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Book 2: Chapter 2: What Remains After Light
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 11:14:01 +0000 UTCChapter 2:
What Remains After Light
Lady Montclair of Ashford had never bent her knee to anyone. Not to the kings of Virethorn. Not to the High Court. Not even to love. She had never married, she had refused to, because the thought of surrendering her name, her legacy, to a man made her stomach turn. The Ashford name was all she had, and it was everything. She was one of the last bearers of the true bloodline, and though she bore no children of her own, she had found purpose in raising another.
From the moment Liliana was born, Montclair had stood at her side, not just as kin, but as protector, mentor, and sword. She was her aunt, yes, but more than that: she was the woman who taught Liliana to fight a war and to never flinch before a throne. She was the one who stood up against her own sister—Liliana’s mother—when that woman, blinded by her own grief and bitterness, began to demand too much from the child she didn’t truly understand. Montclair remembered those nights well. Liliana crying in silence. Her sister raving about duty. And herself, the only one who saw the shape of the future clearly: that one day, Liliana would not just survive the weight of Ashford, she would carry it.
She was old now, silver-haired beneath her black war helm, but there was nothing frail about her. Her body bore the scars of five campaigns, her blade arm still steady as steel. She was more than just a commander; she was the soul of the First Legion. Every soldier beneath her knew it. They didn’t follow her because she was appointed, they followed her because she led. She bled first, rode first, and when she killed, it was with the elegance of someone who believed every drop of blood had to mean something.
Montclair sat high on Xarax, her personal wyvern, wings folded and armored in scaled plate. The beast shifted under her with barely-contained energy, sensing its rider’s mood. She stared out over the valley below, at the chaos still unfolding. Smoke trailed from burning siege towers. The bodies of both humans and Beastkin lay strewn like discarded dolls. And in the far distance, the crumbling frontlines of the Second Army of the Kingdom stumbled back, routed and disgraceful.
Her lips curled in distaste.
The Second Army was a joke. A tool of the crown. Soft boys playing at war under golden banners they didn’t deserve to carry. They had failed to hold the pass. Failed to hold the fortress. Failed to honor the blood spilled in Ashford’s name. And now they ran. Back to her. To the First Legion.
Montclair's hand clenched on the reins. Finally—finally—Liliana had made her move. After all the years, after all the silence and compromise, the Duchess had thrown off the crown's yoke. The empire had returned. And Montclair, its most faithful blade, would carry that truth into battle.
“Raise the banners,” she ordered, voice firm and cold.
The soldiers obeyed instantly. Crimson silk unfurled across the line, casting shadows over black armor. Gone was the stag of the duchy. Gone were the borrowed symbols of Virethorn. These banners bore nothing but red and black—an empire’s colors. Pure. Unapologetic.
A roar echoed from over twenty thousand throats.
Ashford was its own again.
Below her, four meters down the rocky slope, a figure shifted atop a white-plated battle horse. A young priestess of light, clad in ceremonial armor and silver robes, looked up with wide, shining eyes.
“Shall we begin the ritual, my lady?” she asked, her voice like wind through stained glass.
Montclair nodded once, without looking at her. “Begin. Open the gate to the Third Circle. The Children of Light have been imprisoned too long.”
The priestess smiled, soft, almost childlike; beautiful, innocent, and dangerously serene.
“I will give the command. Iras smiles upon us today, my lady.”
Montclair allowed herself a rare, quiet grin. Her heart swelled, not with affection, but with something fiercer. Purpose. This wasn’t vengeance. It was restoration. She slid her helmet into place, the world narrowing to slits of shadowed steel. Then, with a slow breath, she drew her sword.
Obsidian-black. Carved in the shape of flame. Light runes etched along the fuller.
Xarax felt the shift and rose with her, wings stretching wide.
It was time.
The signal was unmistakable. The First Legion moved as one—twenty thousand blades drawn in perfect unity. Ash-black shields locked together. Pikes lowered. Arrows notched.
Montclair didn’t speak again.
The soldiers of the Empire were no longer waiting. They had found their purpose. Found their identity. Found their war.
The Second Army stumbled toward them, broken and ashamed. Montclair barely spared them a glance. The sight turned her stomach. She had no mercy for those who bent the knee to false kings.
