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Book 1: Chapter 39: Sentiment And Strategy
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:41:45 +0000 UTCChapter 39:
Sentiment And Strategy
The tea in Selira's porcelain cup had long gone lukewarm, but she made no move to replace it. She sat perfectly composed on the cushioned bench beneath the tall window of her chamber, legs crossed, spine straight, hands resting delicately in her lap. Across from her, at a small table lacquered in Ashford red, the three noble daughters from Velmire chatted with the casual sharpness of girls born into privilege but raised far from politics.
"She really did it," Kristin of House Halwyn whispered, leaning forward, her pearl-pinned braid swinging slightly. "In her nightgown, no less. Bloodstained, barefoot. The servants said she didn’t even flinch. Just walked in like it was another lesson and pointed to the floor."
Angela of House Veylor gave a dramatic shiver. "And the knight just obeyed. Threw the head maid down like a sack of flour. Imagine being in the hallway when that happened."
"Imagine being the maid," Kristin said dryly.
"Imagine being the child," Marissa of House Greensea scoffed, swirling her tea too fast, sloshing a little over the rim. "She’s five. Five. And mad as a rat in a locked box. You saw the bruises on her neck at the courtyard, didn’t you? They say she killed the assassin with her bare hands. Now she’s cutting fingers off her own staff."
Selira remained silent. Her gaze rested on the edge of the window frame, where the pale morning light painted soft lines across the stone.
Marissa continued, louder now. "And now, I hear, she’s been put in charge? That’s the latest. The servants are whispering about it. That Duchess Liliana left her in control of the entire estate while she rides back to the Citadel. What kind of woman gives power to a little savage girl who can’t even hold a tea cup properly?"
"Not the entire estate," Angela offered cautiously. "Just parts of it. Lady Elyne is still managing the guard rotations and supplies."
"Oh, well then," Marissa drawled. "That makes it perfectly sane. Give the estate to a blood-soaked child so long as the babysitter keeps the swords in their scabbards."
Kristin giggled nervously, but her eyes flicked toward Selira, who still hadn’t spoken.
The room quieted just slightly. Enough to make the shift in mood noticeable.
Selira lifted her teacup, sipped once, and finally spoke. "Do you think the Duchess would hand authority to someone she didn’t trust implicitly?"
Marissa blinked. "She’s five."
"And the Duchess," Selira said, setting her cup down with delicate precision, "is not in the habit of trusting lightly."
Angela shifted in her seat. "So, you believe it? That Grace is truly in charge?"
"I believe what matters is not whether Grace holds the reins," Selira said quietly, "but that everyone in this estate now believes she does."
She leaned back, folding her hands over her knee. "Perception, my dears, often weighs more than truth. And in this house, it is not wise to speak too loudly about what you do not understand."
Marissa flushed slightly. Kristin dropped her gaze. Selira let the silence stretch, her expression calm, unreadable.
Outside the window, crows scattered from the garden walls, their wings cutting black shapes against the pale sky.
Selira watched them go, her thoughts already shifting again.
Whatever Grace of Ashford truly was, she no longer had the luxury of dismissing her as a child. She had seen too much blood for that, and commanded too much fear with her knights.
"It’s still ridiculous," Marissa muttered after a beat. "Letting a child run the estate... it’s a farce."
The girls began to chatter again, voices low, slipping into the rhythm of speculation and scandal, drawing on every whisper the servants had dared to share.
Selira didn’t respond. She let the noise wash over her, a background hum to her real thoughts.
This situation was more complicated than ever. Grace’s rise — violent, public, and eerily unopposed — had changed the balance of the estate overnight. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t terrible news. Ronan had proven himself to be no reliable pillar. He was too trusting, too eager to please, too unaware of the deep currents beneath the surface. After their marriage, she wouldn’t even be seen as Ashford, not with him stumbling about like a boy playing lord.
But Grace... Grace was different.
If Selira could get close to her, befriend her, even guide her, then perhaps there was still a future for her in Ashford worth having. A foothold not through Ronan, but through the girl no one else dared to touch. The little girl who had been underestimated.
Selira folded her hands and listened as the gossip circled back again, her expression serene.
