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Book 1: Chapter 59: Lady Selira Of Ashford
🕑 Added 2025-07-09 00:54:43 +0000 UTCChapter 59:
Lady Selira Of Ashford
Grace hadn’t slept.
Not that it mattered. Her body might have been small—stupidly so—but she knew how to push through the weariness by now. Still, she couldn’t help but feel mild annoyance at this childish exhaustion creeping up on her.
Pathetic, she thought with a quiet sigh. This kid’s body can’t even handle one little all-nighter.
She shifted slightly, suppressing a yawn, and reached down to touch the black box she had carefully tucked away beneath her vanity, the wyvern egg safely hidden, its warmth still lingering on her fingertips. Another secret.
Grace had already dressed herself. She didn’t need a maid fussing around her. Not now. She savored the quiet moments before the show began, choosing the black dress herself: elegant, edged with subtle lace, and adorned only by a single deep-red ribbon tied gently around her waist. Against her chest lay the heavy, dazzling diamond from her mother, glittering coldly in the half-light of dawn.
Her hair was another matter. Annoyingly unmanageable, a golden chaos she still hadn’t mastered. She'd leave it to a maid later; there were limits even to her stubborn independence. Besides, she knew exactly how the nobles liked it—her hair in perfect spirals, carefully styled, doll-like and sweet. Let them have it.
She returned to her window, taking her usual spot in the large chair that stood facing east. The horizon was waking again—fiery, immense, impossibly close. This world’s dawn was a masterpiece; an oversized sun, crimson and furious, slowly cresting the sky as if daring the day to begin.
Mesmerizing, yet strangely fitting for today.
Grace watched it silently, her thoughts drifting, scattered. It was almost peaceful, despite everything waiting beyond her door. But the quiet couldn’t last. It never did.
Three sharp knocks at her door. Then, before she answered, it swung inward.
“Grace?” came Elyne’s gentle voice.
Grace didn’t move immediately. “Come in,” she said softly, not looking away from the horizon. “You’re just in time for the sunrise.”
Elyne stepped through the doorway, already bright-eyed and radiant. Her smile seemed especially earnest today, and Grace, despite herself, felt something like affection rising behind her exhaustion. Elyne was always so ridiculously cheerful—particularly on days like these.
"You're already awake?" Elyne asked, raising an eyebrow. Her gaze moved swiftly from the carefully chosen black dress to Grace's hair, still rebelliously tangled. "And even dressed yourself already? How very responsible."
Grace shrugged slightly, covering her mouth as a yawn overtook her. "Sleep is overrated."
Elyne’s smile softened knowingly. "Could it be someone was too excited to sleep? It’s perfectly normal, you know."
Grace felt a flicker of annoyance. Ah yes, six years old. Clearly, birthdays are still the pinnacle of excitement in my existence.
Still, Elyne’s warmth was annoyingly genuine, and it chipped at Grace’s usual irritation. She didn't have many soft spots, but Elyne—damn her—had somehow managed to claim one. Probably because she was always there, year after year, unwaveringly sunny. Four years now. Four years of fussing and teaching, of bright smiles and hidden concern.
Elyne paused, her gaze appraising. "You’ve grown again," she said softly, almost to herself, eyes full of pride. "You’re already so tall for your age, and so beautiful, Grace."
Grace sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. "Is your birthday gift to embarrass me with endless compliments?" She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifted just slightly.
Elyne chuckled warmly, shaking her head. "I might have prepared something a bit better than that." She reached into a small silken pouch and produced a delicate bracelet, silver and finely worked. From its slender chain dangled a single, luminous pearl, shimmering faintly with a soft blue glow.
Grace’s curiosity perked up instantly, even as she kept her expression carefully neutral. "Jewelry, Elyne? Aren’t you predictable."
Elyne laughed gently. "Predictable? Hardly. This isn’t ordinary." Her voice turned softer, almost proud. "I made it myself. The pearl is enchanted, I infused it with space magic."
Grace’s eyes sharpened; all traces of feigned boredom gone in an instant. She leaned forward, fascinated despite herself.
Elyne noticed and continued with a satisfied smirk. "It's not much storage, of course, only a small pocket space, difficult to enchant, and limited to a few items at most. But you're growing so fast now," she added with exaggerated sincerity, a twinkle in her eyes that Grace found annoyingly endearing, "and big girls need somewhere discreet to hide their things. After all, your dresses rarely have pockets. Just insert a little mana inside, and you can access the pearl!"