She raised her sword.
“Free our lands from this scum!”
And the First Legion surged forward, black and red banners streaming behind them, like the wings of judgment itself.
--::--
The fireworks outside her window lit the night sky in shades of gold, white, and crimson, each burst reflected in the polished glass of the citadel tower. Grace didn’t move. She sat curled in an armchair too large for her, draped in a silk robe too fancy to feel comfortable in. Her legs dangled off the side. Her arms were crossed, her chin resting against them, and her face carried the look of someone who had long since lost the will to care.
She stared blankly at the display. The celebration of a new empire. Her birthday.
What a joke.
She had doubted that the day could get any worse—or better—at this point. And now, well… now she wasn’t even sure what she felt. Exhaustion, maybe. Her body was tired. Her soul was tired. And even her mind, that tireless thing that never stopped analyzing, calculating, scheming… even it had started to stutter and slip.
But a little part of her, the part that never truly gave up, still clung to the absurdity of it all. Isn’t this exactly the kind of stuff that would be cool in a game? she thought, eyes following another arc of fireworks as it trailed glitter across the sky.
Her own empire.
Wasn’t that every nerd’s dream at some point? To sit on a throne, sip wine, and order people around? To shout “For the Empire!” at the front lines like some badass warlord general?
A tiny smile crept onto her lips. I guess no matter what changes… I’m still a little nerd after all.
She hugged her knees to her chest.
But daydreams only lasted so long, and reality came crawling back like a damp, heavy blanket.
Her smile faded.
There were… problems. Real problems.
The first, and worst, was her core.
When she closed her eyes and focused, she could see it clearly now. That strange sphere pulsing at the center of her being, suspended in the hollow of her inner world. But it wasn’t what it used to be. No longer the sleek, stable construct she had spent years refining. It was cracked now. A fractured, glowing violet orb, veined with jagged white scars.
Her mana density had dropped dramatically.
At most… Second Circle.
Two years of work, she thought bitterly. Gone. Just like that.
But the fractures weren’t the most disturbing thing. It was the shift in dominance. The Void was still there, lurking, faint, like smoke behind glass, but the weight of it had lessened. The whispering hunger, the cold curl of pressure in her veins… dulled. Quiet. As if it had been forced into a corner, its grip momentarily loosened. And in its place, something else had surged forward, bright, merciless Light.
Not a gentle glow. Not a warm, holy warmth. No. This was raw, searing, unrelenting Light mana, so potent that it bled into her channels even without conscious effort. It didn’t hurt, exactly. But it pulsed through her system like acid-glass. It was clean, purifying, and relentlessly demanding.
At first, she’d welcomed it. Anything that pushed the void away had to be good, right?
But now… now she wasn’t so sure.
The light wasn’t corrupting her thoughts. It wasn’t whispering temptations or clouding her emotions.
No. It was worse.
It was changing her body.
Her body felt strange. Not broken, just… off. Her limbs ached in unfamiliar ways, and there was a faint pressure under her skin, like something was coiling just beneath the surface. She hadn’t healed any faster yet, not that she’d tested it, but something in her blood felt hotter, more reactive. When she exhaled deeply, the air shimmered faintly, like the Light mana didn’t quite want to stay contained. It was subtle, for now, but she could tell it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
She was being altered. Again.
Why, she thought, why does something always have to take over me?
Was this just her fate? First the void. Now the light. What next? Would fire eat her bones on her seventh birthday just to round things out?
She exhaled sharply, annoyed by her own self-pity. This wasn’t the time for whining. But gods… she really just wanted to sleep. To crawl under thick blankets, shut her eyes, and pretend, for a few blissful hours, that she wasn’t six years old and already on the shortlist for future divine calamities.
She stood up with a groan and wandered over to the window. Fireworks still bloomed in the distance. The people of Valewick were celebrating her like she was some holy figure descended from the sky.
Maybe she had. She didn’t know anymore. But at least one thing was true, she wasn’t from this world. And even on Earth, buried under the noise and the ordinary, she’d felt it: that she was meant for more than a normal, forgettable life. Something greater. Something terrifying. And now she had it. After all, she was Grace.
