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Book 1: Chapter 53: In The Name Of Grace
🕑 Added 2025-06-21 22:54:54 +0000 UTCChapter: 53
In The Name Of Grace
It had been an intense week for Saren Holt.
Everything had to be flawless. Every letter sent through back channels. Every name scrubbed from manifests. Every whisper paid to vanish before it reached Valewick ears. Not even his best traders knew the full shape of his plan. He wasn’t just prepping for a trade deal.
He was preparing for war. A quiet one, sure—but no less deadly.
And now, it was time.
Saren sat heavily in his carriage, its interior upholstered in dark blue velvet, imported from Velmire looms. His weight shifted slightly with every bump in the road, the springs groaning beneath the strain, but the old cart was built well. Sturdy. Just like Stonefield stock.
Outside the window, the landscape rolled past, hills giving way to frost-dusted farmlands, patches of black pine dotting the horizon. And there, in the distance, like a black crown rising from the valley’s spine: the citadel of Valewick.
“Always there,” he muttered under his breath, lips curling in a mix of resentment and admiration.
That place had loomed over his childhood, over his ruin, and over every step of his climb since. Now he was driving straight into its shadow again, but not to beg. Not this time.
He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, thick and tailored in deep forest green, formal enough to pass in noble circles, but practical in cut. Nobles looked down on commoners. More so if they dressed poorly. But if you walked in dressed too finely, you looked like you were playing dress-up. This struck the line: expensive without apology.
His big, callused hand rested on the polished wooden box beside him. A gift. Carefully chosen and meaningful. It was not a bribe; it was an offering. A conversation starter, a symbol, and above all, a message.
He chuckled quietly to himself. How ironic, really, to feel this nervous about meeting a child. But this wasn’t just any child. This was her child. The daughter of Duchess Liliana of Ashford. The only child by blood. And Liliana… well, she didn’t share power. She ruled with it.
Saren had dealt with difficult people in his life. He’d broken contracts, buried rivals, bankrupted arrogant fools who thought bloodline beat grit.
But today would decide his future. No, more than that.
Today would decide if he would finally rise above the chains that had bound his father’s name. If he could shake the Valewick merchants until their gilded teeth cracked. If he could carve a place in Ashford’s court, not with a title, but with leverage.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. No second chances. The estate was just ahead now. Time to play his hand.
The carriage came to a slow stop at the massive wrought-iron gates of the Ashford Estate.
Saren leaned slightly forward, peering out the window. It was the first time he had seen the estate in person. And from what he knew, it was rare, very rare, for someone of common birth, without even a scrap of noble blood, to be granted entry.
A guard approached, tall, armored in Ashford black with silver trim, his posture more statue than man. Saren rolled the window down, careful to move with the kind of slow confidence that suggested he belonged.
“I have an invitation,” he said, producing the folded parchment. “Sealed by Lady Grace of Ashford herself.”
The guard took the letter without a word. His eyes skimmed the seal, then the signature. Still silent, he stepped aside, signaled to another sentry at the post, and checked the guest list on a clipboard of dark lacquered wood.
“Master Holt,” the guard finally said, voice clipped but not hostile. “You are cleared. Follow the path to the east wing. You’ll be expected.”
Saren gave a brief nod, no smile. Just enough acknowledgement to suggest respect, but not deference.
“Much appreciated,” he replied, and the carriage rolled forward through the opening gates.
He left the window open, letting the breeze and spring scents drift in. Flowers were already blooming here, white crocus, purple hyacinth, pale blue lily. Not arranged for display, but growing naturally, with that curated wildness that only the wealthy could afford.
The estate was timeless. Old stone buildings rose from manicured lawns like monuments carved by the years, not built. The architecture wasn’t meant to impress the common man, it was meant to remind nobles that this place had always been here, and always would be.
A shiver ran down Saren’s spine. It wasn’t fear. It was recognition. The Ashford Estate was like another world. Serene. Steeped in power. Untouchable. Not like the coal-stained alleys and soot-grimed walls of Stonefield. This was a place that bent time around itself.
Maybe one day, he thought, as he gazed out over the gardens, I could have something like this. Peace. Children. A quiet end. But not yet. Not now.
Now was for ambition.
After a ten-minute ride that felt like a slow roll through a dream, the carriage stopped in front of the east wing, a curved section of the estate ringed by marble pillars and ivy-laced archways. His informant had been clear: this entire wing was the girl’s domain.
His driver stepped down and quickly opened the door.
“Sir Holt,” the man said smartly, offering a gloved hand. “We’ve arrived.”
Saren stepped down, his coat shifting slightly with the motion, and inhaled the air, it even smelled clean here.
He turned to his man with a weighty hand on the shoulder. “Tobi. If this goes well, you’ll be more than properly rewarded. So, make sure it does. Keep your eyes sharp.”