After a short while listening to the girls, she lifted one hand and caught the attention of a nearby servant, who stood by the door, pretending not to listen.
"Could you please invite my future sister-in-law, and her friends, to brunch?" she asked, voice light and smooth. "We should familiarize ourselves more."
Angela's eyes lit up in surprised delight, the social butterfly already imagining a dozen charming ways to present herself. Kristin looked startled but said nothing. Marissa, predictably, looked disgusted.
Selira sighed inwardly. She needed to get a handle on Marissa.
Quickly.
--::--
The estate’s eastern administration chamber smelled faintly of old parchment and wax. Grace sat with perfect posture at the long walnut desk, a fresh slate in front of her, her fingers steepled in thought. Elyne stood beside a tall cabinet near the wall, gently running her finger down the column of a large ledger.
"Around 2,900 inhabitants live within the estate grounds," Elyne said, her voice calm, instructional. "All are noble-born, though most belong to the lower nobility, cadet branches, honor-bound houses, and retainers of allied lineages. For them, it's a privilege to serve here."
She closed the ledger softly. "They are paid well. Some serve as staff, others as tutors, clerks, or craftsmen. But you must understand, there are no commoners here. Every servant in the Ashford estate is a noble of some standing. That’s part of what keeps the hierarchy intact."
Grace nodded slowly, absorbing the structure. "And the guards?"
Elyne turned, moving to the wall where a regional estate map was pinned in delicate gold. She pointed to the marked barracks.
"A standing troop of 1,500 soldiers is stationed within the estate boundaries. They are professionally trained and rotated seasonally from the duchy’s various house-aligned forces. Now, with Lady Selira’s arrival, an additional contingent from Velmire has been added — approximately three hundred, including her war-mage and knights."
Grace’s eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. "And who commands them?"
"For now," Elyne said carefully, "they report to their Velmire chain of command. But within the estate, they answer to our protocols. Lady Selira understands this, at least outwardly."
Grace’s gaze drifted to the slate. 2,900 residents. 1,500 soldiers. Plus guests. Plus risks. She tapped her finger once against the table.
"Show me the names of all heads of household units within the estate," she said quietly.
Elyne hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then nodded. "Of course, my lady."
Outside the tall windows, bells rang from the north wing.
Then a soft knock at the chamber made them hold.
Elyne turned. "Yes?"
A steward entered, bowing low. "Pardon the interruption. A message has arrived for Lady Grace. From Lady Selira of House Velmire."
Grace lifted a brow slightly. "Go on.”
The steward straightened, unfolding the fine parchment.
"Lady Selira extends her warmest greetings and expresses her deep relief that you have recovered from the incident. She states that she was sincerely worried about her future sister-in-law, and offers her support in these trying circumstances."
He paused before continuing. "Lady Selira requests the honor of your company at a private brunch tomorrow morning. She wishes to better understand the recent events, and offers her perspective and assistance in any matters you may require... as a future elder sister."
He hesitated briefly, then added, "Lady Selira also extends this invitation to Lady Clara and Lady Elen, so you may attend with your trusted companions."
Grace said nothing at first. Then her lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.
"How... thoughtful," she murmured.
She glanced briefly to Elyne. The woman met her gaze and gave a small, composed nod.
Grace turned back to the steward. "Tell Lady Selira we accept." The steward bowed once more and withdrew.
As the door closed behind him, Grace let out a quiet sigh. She had been in this chamber since morning, since her mother had left. The messenger had reminded her of something else. She had yet to see Clara and Elen since the bakery. Since the blood. Since everything.
She folded her hands again, resting them gently on the slate.
It was time to face them.
Grace leaned back slightly in her chair, her eyes drifting once more to the tall window as the morning light gave way to a softer gold. “Where are Clara and Elen right now?” she asked, her tone almost casual.
Elyne, still standing near the ledger cabinet, didn’t miss a beat. “Lady Elen is currently residing in the Bellgrave mansion with Lady Clara. Since the incident at Petals and Pearls, she has not returned to her own house.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s midday. I imagine they’re having lunch about now.”
There was a short pause. Then Elyne hesitated, the briefest flicker of concern crossing her features. “You should eat something too,” she added gently. “You’ve had nothing but tea since dawn.”