Grace hesitated, momentarily caught off guard. This wasn't just thoughtful, it was perfect. Practical and carefully considered. It was exactly what she might have picked for herself. For a split second, she didn't know what to do. Elyne watched her closely, a little anxious, waiting for her reaction.
Without fully intending to, Grace moved forward. Her arms wrapped around Elyne’s waist, pulling her into a brief but genuine hug. "Thank you," she murmured, voice quiet and unexpectedly sincere.
A tactical move, Grace reassured herself. Purely strategic. Ugh, and her perfume—roses again, gods damn it—why did I do this?
When she stepped back, Elyne looked almost startled, her eyes briefly shining with surprise and touched affection. "You're very welcome, Grace," she whispered, smiling gently.
For a moment, neither spoke. Grace looked away first, deliberately smoothing out the folds of her skirt to avoid Elyne’s gaze.
Elyne recovered quickly, clapping her hands briskly, a commanding note returning to her voice. "Now, are you ready to truly start the day?"
Grace nodded reluctantly. "Do I have a choice?"
Elyne just smiled, and suddenly the door opened once more. Several maids swept in, all carrying combs, ribbons, and perfumes. Grace groaned openly.
"I’m already dressed," she muttered, glancing pointedly at Elyne. "What’s all this fuss for?"
Elyne didn't answer, only folded her arms lightly and smiled again, far too knowingly for Grace’s comfort.
"It's your birthday," she said gently, as if that explained everything.
And perhaps, Grace thought sourly, it did.
--::--
The carriage rattled gently along the paved road toward Valewick, its motion strangely calming despite the turmoil in Grace's thoughts. Opposite her, Elyne sat quietly, smiling at the window, clearly delighted by the spectacle of the day. Grace shifted her gaze outside, watching as the Ashford estate faded into the distance, replaced gradually by the gray outlines of buildings and the growing noise of the approaching city.
She couldn't help but wonder at the magnitude of it all. It was her sixth birthday, yes, but why such fanfare? Birthdays were events—certainly—but rarely affairs of this grandeur. Even her sleepy, secluded estate had awoken this morning in frantic preparation. Servants had been running through the corridors, guards polishing armor and saddles, stable hands grooming horses as if royalty were arriving.
And perhaps, she considered with a faint curl of her lip, in their eyes, she was precisely that.
"Elyne," Grace spoke softly, turning her gaze back toward her governess, who met her look with a gentle, knowing smile. "Did we really need the whole city to celebrate?"
"Your mother wants to make a statement," Elyne replied simply, her eyes twinkling. "She wants everyone to understand exactly how precious you are."
Precious. Grace repeated the word silently, tasting its sweetness and its bitterness at once. She wasn't naive enough to mistake Liliana's intention for pure sentiment. This was more than love; it was politics, carefully calculated. Still, she found herself strangely moved by it, even as she questioned it.
Her thoughts drifted naturally to Clara. Would she be there today? Clara, who had smiled at her with genuine warmth, who had clung to her side as though Grace were the only steady thing left in her life. Clara was hers—her first real possession in this world—and Grace had to admit to herself that she cared for the girl in a strange way she couldn't quite define.
And Elen… Grace felt a faint distaste rise in her throat, and her lips tightened. Since that morning in the orchard with Clara, Grace had realized that Elen had grown increasingly distant from Clara, leaving the girl isolated and alone. The shift had bothered Grace more than she cared to admit. Why was she so annoyed by it? Perhaps it was merely irritation that someone had so carelessly mishandled her property. Her Clara deserved better.
Her train of thought broke as the carriage slowed, and she leaned forward slightly, peering through the curtains. More carriages had joined theirs on the broad, stone-paved avenue toward Valewick. Emblems and crests she vaguely recognized moved alongside them, families of varying importance all converging on the same destination.
Her eyes caught a familiar insignia, the sharp, angular crest of Velmire. Selira was on her way too, then. Of course, she was. It wouldn't just be nobles from Ashford; dignitaries from across the duchies would come. But still, it felt excessive.
