North Drake
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Book 1: Chapter 41: Rot In The Basket
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:42:33 +0000 UTCChapter 41:
Rot In The Basket
Grace stood near the arched window of her private entry chamber, watching the mist burn away from the frost-laced rooftops of the estate. The pale light of morning spilled over the tiled floor, catching faint silver threads in her high-collared dress, soft gray velvet, formal, modest.
Elyne had gone to retrieve Clara and Elen. Grace had insisted they arrive together. Walk together. Appear as one.
The room behind her was quiet, but not empty. The six knights her mother had left her stood stationed along the walls; alert, silent, and always watching. They wore the black and crimson of Ashford, but none bore the court’s trim. These weren’t ceremonial escorts.
They were weapons. And they were hers.
Grace glanced sideways. “You. The tall one. Scar on your jaw.”
The knight stepped forward smoothly. He didn’t bow, just gave a respectful nod. His helm rested under his arm.
“My lady.”
“You never told me your name.”
He met her eyes without flinching. “Ser Calen. Of Ashford blood, third branch. My oath was sworn directly to the Duchess, and through her, to you.”
Grace tilted her head. “So, you’re somewhat my… cousin?”
“Yes, my lady,” Calen said. “Distant, but true-blooded Ashford. My great-grandmother was the sister of your grandfather.”
Grace raised a brow. “Then I suppose that makes you the first family member I actually like.” She paused, then added with a faint smirk, “Besides my mother, of course.”
The knight gave no reaction, but she saw it, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, quickly hidden.
And that, more than anything he’d said, told her exactly what kind of man he was.
Grace’s gaze lingered on him, curious now. She tilted her head just a touch.
“And you have no problem,” she asked, voice calm but probing, “taking orders from a five-year-old girl?”
Calen didn’t blink. “None, my lady.”
“Really?” she pressed.
“Truly,” he said. “Why should I? Age is a measure of time, not worth. It doesn’t matter how old someone is, only how they act.”
He paused, then continued with quiet conviction. “And since the moment I arrived… since the hall, since the banquet, since Lady Selira’s arrival… I haven’t seen a little girl. Not once.”
Grace didn’t answer immediately. Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes shifted. Evaluating. Then, with the barest lift of his voice, not disrespectful, just dry, Calen added, “Though for the record… I’d have followed you anyway. Even if you were a little brat.”
Grace blinked, just once.
He smiled faintly, like a man who knew exactly where the line was and enjoyed standing on it. “I swore to protect the family. And more than that, I swore my life to the Duchess. That oath doesn’t hinge on sweetness or smiles.”
He adjusted his stance slightly, eyes steady. “And you should know… every knight in this room is your cousin in some form. Distant or not. Your mother chose us for that reason.”
Grace raised a brow. “A test?”
“A lesson,” Calen said. “She believes blood is the only true bond. Even if it’s imperfect. Even if it argues or resists. Blood stays.”
His voice softened just a touch, and something respectful settled behind his words. “We are yours. And we won’t fail her. Or you.”
Grace watched him for another moment, the silence between them stretching. Then she turned back to the window, arms folding loosely behind her back.
“We’ll see,” she said quietly.
Blood stays, she thought, it sounded nice. Comforting, even. Like the kind of thing someone might put in a family crest or carve into a statue. But comfort wasn’t something she trusted.
Blood stays, she repeated silently. Until it doesn’t.
Still… there was something about Calen. Something steady. Not blindly loyal, just anchored. She didn’t trust him. Not fully. But she didn’t feel the need to cut him down, either.
That was progress.
She let her fingers brush the edge of the windowsill, gaze drifting over the estate below.
Maybe blood does stay, she thought.
Or maybe I just haven’t given it a reason to run yet.
The quiet murmur of footsteps reached the chamber just before the door opened.
Elyne stepped in first, composed as always, her hands folded neatly before her. Behind her came Clara, all lightness and eagerness, her brown curls bouncing, eyes bright. She spotted Grace immediately and broke into a smile that was almost too big for the room.