Grace blinked, as if just now realizing the hollowness in her stomach. “Yes… I suppose I should,” she murmured, voice distant. Then she stood, brushing the creases from her skirt with absent precision. “Let’s go to the Bellgrave mansion. I think we should surprise them.”
--::--
The midday sun filtered gently through the tall windows of the Bellgrave mansion’s living room, casting warm light across the polished table where Clara and Elen sat in quiet tension. A silver tea set rested untouched between them, and the steward — an older man with a dignified, hushed presence — moved silently as he placed two plates of roasted root vegetables and buttered whitefish in front of them.
Neither girl reached for their fork.
Clara’s hands were folded tightly in her lap, her posture unusually still, eyes fixed on the steam rising from her food. Elen sat more rigidly, her back straight but her gaze lowered, watching the silver glint of her knife rather than the girl across from her.
The silence had stretched too long. Clara finally broke it.
“You heard what they’re saying, didn’t you?” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.
Elen nodded once. “Yes.”
“They say…” Clara paused, her voice catching. “They say she—” she glanced quickly at the steward, who had begun refilling their cups, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “They say she dragged the head maid into the hallway and… cut off her finger.”
Elen didn’t flinch, but her lips thinned. “It’s not confirmed. Just rumors.”
Clara looked down, her eyes clouded. “But the knights didn’t deny it when I asked. And no one’s seen the head maid since yesterday.” She twisted her fingers together. “What if she’s hurt again? What if she collapsed or… lost control?”
Elen exhaled slowly, her gaze still on the plate. “She’s strong. She survived the attack. That says enough.”
Clara bit her lip. “That’s not what I meant.” Her voice dropped even lower. “I’m not afraid of what happened to her. I’m afraid… of what it did to her.”
The steward stepped back with a quiet bow, retreating from the room. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Neither girl touched their food.
Clara reached up and touched the golden hairpin nestled just above her ear, the delicate silver rose with its tiny pink gem. Her fingers lingered there, lightly brushing the petals. “She’s the youngest of us,” she said softly. “And yet she still tries to carry everything. She gave this to me… and smiled like it was the most normal thing in the world.”
She looked down, eyes glinting faintly. “She has the kindest heart. The brightest. I don’t care what they say.”
Elen didn’t reply immediately. She watched Clara with a quiet intensity before speaking. “Grace isn’t weak, Clara.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
“No,” Elen admitted. “But you speak like she needs protecting. Like she might break.” She shook her head faintly. “She’s strong. She doesn’t crack. But… I’m still worried.”
Clara nodded slowly, her hand dropping back to her lap. “Me too.”
They sat together in silence, two girls in a sunlit room, hearts heavy with things they couldn’t quite name.
Then a voice broke the silence, light and laced with mischief.
“Don’t look so sad. I’m not dead.”
Both Clara and Elen jolted, their heads snapping toward the doorway.
Grace stood there.
The afternoon light framed her like a painting, a vision in crimson. The velvet dress she had chosen that morning hugged her figure, its stitching subtle but regal. Around her neck gleamed the diamond necklace, a single teardrop of brilliance catching the sun, casting glimmers across her pale collarbone. Her golden curls had been combed into delicate shape, and her eyes — impossibly blue — looked endless. Deep. Unreadable. Yet when she smiled, it was soft, warm, and devastatingly real. It was as if an angel stood before them.
Behind her stood Elyne, hands folded, her posture tall and composed. There was pride in her eyes, but exhaustion too. Like she had carried the weight of the whole week just to arrive at this moment.
Clara rose so quickly her chair scraped back. Her eyes shimmered, her fingers fluttering toward her mouth as if unsure whether to cry or throw herself forward. “Grace…” she whispered.
Elen stood more slowly, tension coiled tight in her shoulders, but her gaze never left Grace’s face. Her expression was wary. Studying. And yet beneath it, there was a flicker of something else. Relief. And maybe… something close to hope.
Clara couldn’t hold herself back.
In an instant, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Grace, careful — so painfully careful — as if the girl before her might vanish if held too tightly. Her head pressed against Grace’s shoulder, and she whispered, “You scared me. You really scared me.”