Tobi nodded eagerly, eyes wide and serious. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure nothing touches the carriage or you while you're inside.”
“Good lad,” Saren muttered. Then he turned toward the entrance.
Time to meet the girl who might change everything.
Saren clutched the wooden box tightly in one hand as he stepped up the broad stone stairs toward the entrance. His boots, polished until they shone, clacked softly against the marble steps. At the top, a tall figure in black and silver knight armor stood guard, unmoving.
Saren was not a small man. Thick in the shoulders, broad in the chest, heavy in presence, but this guard stood nearly a head taller, built like a siege engine in plate.
The knight’s voice was cool and professional. “Master Saren Holt. You are expected. Follow me.”
Without another word, he turned and pushed the doors open with a smooth strength. Saren followed, the weight of the box in his arms grounding him as they entered the Ashford Estate proper.
They passed through a series of long, vaulted entry halls. The walls were lined with paintings, portraits of dukes, battles long past, landscapes of old Ashford before the cities. Each frame was a masterpiece. Saren slowed for half a step at one particularly arresting oil piece—The Founding of the Citadel, a swirl of fire, stone, and divine light, all encasing a single man at the center.
The man was veiled. But his stance was unmistakably powerful.
They display power like others display flowers, he thought. Nothing soft here. All legacy.
Finally, the knight stopped at a delicate double door of white and gold. He rapped once, and a maid answered from within.
The guard stepped aside and stood at attention. The maid gave Saren a quick, polite nod, then gestured him inward with a small, almost conspiratorial wink.
He stepped into the reception chamber.
It was... breathtaking.
The room was dressed in subtle opulence, every detail deliberate. The walls were paneled in pale gold filigree. A massive skylight poured soft daylight down from the ceiling above, catching on polished surfaces and crystal sconces. The carpet beneath his boots was Ashford weave, silk-threaded, dyed in crimson and ash grey.
At the far end of the room, raised slightly on a three-step dais, sat a throne-like chair.
And in it, she sat.
Grace of Ashford.
She was... not what he had expected.
Clad in a stunning crimson dress that flowed elegantly around her, she wore a fine chain at her neck, set with a single, prominent diamond that caught the light like a shard of moonlight. Her blonde curls were arranged in perfect cascading spirals over her shoulders, styled with care. Her blue eyes, too sharp and too steady for her age, met his own with calm amusement.
He stopped short.
Speechless.
She was a child. But not.
She looked down at him as if this room, this estate, this meeting—all of it—belonged to her alone. And in a way, it did.
Saren swallowed his surprise and quickly regained his composure. He stepped forward to the foot of the dais and dropped to one knee, placing the box down beside him.
He looked up. He knew the etiquette. She raised her hand, small, pale, perfect in its stillness. He bowed low, pressing his forehead to her fingers, then kissed them with measured grace. Her mouth twitched, just a flicker of mischief, and then she spoke.
“Rise, Master Holt.”
--::--
As the door opened and the merchant stepped inside, Grace’s posture remained perfect, shoulders set, chin poised, but inwardly, her expression flickered.
Oh. He’s… large.
Massive, really. Like someone had taken the idea of a man and inflated it with trade contracts and gravy. Dressed to impress too, rich forest-green coat, polished boots, the kind of attire that screamed, Look, I belong here. Please stop checking if I stole the silverware.
Sweat glistened on his forehead, despite the spring breeze drifting in from the skylight above. Grace’s eyes flicked briefly to the dark wooden box in his hand. Heavy. Carefully held.
Well. At least he brought a gift. Let’s hope it isn’t cheese.
She mentally shoved the sarcasm aside. Calm down, Grace. You’re not superficial. No, truly. She had no issue with the man’s size, plenty of nobles were fat, and in high society, bulk often signaled luxury, power and indulgence.
But this man wore his mass with presence. He filled the room, figuratively and literally. And Grace, for all her poise, respected that. He wasn’t just some jiggling merchant hoping for scraps.
No. He was here to make something happen.
All right then, she thought as she met his eyes. Let’s see how you handle yourself, Master Holt.
To her measured pleasure, he handled himself perfectly.
Not a twitch out of place. He walked to her with careful grace, then knelt with the right mixture of humility and purpose. And when he kissed her hand—delicately, reverently, with all the practiced timing of someone who'd studied courtly conduct down to the breath—she nearly smirked.
Oh. He did his homework. Good dog.
She let the pause stretch, just long enough to remind him who held the higher ground.
“Rise, Master Holt.”
He rose and she gestured subtly with two fingers. The maid returned with a silver tray and two glasses, infused tea, faintly chilled, steam still rising from the rim. Not wine. Not at this hour. She wasn’t playing that game. Also, she was five so… she sighted inwardly.
“Welcome to the Ashford Estate,” she said with her most gracious smile, the kind that could be mistaken for warmth if you didn’t know her.