“Grace!” she said, breathless with excitement, as if they hadn’t seen each other just the day before.
Grace gave her a small nod in return, lips curling slightly. Someone’s had too much tea already.
Then came Elen.
She stepped through the doorway slowly, her movements stiff, like she was trying not to trip over her own feet, which, for Elen, was suspicious in itself. She usually moved with a soldier’s balance, quiet and deliberate.
It took Grace all of half a second to understand why.
Elen was wearing a dress.
Not just any dress. A pale lavender one, simple but delicately embroidered at the cuffs, and unmistakably Clara’s. Grace recognized the fit. The ribbon. The hemline that sat awkwardly high on Elen’s legs, like it wasn’t made for her height or her stride. It was one of Clara’s older dresses, probably offered with kindness and enthusiasm. Elen wore it like armor she didn’t know how to draw.
Grace didn’t comment. Her expression didn’t change. But internally?
Interesting.
She made a note. Not because it was funny—though it was, a little—but because it meant something. Elen had agreed to wear it. Which meant Clara had asked. And Elen had said yes.
Maybe I’m not the only one learning how to manipulate people through affection, Grace thought, amused. Then the amusement deepened, twisted, turned sharper. Or maybe Clara’s always known how.
The memory flickered, unbidden. Clara in the bakery, pale and frozen, a knife inches from her chest. The way she had looked at Grace in that moment, not begging, not crying. Just believing in her. Without question. Without hesitation. And Grace had stepped through the void to save her.
Affection, Grace thought, isn’t just a weakness. It’s a weapon. The purest kind. The most disarming.
She narrowed her eyes slightly, more then a hint of pink in it, watching Clara fuss with Elen’s sleeves, adjusting a fold of fabric like it mattered more than breath.
Did she know what she was doing? Even then?
Clara smiled like spring and smelled like sugar, but she might be the most dangerous of them all. Grace blinked once. Then frowned at herself.
Gods, she thought, I’m getting paranoid.
Clara was a six-year-old crybaby who once fell off a chair because she was trying to wave at a butterfly in the class with Elen.
She’s literally a kid, Grace reminded herself.
She sighed inwardly.
“Shall we?” she asked, voice smooth, already turning toward the door.
--::--
Selira stood near the carved glass doors of her guest salon, her hands folded loosely at her waist. The light pouring through the tall windows was soft and gold-toned, glancing off the polished silver trays and crystal decanters arranged carefully across the brunch table.
The room had been prepared with care, her care. A delicate arrangement of deep blue table linens and fresh sea lilies from Velport adorned the center, flanked by silver-etched plates and hand-painted porcelain. Her attendants had filled the platters with specialties from home: salt-crusted flan, lemon-fish tarts, honeyed bread knots, and slices of citrus-drizzled melon. Nothing extravagant by her standards, but still far beyond what the Ashford estate kitchens had offered so far.
She had ensured it would be perfect. Controlled. A statement without needing to say one.
Behind her, her three companions moved restlessly in the room. All four of them wore fresh dresses in the Velmire fashion, narrow sleeves, high collars, fabrics dyed in layered hues of ocean green, pearl gray, and storm blue. They looked polished. Unthreatening. Presentable.
Marissa of House Greensea had not stopped fidgeting.
“You’re overdoing it, Selira,” she said with a dramatic little sigh, inspecting her nails. “It’s just brunch. With little girls.”
Selira said nothing.
Marissa continued anyway; voice just sharp enough to cut. “I mean really, Grace might be the daughter of a Duchess, but she’s five. The other two? A knight’s daughter and some baron’s kid. This setup is… embarrassing.”
Angela blinked. “I’m ‘only’ a baron’s daughter.”
That made Marissa scoff. “You know what I meant.”
Selira turned. Her voice was quiet. Precise. “Marissa. Shut up.”
The silence was immediate.