Grace stood still for a moment, surprised by the intensity, but then her arms lifted and folded gently around Clara’s back. “I know,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, closer. “I’m sorry.”
Clara pulled back just enough to look at her, her face pale with emotion, her voice shaking. “Don’t do that again,” she said fiercely, eyes glistening. “Don’t walk into danger like that. Don’t bleed like that. You’re not allowed.”
Her fingers curled tightly into Grace’s sleeves. “You stepped in front of me. I saw it. You— You were faster than anything. You shouldn’t have made it. But you did. And then you fell and—” Her voice broke. “It should’ve been me.”
Grace’s expression softened, a quiet gravity settling over her features. “It shouldn’t have been anyone,” she said simply. “But I couldn’t let it be you.”
Your mine after all. The thought rang with absolute certainty, a quiet fire behind her ribs. Not love, not softness, something sharper. Something possessive and cruel and warm all at once. Clara didn’t get it. Not really. But she didn’t need to.
Clara blinked quickly, tears gathering. “You took the knife. You let it stab you...”
“I know,” Grace said. “And I’d do it again.” Probably more dramatically next time, she added silently, because if she was going to bleed, it might as well be memorable.
Clara let out a sound between a breath and a sob, and pulled her back into the hug, fiercer this time. Not careful. Not afraid.
And Grace? Grace let her. Arms around the girl who adored her, who wept for her, who wore her gift every time she saw her. It should’ve made her feel triumphant. Instead, it made her feel... weird.
She glanced sideways and found Elen standing a step away, stiff and silent. Watching. Judging. Caring. Ugh.
“Are you going to cry too?” Grace asked, tilting her head, voice feather-light with venom.
Elen scowled. “You’re not that special.”
Grace smirked. “Liar.” —There it was. Balance restored. She could breathe again.
Clara loosened her grip slightly, looking up with big, watery eyes, and Grace hated it, hated how it made her chest feel tight and strange and unarmored.
I don’t like this. I don’t like feeling like this. It's really tiring...
She was supposed to control people, not need them. Supposed to shape the world around her like a stage, every actor dancing to her script. And yet here she was. Letting herself be hugged. Letting herself care. Disgusting.
She sighed.
I am the main character, and these two are turning my epic villain arc into a goddamn friendship subplot.
But if she was honest with herself, she didn’t care anymore. Earth was just a fading memory. Her old self—an embarrassing edgelord.
Grace turned toward the sitting room, the hem of her crimson dress sweeping out like a queen reclaiming her court.
“Now,” Grace said, her voice shifting back to that familiar edge of command softened by affection, “should I have dressed down to match the two of you, or will I be forgiven for arriving like I own the place?”
Clara let out a small, choked laugh, her hand still resting lightly on Grace’s sleeve.
Elen rolled her eyes. “You already do own the place.”
Grace smiled, slow, sharp, and self-satisfied. “Good,” she said with a smug grin, turning just slightly so the diamond at her throat caught the light. “Then I’ve had enough sentiment for one day. Someone bring me something to eat before I revoke someone’s fingers. Again.”
Clara snorted, horrified and delighted. “You’re awful…”
Elen gave a soft, incredulous scoff. “Please,” she muttered. “You’d make the kitchen staff cry.”
“I make everyone cry,” Grace replied sweetly, fluttering her lashes with mock innocence. “It’s a talent.”
For the moment, everything else faded into the background. And the three girls simply stood there, together. Whole. Almost.
From the doorway, Elyne watched in silence.
She hadn’t spoken since they entered, hadn’t needed to. The moment Grace stepped into the room, everything shifted. The mood, the tension, the weight in the air. All of it peeled away as if pulled by gravity toward the small girl in crimson who stood like she belonged there, like she always had.
Clara was laughing again. Elen’s shoulders had finally relaxed. And Grace, for all her dramatics, looked… content.
Not peaceful. Never that. But settled. Present. Alive.
Elyne let out a quiet breath, the kind that held more than just air, the kind that held a whole day’s worth of worry.
She leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Let them have this, she thought. Let her have this.
Just for a little while.
She went out and closed the door behind her.