Her hand touched the cold stone of the window frame. Her fingers curled against it.
Then, sharp and sudden, a knock at the door.
Grace froze.
Her head turned slowly toward the door.
The knock came again. Gentle. Rhythmic. Three taps. Then silence.
Grace straightened, brushing the fatigue from her face with the sleeve of her robe. Her mind ran through possibilities—Elyne? A servant? Another noble come to drown her in gifts and false smiles? Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“Come in,” she said softly.
The door creaked open, and in rushed Clara.
“Graaaaceeee! Happy birthdaaaay!”
Before Grace could react, Clara wrapped her in a fierce hug, her arms barely reaching around Grace’s waist. The girl’s voice was bright and sweet and utterly unbothered by etiquette or formality. She buried her head against Grace’s chest like she belonged there.
“We’re the same age noooow!” Clara sang, eyes twinkling.
Grace blinked, surprised by the sudden warmth. Her arms hovered for a heartbeat… then slowly lowered, closing gently around the girl in front of her. Clara felt smaller than before. Had she always been this small?
No. Grace had grown.
It struck her then, standing still, that she was taller now. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, hadn’t compared herself to other children much lately. But she must’ve grown quickly in the past weeks. Her core had changed. Her body was following.
But Clara was still Clara.
Always smiling. Always pure. Bubbling with warmth like sunlight through a window.
For just a moment, Grace allowed her eyes to close.
Here she was. Her Clara.
“Clara,” she murmured softly, “you’re going to make me cry.”
Clara pulled back with a dramatic gasp. “No! No crying on your birthday! You’re a princess now! That means you have to smile all the time and be noble and wave like this—” She raised a hand and did an exaggerated little royal wave, tilting her chin high with comical elegance.
Grace couldn’t help herself. A tiny laugh escaped.
“Oh Light,” she said, “please don’t ever change.”
Clara beamed. “Never! I’ll always be Clara. And I brought you something! Wait, wait—stay right here!”
She darted toward the door, almost slipping on the polished stone floor, and returned with a small bundle wrapped in pale violet cloth. She presented it like it was a sacred offering, both hands forward, posture solemn.
“It’s not as pretty as everything else you’ve gotten,” Clara said, suddenly bashful, “but I tried really hard. I even asked the maids to help me with the ribbon.”
Grace tilted her head and slowly reached out. The cloth was soft. Familiar. Something from Clara’s estate, maybe. She unwrapped it carefully, inside was a small glass vial, sealed with wax and tied with a delicate pink ribbon. Floating inside was a single feather, silver-white with a faint shimmer, and tiny fragments of pressed blue petals.
Clara shifted nervously. “It’s from the first time we walked to the edge of the orchard. Do you remember? There was that white bird that flew off when you scared it on purpose.” She let out a small laugh, then added more quietly, “I found one of its feathers later. And the flowers were blooming only that week. The maids said they were called Starpetals.”
Grace stared at the vial, watching the way the water caught the light.
“I wanted to give you something that would keep a memory inside,” Clara said. “Not just pretty things, but… a day I don’t want to forget.”
For a long moment, Grace didn’t speak. Her fingers brushed the fragile glass.
Something warm and unfamiliar settled in her chest. A stillness that wasn’t emptiness. Something she didn’t have a name for.
“…Thank you,” she said finally, voice softer than she meant it to be. “It’s perfect.”
Clara blushed furiously and rocked on her heels. “R-Really? I thought maybe it was too simple, or dumb, or—”
“It’s not dumb,” Grace cut in. “It’s honest. You’re the only one today who gave me something honest.”
Clara blinked. “Everyone else just gave you jewels and scrolls and dresses and stuff?”
“And lands,” Grace said flatly.
“…Wait, really?”
Grace nodded. “A whole castle. With towns.”
Clara opened her mouth, closed it again, then said, “Okay but like… does it have a lake? Because if it does, I’m visiting. We can sneak out at night and swim when everyone’s asleep.”
Grace smiled again. Wider this time.
“I think I’d like that,” she said.
And for the first time that day, she meant it.