Selira stepped forward, gaze level. “You’ve been overstepping for days now. I tolerated it in public. I am not tolerating it here.”
Marissa paled slightly, but said nothing.
Selira’s tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “What’s wrong with you?”
Marissa muttered under her breath, almost too low to catch. “I’ll tell my father how I’m being treated here…”
Selira moved before she even knew she was moving. One step forward, then another, and her hand cracked sharply across Marissa’s cheek. The sound echoed in the delicate stillness of the room, louder than it should have been. Marissa gasped, stumbling back a step, one hand flying to her face in disbelief. Angela froze mid-motion, and Kristin turned pale, lips parted but silent.
Selira didn’t yell. She didn’t scowl. She simply looked at Marissa. “You will not speak of Velmire’s name like a child threatening to tattle,” she said calmly, as if she’d merely corrected a mispronunciation. “You are not here as your father’s daughter. You are here as mine. And if you embarrass me again, I will see to it that you return to Greenport with your name wrapped in shame and your rank stripped to embroidery.”
Marissa didn’t reply. Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
Selira gave her a final glance, then turned back to the table with regal ease. “Fix your hair. Sit straight. We are receiving the heir of Liliana.”
The words landed with purpose. Not the heir of Ashford, though that was true in all but law. Not the Duchess’s daughter, though it would’ve sufficed. She said heir of Liliana because that was what mattered.
Selira was betrothed to Ronan, the legal heir in the eyes of the Crown. But titles didn’t matter in the same way power did. And Grace, for all her age and ‘innocence’, already had more control over the estate than Ronan had a footing inside. Where Ronan was still trying to prove himself, Grace was here.
So, she chose her words with care. Because politics wasn’t about truth, it was about who people listened to when they were afraid.
Selira’s final words still hung in the air when the doors opened.
A servant stepped aside with a bow, and in walked Grace, flanked by Clara and Elen, their footsteps light against the polished floor. The shift in atmosphere was immediate, like a breeze slipping through a still room.
The three girls were dressed with care. Grace, in a soft gray gown edged with pale silver thread, carried herself with the ease of someone used to being watched. Clara’s dress was a shade brighter, a warm cream and green, slightly too ornate for the occasion. And Elen, tall and quiet, wore a lavender dress that didn’t quite fit her frame. It had clearly once belonged to Clara.No one said anything. But they all noticed.
Selira stepped forward with a welcoming smile. “Lady Grace,” she said warmly. “You honor us by accepting.”
Grace returned the nod with exact precision. “Lady Selira. Thank you for the invitation.”
Selira’s gaze shifted politely. “Lady Clara. A pleasure.”
Clara curtsied, a little too quickly, the motion stiff at the end. “Thank you, my lady,” she said, voice higher than usual.
Then came Elen.
“Lady Elen.”
Elen’s nod was shallow, her mouth tight. She said nothing more than the name in return.
Grace, unbothered, continued with her own greetings, calm, composed, and flawlessly timed.
“Lady Selira.”— “Lady Marissa.”— “Lady Kristin.”— “Lady Angela.”
Each name pronounced with clarity. Each nod perfectly weighted. Not too much. Never too little. No one commented on Clara’s nerves or Elen’s silence.
Selira moved with composed grace, stepping ahead to guide them toward the table that dominated the center of the salon, a wide, round piece of carved dark wood polished to a gleam, its edges trimmed in silver leaf. The circular layout was intentional. No head. No hierarchy. Just suggestion.
“Please,” she said smoothly, gesturing to the array of dishes set with careful symmetry. “I asked the kitchens to prepare a few Velmire specialties, nothing too heavy for the hour. Citrus tarts, salt-butter rolls, fresh melon, saffron pastries, and a sea-herb pâté that travels better than you’d expect.” Her voice carried the calm of someone in control, but her eyes remained fixed on Grace.
Grace stepped forward, scanning the table with unreadable calm. The scent of lemon and warm bread drifted through the air, delicate and refined.
“It’s very thoughtful,” Grace said. “Velmire’s influence is… distinct.”