“I trust the journey from Stonefield was... enlightening?”
A spark danced in her eye as she watched him sit, very carefully, on the edge of the reinforced guest chair.
He lowered himself carefully onto the velvet-cushioned sofa across from her, moving like a man who had learned long ago which chairs held and which collapsed. The reinforced legs creaked only once, impressive craftsmanship.
Grace took a delicate sip of her tea as he answered her question, his voice polite, polished, and tinged with that Stonefield grit he couldn’t quite hide. The journey had been “pleasant,” he said.
Of course, it was. Velvet seats, a driver, and probably half a smoked ham in arm’s reach.
Then, with practiced timing and an expression halfway between pride and humility, he reached to his side and placed the wooden box on the table between them.
“A small gesture,” he said smoothly. “Just a token of thoughtfulness, for the time you’ve granted me. Before we speak of business, of course.”
He looked quite pleased with himself, eyes glinting with the subtle anticipation of a man convinced he had done everything right.
Grace smiled, all politeness and poise. But internally?
Oh, here it comes. The grand unveiling. What will it be? A family heirloom? A gilded ledger? A goat-shaped trinket carved in regret and scented with desperation?
She leaned in slightly, hands folded on her lap, giving the box just enough attention to seem gracious.
Let’s see what you think a girl like me wants, Master Holt.
Grace offered a polite “thank you” as she reached for the box, her fingers delicate against the smooth lacquered wood. She opened the lid with quiet anticipation, expecting some ornate trinket, a clever token perhaps, something charming but ultimately forgettable.
Instead, she paused.
Curled inside, nestled in velvet the color of dried blood, was… a stone?
No… not a stone.
It pulsed. Softly. Faint threads of mana curled from its surface like breath in cold air. As her fingers brushed it, the warmth startled her. It was alive. Dormant, but alive.
Her lips parted slightly.
You clever bastard.
“This is…” she began, then stopped. Words briefly failed her. And that alone gave her pause.
Saren, across from her, was absolutely glowing with quiet pride. “Yes, it is, my grace,” he said with careful reverence. “A wyvern egg.”
Grace stilled. This wasn’t a gift. This was a statement. Not something you picked up in a bazaar or had carved by some obscure artisan. A wyvern egg was rare. Expensive and also heavily restricted.
After a moment, she regained her voice, calm and cool.
“Aren’t wyvern eggs restricted?” she asked mildly, lifting her eyes to meet his. “I believe there are fewer than a dozen live wyverns under human control in the entire kingdom. Handling them—especially before they hatch—requires state oversight. Wyvern stalls. Registrations. Royal clearance.”
Her voice remained gentle, but the edge behind it was real.
Saren cleared his throat.
Not nervously, well, maybe a little, but more in the way a man does when he’s already pushed all his chips into the center of the table and knows there’s no folding now.
Grace could feel it. He was going all in.
“I’ll be honest, Your Grace,” he began, shifting slightly in his seat. “At first, I meant to bring something else. Something more… traditional. A gesture. A work of art, maybe. Or something rare from the mines near Stonefield. But none of it felt right. Not for you.”
Grace raised a single eyebrow. Flattery, delivered smoothly. But at least he wasn’t groveling.
“Then I heard about this egg,” he continued, nodding toward the box. “Word whispered on the wrong wind, as such things often are. It was… available. Barely. A black-market transaction. Completely illegal, naturally.”
He leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly.
“And so, as a law-abiding Master Trader, I was faced with a choice, inform the authorities… or bring it to a higher authority.”
His eyes met hers, steady. Serious.
“You.”
Grace didn’t respond at first. She simply stared, quiet and expressionless, one finger tapping gently against the stem of her teacup.
So that was his move. He had connections. Not just in Stonefield, he had enough reach to sniff out contraband that most wouldn’t even know existed. And more than that, he had the stones to present it to her, gift-wrapped and humming with danger.
He wasn’t groveling. He was betting. Boldly. And she respected that. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t make him squirm.
“I see,” Grace said softly. “So, you decided to bypass the law entirely and bring a restricted creature of war to the personal chambers of a minor.”
Saren’s brow twitched. “My lady, of course I—”
“Do you know,” she continued with serene sweetness, “what the sentence is for trafficking magical beasts without clearance?” She took another sip of her tea, eyes never leaving his. “Execution. Or… confiscation of property. All of it.”
His forehead began to shine again.
Ah, Grace thought with amusement, there’s the sweat. Right on cue.
“I—I merely sought to demonstrate the extent of my reach,” Saren stammered, still trying to sound confident. “My loyalty to Ashford. And… my trust in Your Grace’s wisdom.”
Grace let the silence stretch.
Then, just when his lips began to part again, she smiled, cool and gracious, like the sun parting winter clouds.