As they approached Valewick, the sounds of festivity rose louder, swelling into a palpable energy. Grace's eyes widened as she took in the city. Streets had been scrubbed clean, vibrant banners of red, gold, and white stretched overhead, and flowers had been strung from every balcony. The smell of fresh bread, sweet pastries, and roasting meat wafted through the carriage windows, intoxicating and overwhelming. And there were people everywhere—men, women, and children lining the streets, waving small flags with Ashford's colors, their voices raised in a continuous cheer.
Grace leaned back in her seat, stunned.
"This can't all be just for my sixth birthday," she whispered, almost incredulously.
Elyne chuckled softly. "Believe it, Grace. This is your day."
The carriage slowed further as they entered the heart of the city. Grace, now closer to the crowd, saw faces clearly; peasants, merchants, nobles, all blended together in an unusual display of unity. They called her name as she passed, smiling and shouting, their voices swelling into one powerful wave of adoration.
She had expected many things, but not this. Not love. Not joy. Not genuine celebration from strangers who had never truly met her. Her heartbeat quickened inexplicably, and she felt a strange flutter in her chest, half pride, half something she couldn't name.
Finally, the carriage drew up before the massive gates of the citadel. The fortress towered above her, black stone glittering ominously in the morning sun, yet even it had been softened today—banners draping from its towers, flower garlands decorating its forbidding walls.
A herald stepped forward, his voice booming and clear. "Lady Grace of Ashford, heir of the Duchess Liliana, has arrived!"
The gates swung open to the deafening cheers of those assembled inside. Grace took a slow, measured breath and squared her shoulders.
Grace paused briefly, the herald’s voice still echoing faintly in her ears.
"Lady Grace of Ashford, heir of the Duchess Liliana…"
Heir. That was new. Technically correct, yes—she was Liliana’s only child by blood. Yet something about the way the word had been spoken felt significant, like a carefully chosen signal rather than a casual title. It didn’t mean she was heir to the duchy itself, surely, not officially anyway. But then, what did it mean?
She suppressed a faint sigh. The day had already proven to be far stranger than she'd anticipated, even by this world's increasingly puzzling standards.
The herald stepped aside gracefully, motioning her forward with an exaggerated bow. Grace lifted her chin slightly, ignoring the odd prickling at the back of her neck. Behind her, Elyne followed closely, silent but reassuringly present, like a shadow with a comforting warmth.
The great hall’s doors swung open smoothly before her, and a wave of sound crashed over her—a burst of applause, polite but enthusiastic. Grace blinked, momentarily stunned by the sight before her. Nobles filled the expansive hall, all dressed in finery more lavish than she’d ever seen. Silks, brocades, and shimmering embroidery reflected candlelight from countless chandeliers hanging overhead, making the entire scene surreal in its splendor.
At the hall’s heart stood her mother, Liliana, poised and effortlessly commanding, yet for once, her eyes held a gentleness Grace rarely saw. Liliana raised one delicate hand, beckoning her forward. Grace moved automatically, keenly aware of the countless gazes locked upon her, their weight pressing down like layers of silk too thick to breathe through comfortably.
"My dear Grace," Liliana murmured warmly, extending both arms. The crowd quieted, their applause settling into respectful silence. "Happy birthday."
Before Grace could respond, Liliana wrapped her gently in an embrace. It was a rare gesture—genuine, almost fiercely tender—and Grace found herself briefly disoriented by the unexpected warmth, her mind scrambling to categorize this moment into familiar strategies or plots.
"Welcome to your gift," Liliana whispered softly in her ear, a note of excitement evident beneath the carefully controlled tone.
"Gift?" Grace echoed cautiously, pulling back slightly to meet her mother's gaze.
Liliana smiled, a slow curve of her lips that Grace recognized all too well as one that hid a secret behind it. "Yes, your gift," she repeated smoothly. "You'll see soon enough. Just a little longer, after the banquet." Then, with a playful wink, she straightened gracefully, the warmth of maternal intimacy slipping back into practiced composure.
Grace forced herself to return the smile, even as the gears in her mind spun furiously behind her carefully neutral expression. A gift from my mother, secretive, significant, announced in front of the entire nobility. Nothing unsettling about that at all. A small, dry voice inside her added sarcastically: Is it me who’s going insane, or am I truly the only normal person left in this mad world?