Selira dipped her head in acceptance and extended a hand to indicate one of the seven evenly spaced chairs.
“This one’s yours.”
Grace took her seat with quiet certainty, settling into the velvet-cushioned chair as if it had always been hers. Around her, the others began to follow, each guided more by unspoken expectation than instruction. Clara sat to her left, her movements eager but careful, her hands smoothing the folds of her dress before resting neatly on the table’s edge. Angela took the next seat, her eyes already alight with curiosity, cheeks flushed with the glow of anticipation. Across from Grace sat Selira, composed and elegant, her posture flawless. It was the host’s seat, a deliberate choice. The message was clear: equal rank, equal power. At least for today.
To Selira’s right, Marissa slid into place, still stiff from earlier, her face a well-rehearsed mask. Beside her, Kristin moved quietly, offering no commentary but observing everything. Then came Elen, taking the seat to Grace’s right. Her back was straight, her hands folded, but the dress still looked wrong on her, not in color, but in comfort.
Grace’s eyes lingered a moment on the symmetry. A full circle. Balanced. Controlled. Everyone exactly where they were meant to be. She liked circles. No one could hide behind anyone else. And no one could pretend they weren’t being watched.
As they settled, Angela reached across the space between her and Clara, gently taking both her hands with an excited smile.
“Your dress is so lovely,” she said warmly. “That color is perfect on you.”
Clara flushed instantly, glancing down at the cream and green fabric as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s just an old one,” she murmured. “But thank you.”
Kristin, already smoothing the skirt of her own gown, offered a small, approving nod. “It suits you.”
Clara beamed, visibly softening under the praise.
Melissa said nothing. But the tightness in her jaw and the way her spoon tapped faintly once against her plate betrayed everything she didn’t say.
Selira let the pleasantries settle. The praise for Clara had worked better than expected, Angela’s warmth, Kristin’s quiet agreement. Even Marissa, though tight-lipped, hadn’t exploded.
Good.
She shifted her weight subtly, allowing her posture to lean just enough toward casual. Not slouched, but approachable. Measured. Friendly. She turned her attention back to Grace, who sat directly across from her, hands resting lightly on the table, her expression unreadable.
Selira smiled.
“Is it strange,” she said lightly, “to be the youngest at a table and still command the most attention?”
Angela gave a soft laugh. Clara looked down at her plate. Elen said nothing. Grace simply blinked once; her face untouched.
Selira kept her smile soft, her tone effortless. “When I was your age,” she said lightly, “I could barely sit still through a family brunch without being sent back to the nursery.”
A few polite chuckles rose from Angela, of course, and a ghost of a smile from Kristin. Even Clara glanced up.
But Selira wasn’t watching them.
Her attention was on Grace, whose expression remained cool, composed, unreadable. She wasn’t distracted. She was listening. Selira continued, tone steady, conversational. “You carry yourself with poise I didn’t learn until my second year at court. It’s rare. And not something that comes without… experience.”
She reached for her teacup, taking her time, letting the compliment breathe. “I imagine you’ve had more of that than enough.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t pity. Just an observation, cloaked in casual respect.
She sipped, then added lightly, “In my family, the younger girls were always paired with an older cousin at formal events. Someone to whisper what not to say, when to nod, when not to drink the soup…”
A small smile. Not mocking, fond.
“I remember what a difference that made.”
She set her cup down gently, eyes still on Grace, never pressing, never leaning in.
“Not that you seem in need of guidance,” she said. “But if there’s ever a time when you’d prefer a voice outside the chain of command…”
She let the sentence trail off, unfinished, its edges soft and deliberate. The offer was there. But it wasn’t named. Selira wouldn’t push. She simply let the silence do what silence did best.
Wait. And test.
Selira didn’t look away from Grace. Grace hadn’t broken eye contact.
Her expression didn’t shift. Her posture didn’t ease. But when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and clear, controlled, without effort.