“I like your gift, Master Holt.”
He blinked.
“I indeed expect great things from you.” She set her teacup down with a gentle click. “So, let’s talk about your business proposal.”
The relief that rippled across his face was nothing short of delicious.
Saren regained his composure quickly. Impressive, really. He adjusted his sleeves with a practiced motion, like resetting a piece on a game board.
“If it pleases Your Grace,” he began, voice smoother now, more measured, “I would like to formally propose a long-term arrangement.”
Grace leaned slightly forward; her interest piqued but her face unreadable.
“I am listening.”
“I wish to serve,” Saren continued, “as the primary merchant and logistical coordinator for House Ashford. Not just as a supplier, but as your estate’s exclusive external trade advisor and market arm. I’ve worked with cities, armies, and guilds, but never with a house like yours. And never for someone like you.”
Grace let the words hang for a beat.
“You heard I manage estate affairs now,” she said, not a question.
“I did,” Saren said with a respectful incline of his head. “And I’m no fool. The moment I saw your signature on the invitation, I knew who held the reins.”
She allowed herself a small smile.
“And what do I gain,” she asked, voice light as frost, “besides a few impressive gifts and your undying loyalty?”
Saren didn’t flinch. “Everything I am, and everything I can move. My trade routes. My eyes in the guild halls. Access to my ledgers, my warehouses, my black-market contacts when needed. Discretion. Speed. And above all—results.”
He held her gaze. “Let others bring you flowers. I’ll bring you leverage.”
Grace studied him.
He meant it. All of it. She saw it in the tension behind his words, in the way he didn’t oversell, he simply laid the pieces before her. And he already proved his reach, didn’t he?
She glanced at the egg again.
“You have initiative,” she murmured, “and nerve.”
“I also have a warehouse two days from here that can turn lead into profit,” Saren said, smiling thinly. “You need allies, not sycophants. I know which I’d rather be.”
Hmm. I quite like this man, Grace thought. He’s ambitious, smart, and just a little reckless...
She tapped a single finger on the armrest, considering.
Grace tilted her head slightly, blue eyes narrowing, not cold, but appraising.
"You speak well, Master Holt. But everything has a price. What do you gain from this arrangement, aside from a noble name in your ledger?"
She let the question linger like a knife gently pressed to the skin.
“I’m five,” she said plainly, voice smooth. “No army. No seat on the duchy council. No official title beyond what others lend me. I manage supplies. I sign off on ledger flows and ration routes. That’s it.”
She folded her hands atop the armrest.
“So, tell me,” she asked, one brow lifting, “what is it you truly want?”
Saren didn’t hesitate. He met her gaze directly, not with defiance, but with a quiet, burning resolve.
“I’ve seen your ambition,” he said softly. “You’re not just a child. You’re not even just a noble. You’re building something, piece by piece, behind those perfect curls and pretty manners.”
His voice dropped, more intimate now.
“If I can help you rise, truly rise, then when the time comes, I want your protection. I want your hand over me when the knives come out. Not a favor nor a deal. Something closer.”
Grace’s lips parted slightly. “Closer?” she repeated, voice teasing. “And what would I be helping you with, Master Holt?”
The words that followed were stripped of charm, stripped of performance.
“Revenge,” Saren said quietly.
And in that one word, the temperature in the room dropped.
“I want to see the Valewick Syndicate crumble,” he said, voice iron. “I want their markets torn, their contracts revoked, their guild seats stripped. I want the man who ruined my family to beg in the street like a dog before he dies nameless and alone.”
Grace was silent for a long breath. Then, slowly, she leaned back into her chair, the corner of her mouth curling upward, not a smile of joy, but of recognition.
Ah. There you are.
Not just a merchant. Not just a man who wanted power.
A man with hate. And hate, Grace knew, was the most honest currency of all.
She lifted her teacup once more, eyes not leaving his.
"Then let us rise together, Master Holt. I’ll give you shelter… if you help me build the storm."
Grace set her teacup down with deliberate elegance, her voice calm and honey-sweet.
“When you help me rise,” she said softly, dangerously, “I’ll make you a noble. Not just a name on a contract. Not just a merchant with connections. A lord in truth. A title, a house, land.”
Her gaze sharpened. “I will make all your dreams come true.”
Saren froze for a heartbeat—just a breath—but then the grin unfurled across his face like a storm breaking into sunlight. Not greedy or smug. It was indeed grateful and triumphant.
Then, without a word, he rose to his feet, stepped back, and dropped to one knee again, deeper this time, with purpose.
“I pledge myself to you,” he said clearly, voice unwavering. “To your name, your cause, and your house.”
He looked up at her with steel in his eyes.
“You, my Grace, are the true heir of Ashford. And I will help you take your rightful place at the top.”
Grace studied him in silence.
Then—finally—she smiled.
Yes. He will do nicely.