Then, quietly, the smile faded, not out of sadness, but thought. A realization. Grace looked at the little glass vial again and then to Clara’s glowing face. She would be moving soon. To Gatewick. Her very own lands, her own castle, her own household. And Clara… Clara wasn’t just a friend. She was technically her retainer now. A student sent to study under her roof. That meant…
“Clara,” Grace said, sitting up straighter. “Would you… like to come with me? To Gatewick?”
Clara blinked. “Huh?”
“You’re already staying at the estate,” Grace explained. “But this is different. I’ll be moving to the citadel in Gatewick soon. It’s bigger, and more isolated. I’ll need… people I trust. And nobles. And… you. Of course.”
Clara stared at her for a heartbeat. Then her face lit up. “Of course, I’m coming!” she burst out, grabbing Grace’s hands. “You don’t even have to ask. I was already planning on hiding in your carriage when you left.”
Grace snorted. “That’s not very noble of you.”
“I can be noble and sneaky,” Clara said proudly. “It’s a skill set.”
Grace let out a small laugh. She didn’t even know what exactly she’d expected, maybe hesitation, maybe confusion, but Clara had accepted without missing a beat. That was what made her different. That was what made her safe.
She let their joined hands rest on her lap for a moment, then gently pulled away.
“By the way,” Grace asked, glancing toward the door. “Do you know where Elen is?”
Clara tilted her head. “Elen?”
“Yeah.” Grace shifted slightly. “I didn’t see her all day. Not once. And I know she’s still posted here with her mother. Even if we’re… not talking as much lately, I thought she’d at least show up for the banquet.”
Clara’s smile faded just a little. She looked down. “I don’t know. I thought she’d be here too.”
For a moment, silence settled between them.
Grace’s chest tightened faintly. Elen had been part of the trio. Even if they hadn’t spoken much these last few weeks—mostly because of Clara—there was still a bond. They had grown together. Fought together. Bled together, in their own way, in the bakery. And now, suddenly, Elen was just… gone from the day that should have meant something.
“I’ll ask someone,” Grace said at last. “Maybe Elyne knows.”
Clara nodded softly. Then hesitated.
Her lips parted. Then closed again.
She looked away.
“…Grace,” she said, voice quiet, almost unsure. “I think I should tell you something.”
Grace tilted her head, watching her. “Go on.”
Clara shifted, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “Elen… she didn’t come today because of me. Because of… us.”
That made Grace blink.
Clara’s voice trembled. “We had a fight. A bad one. She said things. About you. She—she told me to stay away from you. That I was being used. That… that you weren’t who I thought you were.”
Grace didn’t speak.
Clara kept going. “She said you scared her. That something was wrong. But I told her she was wrong. That you were kind. That she didn’t understand you like I did.”
A pause.
“I… I think she meant it, Grace. Whatever she saw, it really shook her. But I couldn’t just believe her. I couldn’t. Not after everything.”
Clara looked up, eyes shining.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t want to keep this from you, but I didn’t want to hurt you either.”
Grace’s expression didn’t change.
She just looked at Clara for a long, silent moment. Then she smiled gently.
“Oh,” Grace said. “I see.”
She turned her head toward the window.
The fireworks were still going off, painting the sky in pinks and golds. The light flickered over her face, and for a second, Clara couldn’t quite read her expression.
“…Thank you for telling me,” Grace added.
Then she stood.
“We should get some rest. Tomorrow will be… busy.”
Clara nodded slowly, guilt heavy in her chest.
Grace moved toward the door, not hurried, not cold, just distant in a way Clara couldn’t quite name. She opened it without a word.
A servant was already waiting in the hallway, as if summoned by timing alone.
“See Lady Clara back to her chambers,” Grace said softly, her voice light, practiced.
Clara hesitated. Part of her wanted to say more, to explain again, to fix something she didn’t understand how to fix. But Grace wasn’t looking at her anymore.
So, Clara simply bowed her head and stepped past her.
The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
Inside the chamber, Grace stood motionless for a long moment. Her shadow stretched across the stone floor, thin and sharp in the flickering light of the candlelit sconces. She didn’t move, didn’t sigh, didn’t speak, and beyond the glass window, the final firework bloomed, bright and brilliant, before fading into ash.
Comments
Bunny
Oh sweet.