“That’s very generous,” Grace said. “I’ve been offered a great deal of help lately.”
Her blue eyes stayed fixed on Selira’s.
“Advice, support, reassurance… It’s kind. And useful. But it always comes with expectation.”
Selira sat straighter without meaning to. Grace wasn’t looking up at her. She was simply looking, with the kind of steadiness that made the room feel smaller. Selira was taller. Even seated, her shoulders were higher, her presence broader.
But that didn’t matter. Not with those eyes.
Blue, cold, and endless.
Selira had seen that gaze once before. Briefly. At the Citadel. When Duchess Liliana had turned toward her after their formal exchange, and looked through her, not at her. Measured her. Weighed her soul.
Grace had that look.
Selira didn’t flinch. She felt the shift, the cold flicker in Grace’s gaze, the unspoken weight behind her words, but she didn’t retreat from it. She met it with a slow, thoughtful smile and a gentle change of tone, pivoting as only someone trained in courts and sea-storm diplomacy could.
“Then I won’t add to the list,” she said lightly, reaching for her tea. “No reassurances. No advice. Just conversation.”
She let a beat pass before continuing, letting her voice soften.
“You know,” she said, setting her cup down, “I was thinking about your brothers.”
The room quieted slightly, just under the surface. Grace’s expression didn’t change, but Selira noted the faint flicker, awareness, not resistance.
“I only met Lord Ronan briefly,” Selira continued, “but I’ve heard much of Alaric and Cedric. Brave men. Loyal to their house. Their loss is… a wound no court can name properly.”
She didn’t linger on it. Just enough to mark the grief. To acknowledge the absence.
“But you’ve grown up mostly alone, haven’t you?” she said gently. “A house full of knights and retainers. Tutors and guards. No sisters. And brothers who were often far from home.”
She smiled, not condescending, but warm. Sincere. “It’s a strange thing, becoming family. You don’t just gain a husband, or a name. You gain… shape. Connection. Sometimes, even surprises.”
Her eyes met Grace’s again; this time deliberately softer.
“So perhaps, if you’ll allow it—it won’t just be me gaining a new home in Ashford. You’ll be getting something too.”
A pause. Measured. Meaningful.
“A big sister.”
And she left it there, sitting on the table beside the fish and the seafoam tarts, quiet as a gift unwrapped and waiting.
--::--
Grace knew exactly what Selira was doing.
The softened tone. The mention of brothers. The invitation wrapped in warm sisterly packaging. It was clean, careful, and rehearsed, the kind of thing Grace had expected from a girl like Selira.
Textbook politics, she thought. But not the worst.
At least Selira wasn’t pretending she was stupid. She’d done her homework, softened her stance, and played her hand like someone who understood the rules. Grace could respect that.
Still… I don’t need a sister. I need leverage.
But then again, maybe the two weren’t mutually exclusive. She let a few seconds pass, keeping her expression gentle. Not cold, just unreadable.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said aloud, her voice smooth and composed. “I appreciate the thoughtfulness, Lady Selira.”
She reached for her teacup; the porcelain warm against her fingers.
Play along. Let her feel clever. Let her feel in control.
“And I would be delighted.”
She took a sip, then met Selira’s gaze evenly over the rim of her cup.
Let’s see how long you last.
The first plates were passed with polite hands and careful timing. Grace took a slice of lemon-fish tart, a buttered roll, and a few curls of citrus-dusted fruit. No one spoke immediately, not about anything that mattered. The clink of silverware on porcelain set the rhythm instead.
Selira began to guide the conversation with practiced ease, a light comment about the garden layout, a small anecdote about the roads through the eastern hills. Grace let her talk. Let her steer. It didn’t cost her anything.
She’s good, Grace admitted silently. Too old to be dismissed. Too young to be dismissed gently.
The table, the food, even the delicate porcelain cups painted with storm lilies, all of it whispered the same thing: wealth. Velmire hadn’t just sent their daughter. They’d sent an envoy of affluence, dressed in silk and confidence. The gifts, the servants, the quiet perfection of it all… none of it had been bought locally.