"Thank you, Mama," Grace said softly, her voice perfectly pitched to carry just enough sincerity and sweetness.
Liliana squeezed her hand lightly, her eyes softening briefly once more before she turned and nodded graciously to the assembled nobles. Immediately, another round of applause swelled through the hall, a sea of approving faces that made Grace's stomach twist uncomfortably with a feeling she couldn't quite define.
Before she had a chance to dwell on it, a servant appeared discreetly at her side, gesturing politely toward an exit that led deeper into the citadel. "This way, Lady Grace," he murmured deferentially. "A place has been prepared for you to rest and wait comfortably until the banquet."
Grace glanced back at her mother, who gave a subtle, approving nod. Obediently, Grace allowed herself to be led from the grand hall and up the spiral staircase of one of the citadel’s stone towers. Elyne followed closely, silent and watchful, her eyes never leaving Grace's back.
At the top, the servant opened the door to a small, beautifully appointed resting room. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, painting the floor in splashes of colored light. A tea service awaited on an elegant table, the scent of freshly brewed tea mingling subtly with the faint aroma of roses… again roses, of course.
Grace stepped inside, exhaling softly as the door closed quietly behind them. For a moment, she allowed herself to relax, the mask slipping fractionally from her face.
"This," she murmured, half to herself, half to Elyne, "is all quite excessive, isn't it?"
Elyne chuckled lightly, moving to pour the tea with practiced ease. "Your mother believes in making statements," she replied gently, handing Grace a delicate cup, steam curling from its rim. "And there is no stronger statement today than you."
Grace took the cup, warming her fingers against its heat, feeling oddly comforted by its solid weight. "And what statement is she trying to make, exactly?"
Elyne tilted her head thoughtfully, her smile softer, more understanding than amused. "That you matter. That you are Ashford's future, and perhaps more."
Grace sipped her tea slowly, contemplating Elyne’s words. Perhaps it was logical, in a twisted sort of way. The duchy loved displays of power, today was another form of dominance, using Grace herself as the centerpiece. Still, it felt undeniably strange to be the object of this elaborate political theater.
But who was she to judge? After all, she was playing along, as she always did.
Outside, the city of Valewick buzzed faintly beneath her, a distant hum of festivity reaching even here. Grace leaned back in her chair, watching sunlight dance across the stained-glass patterns
--::--
Ronan had thought the journey through the festive streets of Valewick was the hardest part. The weight of the people's whispers and concealed sneers had pressed down on him with every step of his horse. But now, as he stood at the towering gates of the citadel, dread swelled within him again, sharper and colder than before.
The herald who greeted him offered no pause for preparation. Instead, he stepped forward and lifted his voice, strong and clear, as though oblivious to the turmoil within Ronan's chest. "Lord Ronan of Ashford," the man proclaimed, words ringing against the stones of the citadel entrance, "heir of the Duke Merick of Ashford!"
Ronan froze, his breath catching painfully. Heir? It was the first time he had ever been announced with those words. He glanced around, half-hoping, half-fearing that someone would correct the man. But no correction came. Instead, the gathered servants and guards simply watched him expectantly, waiting.
He forced himself forward. There was no choice but to play along; there never had been. Every step echoed as he followed the herald deeper into the great hall, dread sinking like lead through his stomach. And as he crossed the threshold into the expansive room, Ronan stopped cold, his heart stuttering to a halt.
The hall was filled—overflowing with nobles. Ashford nobles and beyond. Standing in clusters and groups, whispering and staring, all eyes immediately fixing on him. And there, directly opposite him, stood Duke Velmire himself, imposing in dark-blue velvet and silver embroidery, his expression unreadable. Beside him stood Selira, her face a mask carved from ice, eyes meeting Ronan's in a hard, unyielding stare.
At the center of it all was Liliana. She wore her black armor like a second skin, intimidating and magnetic at once. Her presence distorted everything around her, the air itself seeming to ripple gently in submission to her power. Ronan had never felt smaller or more vulnerable. He took an instinctive step back, the sight of her overwhelming.
Yet Liliana merely tilted her head slightly, her voice calm and smooth as silk. "My son," she said warmly, her smile holding a knowing glint. "I am relieved to see you safe. We have all heard about the betrayal by the kingdom, and we are all deeply aggrieved. But your safe return fills us with pride."
