea. Maybe all three.
Grace took a deep breath and sank into one of the carved leather chairs. Her eyes fell to the glass of wine on the desk. Light, or maybe dust, caught the red inside. Wine. She looked at the bed again, at the sheets rumpled, at the forgotten plate that held remnants of cake. I didn’t want cake. But no one asked. They only cared about appearances. The perfect princess must smile at gifts, nod at alliances, accept the lands and drink wine.
Her legs felt weak. Exhaustion drained across her body like ink. Her mind felt hollow and buzzing, elastic empty after the magic that had surged through her yesterday. Another glitch in the core. Another day where I almost feel more mana than fear. Another day where every thought is a battlefield and I don’t know who’s winning.
She fought to steady her breathing. Her vision blurred at the edges. Standing up made her head swim. She swayed. Forcing her face calm, she leaned against a table.
Note to self: castles are bad for sleep hygiene. She groaned.
Grace thought of Clara and let a tired smile curl across her lips. Sweet, bright Clara. So eager to please. So easy to love.
She stayed last night. Of course, she did. She always does what I need her to do, even when she doesn’t know it. And she’s coming with me to Gatewick. Mine. Grace’s gaze flicked toward the window again, but her thoughts stayed fixed. I don’t trust these adults to raise anything, let alone a girl like her. But Clara? She’s soft clay. And I’m the only one who knows what shape she’s supposed to take.
Her fingers twitched slightly at her side. She chose me. Even when Elen begged her to run. Even when the world trembled. Clara stayed. Clara always stays. Because she knows where she belongs.
A shadow crossed her expression.
Elen.
Gone. Just… gone. Slipped away like a thief, like a coward pretending to be brave. Elen had run without a word, without a glance back, pretending Grace wouldn’t notice. Pretending she mattered so little.
How pathetic.
Too proud to beg. Too self-righteous to obey. Too slow to understand what I offered her. Grace’s eyes narrowed, a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth. She thought it was friendship. That it was equal. It never was. I gave her a place. I let her be something.
Her fingers curled, nails digging softly into her palm.
And she threw it away like trash.
Clara had learned. Clara had stayed.
Elen didn’t. And if she suffers now, if she ends up hollow and alone… that’s not my fault.
That’s justice.
The door opened softly then. A maid stepped in, carrying a wooden tray of water and fresh bread.
Grace nodded without speaking. She didn’t move to receive it. Instead, she sat back heavily. The maid drifted off after a timid bow.
She looked at the untouched tray of groceries. Bread. Water. No wine. How quaint. How obedient. Someone had learned their lesson.
Ah, Grace thought, narrowing her eyes slightly. So, they finally figured it out. The little Empress prefers water over poison. She sat down slowly, letting the weight of her body sink into the cold stone floor. It soothed the raw heat behind her eyes, the ache in her spine.
Her gaze settled on the glass, clear, still, unassuming, like a servant that knew not to speak.
They crown me. They give me titles. They cheer like trained dogs. She smirked faintly. But none of them asked if I wanted wine. None of them even asked if I wanted any of this.
Her fingers closed around the glass.
No power. No real control. Just performance. Pageantry. Put a crown on the monster and pretend it’s a doll.
She took a sip.
Water tasted like silence. Like something clean. Like something no one had touched yet.
She drank deeply, letting it sit on her tongue.
At least this… this tastes like mine.
She drank slowly, ignoring the bright sun pouring through the windows. Each sip felt like a small anchor, tethering her to the now. A drip of water slipped into her stomach like reassurance, clean, still, unjudging.
Grace licked her lips, then spoke quietly to the empty room: “I’m tired,” she admitted. Her voice didn’t tremble. It echoed fading into the heavy hush of stone walls and silence.
There’s your truth, princess.
No one answered.
And that, too, was a kind of answer.
She sat there for another hour, letting the light shift across the tapestries, feeling the faint pulse of new magic in her core, the aftermath of yesterday’s blaze, now settling like embers. She focused on each beat. Each cool contraction. It didn’t hurt. It just reminded her of everything she was becoming.
After a while she stood again, shaking off weakness. She moved to her wardrobe, selecting a simple white dress trimmed in red and black. Not too fancy or too plain. In between empire-lady and six-year-old. She dressed slowly, thinking of Clara’s invitation to Gatewick. She’ll be with me. Clara will see this world, and maybe she’ll still smile still. Maybe she’ll laugh when no one else will.
Grace touched the hem of the fabric and closed her eyes.
All right, kid. Step one done. Now get out there and behave like they expect you to behave.
She took a deep breath and set the glass of water back onto the silver tray. Then, with the slow precision of a girl too tired to pretend and too proud to stumble, she turned and walked toward the bed, just enough to catch her reflection in the tall standing mirror.
There, her eyes met her own.
Blue as frostbitten skies, rimmed with shadows. Rings of exhaustion circled beneath them, but deeper still, if you looked long enough, there were specks of pink and gold drifting like embers in a forgotten tide. Not visible at a glance, and not obvious in light.
But they were there. Traceable only to those who knew how to look.
Grace stared, unblinking.
"Still me," she whispered.
Then she drew a sharp breath and slapped both cheeks lightly, once, then again. A childish motion made ritual. Red bloomed across her pale skin, jolting her mind into focus. Her spine straightened; her gaze sharpened, and control returned.
Just in time.
The door opened properly this time.
A servant stepped in, back straight, posture polished, voice soft. “Your Highness.”
Grace turned slowly to face her.
“Are you awake, Princess?” the maid asked, her eyes drifting to the untouched bread, the half-empty glass on the tray.
Grace gave a quiet nod.
“I’ll escort you to the courtyard,” the servant continued. “Her Grace has requested your presence.”
Another nod. That was enough.
Grace didn’t speak. She simply stood, adjusted the folds of her robe with delicate fingers, and took a steady breath.
Then, with both hands, she slapped her cheeks again, softly. A gentle sting. Just enough to chase away the haze pressing against her skull.
“Focus,” she whispered under her breath. “You can faint later.”
She crossed the room on steady legs, even as her core protested with every step. Her body wanted to collapse. Her bones ached with that subtle, familiar hollowness, like mana depletion mixed with the echo of too much pretending.
Just a few more hours.
That’s all she needed. A few more hours of composure. Then she could curl up and die in peace.
As she passed the mirror, her reflection followed. Straight spine. Chin lifted. Gaze cool and clear.
No more dark circles. No more sleepless eyes. No more child.
She didn’t look tired anymore.
She looked imperial.
And no one needed to know the difference.