They dragged this entire display across Virethorn just to impress us, Grace thought, sipping her tea. Or to make sure we remember who has coin when the Crown starts bleeding again.
She turned her attention briefly around the table. Elen sat stiffly at her side, every movement a little too careful, too restrained. She hadn’t touched the food much. Kristin, to her credit, tried to make conversation, soft, low questions about riding and books, but Elen only gave short answers, eyes lowered, hands in her lap.
Angela, on the other hand, was still fully absorbed in Clara, complimenting everything from the embroidery on her sleeves to the curl of her hair ribbon. Clara blushed and smiled, demure but pleased.
Marissa looked like someone had served her a plate of rot.
She picked at her fish like it might explode, eyes darting toward Grace now and then with the faint resentment of someone unsure whether they were being watched, and very aware they were being outshone.
They think I’m still just a girl, Grace thought, watching the table with calm interest. But I’m the reason they’re all sitting this straight.
She took another bite of tart, slow and thoughtful.
Selira shifted the conversation with elegant precision, just as the servants laid down the next course. Her voice was light, curious, controlled.
“I admit, I’m surprised to see you doing so well,” she said, eyes on Grace. “The servants said you were unconscious for a week after the attack. I would’ve expected… something more fragile.”
Grace took a small sip of water and set her cup down without sound.
“It was inconvenient,” she said dryly. “I woke up to a mess and no one cleaning it up. So, I got up.”
Angela laughed softly. Clara covered her mouth to hide a smile. Even Kristin smiled a little.
Then Melissa spoke. Her voice was sharp. Wet with contempt.
“What a farce this is,” she said, stabbing a piece of fruit too hard with her fork. “Entertaining little girls. Really, Selira?”
The table stilled. Only the soft clink of silverware broke the silence. Melissa leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.
“This one—” she pointed a manicured finger toward Clara “—looks ridiculous. How old is she even? Four? A child who wants to play princess?”
Clara froze, color draining from her face.
“And that one—” Melissa gestured at Elen, who flinched, not visibly, but enough Grace saw it “—the daughter of some lowborn knight? Wearing a dress two sizes too small? It’s pathetic. She looks like she was poured into it and sewn shut.”
Kristin’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Angela’s hands slipped away from Clara’s, uncertain.
Melissa turned her eyes to Grace last.
But she didn’t speak.
She just looked—up and down, as if measuring her—and then turned to Selira.
“Let’s just go back to Velmire. We’re not here to babysit. Your betrothed’s probably dying on the front line anyway.”
Melissa leaned back in her chair, still fuming, still holding the words like a dagger meant for someone else. The slap Selira had given her earlier was written all over her, not in bruises, but in the tension of her shoulders, the tight set of her mouth, the deliberate cruelty in her voice. It wasn’t about Clara. It wasn’t even about Elen.
It was about Selira.
Melissa couldn’t bear humiliation. Not in private, and certainly not in front of the girls she once believed she outshone. Her outburst hadn’t been spontaneous cruelty toward Grace’s friends, it was payback, a festering wound that needed to bleed, and she’d chosen this moment to make it sting.
Grace didn’t move. She didn’t blink.
But she saw it all.
Selira had gone pale. Just for a moment. A flicker of restrained fury passed over her features. Her eye twitched. Then, she inhaled deeply and turned her head with the grace of someone trained to kill in silence, and smiled at Grace.
“Let me give you your first piece of advice,” she said sweetly, “as your future big sister.”
Grace’s gaze narrowed. Mana.
It was gathering, not aggressively, not wildly, but with focused intent. Selira’s core wasn’t flaring brightly enough for Grace to mark its Circle, but she felt the presence. The pressure. The way the air around Selira thickened, dense and slow, like water waiting to collapse.
Selira picked up her knife. Slowly. Grace noticed how she flipped it in her grip, upside down, held by the blade, her knuckles white against the hilt.