Ronan felt confusion cloud his mind, but Liliana wasn't done.
"Your shame will not be in vain," she continued, her voice gaining strength, echoing clearly across the room. "Ashford will never allow the wyrm to trample our honor."
Behind Liliana, a man stepped forward, a face Ronan recognized instantly, the face that was painfully familiar—Baron Redlane, father of Steve. His eyes burned with barely restrained fury as he spat harshly upon the polished stone floor. "Thank you, my Grace," he growled, his voice bitter and raw. "They will pay dearly for what they've done to my son."
Ronan felt himself recoil internally, bewilderment tightening his chest. He hadn't expected anyone to know so quickly, least of all Liliana herself. How had the news spread this rapidly? Why were they all gathered here, waiting for him? What was this twisted performance? And most pressingly, what role did they expect him to play?
Before Ronan could even begin to organize these thoughts, Liliana raised her hand once more, and the crowd stilled instantly, like puppets awaiting their master's signal.
"In light of today," she declared, voice firm and unwavering, "and in recognition of all you have endured, we gather here now to honor your sacrifices. To compensate for your bravery and to reward your dedication. More than that, to strengthen bonds." Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Duke Velmire, who inclined his head slightly, his face inscrutable. "Because of you, dear Ronan, events have moved faster than anticipated. Therefore, the Duke of Velmire and I have agreed that today, at this very moment, you and Selira will be wed."
Ronan's heart stumbled, then began to pound violently. Married? Now? His head spun, his vision swimming with the impossibility of it all. He glanced toward Selira instinctively, catching her gaze again. She had gone deathly pale, her elegant features taut with suppressed rage and humiliation. Her fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles stark white, and he saw clearly how hard she bit her lip, fighting for composure.
He felt a sudden, wrenching pang of guilt. Selira didn't deserve this humiliation any more than he did, probably far less. Yet again, someone else would bear the brunt of his failures.
Liliana stood before them, expectant and authoritative, her gaze challenging him to protest, daring him to refuse. Her eyes were cold despite the warmth of her smile, her expression an iron mask of unquestionable command. His stepmother, his father's cousin, his closest living family, surely, she wouldn't deliberately harm her own blood?
And yet, looking into her eyes, Ronan knew without doubt that nothing was beyond Liliana’s ambition.
He swallowed hard, throat dry, hands trembling faintly at his sides. There was no escape. His own actions had led to this moment, had forced this outcome upon him. He had no choice left but to comply.
Slowly, painfully, he nodded once in submission. "As you wish, my Grace," he murmured, voice hollow and small.
Liliana's smile deepened, triumphant and knowing. "Splendid," she purred softly. "Then let us proceed."
And as the gathered nobles burst into polite applause, Ronan stood frozen, unable to move, his gaze fixed on Selira. Her eyes were dark and furious, filled with accusation and betrayal—not for him, he thought, but for those who had forced her hand.
And for the first time, Ronan understood something clearly: neither of them had ever been more helpless.
--::--
Selira’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint, everything else fading away as a single, clear thought crystallized in her mind: she was going to kill him. This bastard nephew of the crown, this embarrassment of an heir, she was going to strangle him with her bare hands the first chance she got. She hadn't spent her entire life mastering grace and diplomacy only to have her wedding sprung upon her as an afterthought, a mere footnote overshadowed by the birthday of Liliana's precious daughter.
She had been prepared—though begrudgingly—for a wedding hastened within a week or so. But not like this. Not today. Not as a sudden, perfunctory ritual slipped neatly into the shadow of a child’s celebration. Her chest tightened with humiliation and rage, and beneath that anger lay the cold, unsettling sting of betrayal. Her own father had agreed to this. He'd always harbored ambitions grander and deeper than he'd ever revealed, but she had never imagined he would allow her to be used like a pawn so openly, so callously.
Yet beneath the thundering storm of her emotions, Selira felt a different awareness seep in, a chilling realization of the bigger picture. She replayed Liliana's words carefully in her mind: the crown had sullied Ashford’s honor, betrayed their trust. War was not merely looming; it was already here. With Ronan’s failure at the eastern front, the king’s second army lurking in Ashford’s backlands, and the relentless advance of the beastkin, it all fell sharply into place.
Her gaze swept briefly over the assembled nobles, all standing rigidly at attention in their finery, playing their parts in this strange drama. Her father stood impassively beside Liliana, his eyes cool and unyielding, a faint, satisfied glint in their depths. This had been planned meticulously, the citadel of Valewick chosen long ago. Its formidable walls and unmatched defenses were no mere coincidence. Liliana and her father had orchestrated every detail meticulously, every detail except for Ronan’s catastrophic incompetence.
How could she survive alongside such a man? How was she expected to bear children with someone whose very name now reeked of disgrace and ridicule? It was unbearable. Unthinkable.
She was still grappling with the weight of it all when movement caught her attention. An elderly priestess entered the hall quietly, golden robes shimmering softly under the flickering candlelight. Selira’s heart faltered. They were wasting no time at all; the marriage would happen now, in this very moment. There would be no waiting, no further preparation. The significance of it struck her bitterly. The guests, those assembled here, were the most powerful and influential, witnesses to history, conspirators complicit in this cruel spectacle.
Her throat tightened, and she felt the treacherous warmth of tears prickling sharply at the corners of her eyes. She had done everything right—every step carefully calculated, every move perfect. Yet it still hadn’t been enough.
A hand settled gently upon her shoulder. Not comforting, but firm, gauntleted. She turned swiftly, expecting perhaps her father, but instead she met Liliana’s gaze. The duchess stood close, her features impossibly youthful for her years, her eyes a vibrant, piercing blue, her golden hair immaculate. She offered Selira a gentle, knowing smile.
“Don’t worry, Selira,” Liliana said softly, her voice low enough to reach only her ears. “It’s important that you carry our name swiftly. I’ll protect you as if you were my own daughter. Ashford needs women like you.”
Selira felt her heart jolt sharply at Liliana's words, stunned by their quiet intimacy. For a moment, she was speechless, caught off guard by the sincerity in the duchess’s eyes. Her breath caught, tangled in a complicated web of gratitude, suspicion, and reluctant admiration.
“Thank you, my Grace,” she whispered, her voice faint but steady, even as her hands trembled faintly at her sides.
Liliana squeezed her shoulder reassuringly before stepping gracefully aside, allowing Selira to regain her composure. Selira straightened, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin defiantly. She would not allow herself to crumble here, not in front of these people, not before the watchful gaze of the Duchess of Ashford.
She moved forward to the makeshift altar that had been swiftly arranged. The priestess of Dawn stood patiently, smiling gently beneath the soft glow of candles, the serene expression on her aged face contrasting sharply with the turmoil Selira felt inside. Ronan, equally pale and shaken, stood opposite her, his eyes wide and hollow, full of shame and confusion.
Selira forced herself to look away from him, her gaze fixed firmly ahead, drawing strength from her carefully cultivated pride and the dignity of her name. Around her, the assembled nobles shifted subtly, all doing their best to smooth the awkwardness of the situation. Their expressions were carefully neutral, their silence respectful, though she saw clearly the uncertainty and judgment flickering quietly behind their polished masks.
As the priestess began to speak, her words gentle but firm, Selira realized sharply that this was not the wedding she had dreamed of—not the carefully planned alliance she had been raised for—but it was the one she had. This was the reality she faced now, raw and undeniable.
But she refused to break, refused to let them see her crumble beneath the humiliation. She lifted her head proudly, her expression cool and controlled. Even as the priestess's words blended into a distant hum, even as her heart ached painfully, she remained unbowed, unbroken.
Because she was Selira of Velmire—daughter of the duke, a woman forged from ambition and iron will. If this was the hand fate had dealt her, she would wield it like a blade. She would not falter. She would not be swallowed.
And as the ceremony reached its final words and the binding was sealed in light and vow, Selira straightened her back and stepped into the silence that followed.
A new name echoed in the hall. She was no longer Selira of Velmire.
She was Lady Selira of Ashford. And she would never forget the humiliation from the man on her side.
Comments
Snow2Reaper
Ronan better sleep with two eyes open.
ColourMyAlphabet
"[...]Ronan understood something clearly: neither of them had ever been more helpless." That might be true Ronan, but thats where the similarities end. The two POVs show a really nice contrast in the way both of them are facing it and it couldn't be more different. Thank you for the chapter.