“When you have a foul apple in your basket,” Selira said calmly, rising from her chair, “you cut it out.”
She drove the handle of the knife down into Melissa’s hand, pinning it to the table with a sickening crack. Melissa screamed. The table jolted. Dishes rattled. Clara gasped. Angela shoved back in her chair.
But Selira wasn’t finished.
She leaned forward, face utterly composed as she pulled the knife free in one clean motion. Blood welled immediately as Melissa clutched her wrist, retreating in panic.
“Because if you don’t,” Selira continued coldly, “it will ruin the whole basket.”
That was when the air shifted.
Grace felt the mana pulse change, thicker, sharper. Not floating gently, but leaking. Selira’s aura shimmered blue and green, dense like ocean water sliding down the walls of the room.
Then she whispered a single word, ancient, sharp, alive with magic:
ᛏᚼᚱᚬᚢᛁᚾ
Before Melissa could even scream again, the spell struck.
A crashing wall of conjured seawater exploded into the room with a salty crack, lifting her off her feet in a roar of churning, magical ocean. For a split second, a faint shimmer pulsed around her chest, a protection charm, thin and brittle, flaring blue-white as it tried to hold.
It shattered like glass.
Melissa wasn’t a mage. She had no core, no discipline, no shield but wealth and entitlement, and neither were enough.
The wave hit her like a battering ram, slammed her bodily through the double doors, across the corridor, and into the stone wall of the next chamber. A sharp, wet crunch followed. Bone. Wood. Dignity. All of it broken on impact.
Bones cracked. Furniture collapsed. The silence that followed was absolute.
Selira turned back to the table and sat down smoothly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her dress was soaked, but her composure was untouched.
She reached for her tea again. Grace hadn’t moved.
But Grace was smiling now—just barely enough to show teeth.
The silence hadn’t lasted more than a breath before the far doors slammed open.
Elyne stood in the entryway, a step ahead of Grace’s knights. Her expression was tight, controlled, but Grace saw the flicker of alarm in her eyes, the quick scan as she took in the soaked room, the stunned girls, the blood on the table. Calen was already halfway through the threshold, hand at his blade.
Grace didn’t rise. She didn’t shift in her seat. She simply turned her head and said, calmly, “Nothing happened.” Elyne blinked. “Everything is fine,” Grace continued, her voice gentle but absolute.
Elyne hesitated for half a second longer, then exhaled quietly. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and turned. With a sharp gesture, she led the knights back through the doors. They closed behind them with a heavy click.
Grace looked back to Selira. She picked up her napkin, dabbing the corner of her mouth with slow, deliberate care.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For the lesson.”
Her eyes met Selira’s across the dripping table.
“Big sister.”
Grace sat still as the scent of salt and blood settled into the air, threading between overturned chairs and broken silence.
Second Circle, she thought, eyes narrowing slightly. Maybe more if she’s hiding it well, but no higher. She didn’t need much mana to cast that, just control. Intent. Precision.
It wasn’t a show of strength. It was a show of judgment.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, quietly, inwardly. The blood smeared on the table was already beginning to dry, dark against the fine linen.
Unnecessary, she thought. Messy.
She hadn’t planned for violence at brunch. But that wasn’t what made her sigh. It was Clara, wide-eyed and pale, her hands trembling just enough that only Grace would notice. Traumatized again, she noted, not with annoyance, but with weariness. Always soft.
Still.
She glanced at Selira, who was calmly smoothing her sleeves, still damp from the conjured wave, as if none of it had unsettled her.
Grace studied her a moment longer. There was something familiar in her. Not the magic. Not the speech. Not even the politics.
It was the choice.
The willingness to cut something out—publicly, painfully—to prove a point.
She understands consequence, Grace thought. She doesn't pretend violence is beneath her.
She didn’t trust Selira. But for the first time since the banquet, she thought: Maybe she’s someone I can work with.
Maybe.
Grace picked up her teacup again, and took another sip.
