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Book 1: Chapter 50: Between Mercy And Madness
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:47:19 +0000 UTCChapter 50:
Between Mercy And Madness
Rain lashed against the windows in thick, unrelenting sheets, turning the evening into a swirling tapestry of shadow and storm. Grace sat at Elyne’s polished wooden desk, candles casting soft pools of light across neat piles of documents and scrolls. The spring storm outside seemed to mirror Grace’s inner world; calm on the surface, turbulent beneath.
Grace carefully noted down numbers, her quill scratching softly against parchment as she tallied finances for the coming week. Elyne sat across from her, reviewing a stack of documents with her usual disciplined focus, occasionally glancing over to answer Grace's careful questions.
"So, the supplies for the kitchens," Grace said softly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, "they've increased by fifteen percent since last month."
"That's correct," Elyne confirmed absently, flipping to another parchment without looking up. "We had more visitors due to Lady Selira’s presence, and extra provisions were required."
Grace nodded, writing down the figures. She glanced up at Elyne again. "And the stables? The increase there?"
"Similar reason," Elyne murmured. "Additional visitors mean more horses, more care, and more hands needed."
Grace pursed her lips slightly, carefully noting the explanations beside the numbers. She continued, methodically working her way through the estate's weekly ledger. Elyne’s steady rhythm of page-turning became an ambient comfort in the room, until suddenly it stopped.
The silence was immediate and sharp.
Grace paused mid-number, the quill hovering over parchment. She looked up, watching Elyne carefully. Elyne's gaze was fixed intently on the parchment before her, expression unusually tense, almost frozen.
"Elyne?" Grace asked quietly, gently placing her quill down. "Is something wrong?"
Elyne blinked, startled, her composure returning with visible effort. She hastily folded the document, sliding it to the bottom of the pile.
"It's nothing, my Lady," Elyne said softly, forcing a reassuring smile. "Just some minor estate business. Nothing you need concern yourself with."
Grace raised an eyebrow slightly. "You stopped breathing for a moment. Minor matters rarely cause such reactions."
Elyne sighed deeply, meeting Grace’s questioning gaze. "Grace, I appreciate how mature you are for your age, more than anyone can imagine. But there are some things you're still too young to carry."
Grace's expression shifted subtly, the faintest curl at the corner of her lips. "Funny," she murmured softly, leaning back slightly. "No one thought I was too young to witness the public execution of the head maid. Yet, whatever that document is, I'm suddenly considered a child again?"
Elyne winced faintly, eyes reflecting a sudden struggle. She regarded Grace with a quiet sadness, wrestling visibly with herself. The storm outside grew louder, winds howling as they whipped rain against the glass.
"I wish you would embrace your childhood," Elyne finally said softly, her voice tinged with genuine melancholy. "You've grown up so fast, too fast. Some things shouldn't weigh on you yet."
Grace tilted her head slightly, studying Elyne's earnest gaze. She chose her words carefully. "Is that what you think, Elyne? That innocence or ignorance would somehow shield me from the realities of this estate?"
Elyne hesitated, then, clearly gathering her courage, asked softly, "Grace, tell me—what do you think justice is?"
Grace was momentarily taken aback. The simplicity of the question contrasted sharply with its complexity. For once, her perfectly measured facade faltered slightly, revealing a flicker of uncertainty.
She stared at Elyne, genuinely unsure for a fleeting second. Justice? The word echoed quietly in her mind, bouncing off fragments of memory; Leon’s shattered form, the executed maid, the countless quiet cruelties she had orchestrated or merely witnessed in the estate.
Slowly, Grace's eyes hardened again, her voice quiet but unwavering. "Justice," she finally said, "is whatever serves the balance of power. It’s what ensures order and stability."
Elyne’s expression softened sadly, her voice quieter than the storm outside. "And what of mercy? Compassion? Do they not hold a place within justice?"
Grace was silent for a long moment, her eyes reflecting the storm outside.
"Perhaps," she finally murmured softly, almost to herself. "But mercy and compassion are luxuries. And not everyone can afford them."
Elyne sighed, leaning back slowly in her chair, eyes shadowed with sorrow.
Outside, the storm raged on.
Then Elyne leaned forward slightly, voice gentle but firm. "You're right, Grace. Mercy and compassion are luxuries here thin lines we rarely dare to cross. Normally, you'd learn these truths gradually, with age, in gentler ways. But you're already noticing them, aren't you?"
Grace tilted her head, studying Elyne carefully. "Noticing what exactly?"
"In Ashford," Elyne continued slowly, her voice quieter, "justice has always been the privilege of the strong. It's the heart of our ways, the essence of our traditions."
Grace watched as Elyne's expression shifted, sadness deepening behind her eyes. "Many don't understand our culture, our older ways. The kingdom has tried, more than once, to erase them. To replace strength with softness, power with gentleness. But some families, your family among them, still cling fiercely to the old order."
Elyne's gaze settled on Grace, hesitant yet decisive. "There's nothing wrong with those ways, Grace. They have their own truths, their own justice. But they offer little happiness in this age, in these times. That is, until…" Elyne hesitated again, wrestling visibly with herself. "You should know this anyway. You're her daughter, after all. Until the old order is restored."
Grace's eyes widened, genuine surprise crossing her usually composed features. She had always known there was something different—something harsher—about her environment. But then again, who was she to question the nuances of this medieval, magical world? Power, after all, was a universal constant, and she herself had never hesitated to wield it.
"Restored?" Grace echoed softly, testing the implications of the word carefully. "How?"
Elyne gave a faint, tired smile, the storm outside punctuating the silence between them. "That's a question for another day. Just know this, Grace: when the time comes, strength will matter most."
Outside, the storm continued unabated, wind and rain hammering insistently against the window panes, echoing the turmoil within.
Grace's eyes drifted back to the parchment Elyne had reacted to, curiosity tugging insistently at her thoughts. "What does all this have to do with justice, Elyne?" Grace asked softly, her voice carefully measured.
Elyne's eyes followed Grace's to the document, hesitating briefly. After a heavy pause, she sighed and said quietly, "Well…" She reached for the parchment again, fingers brushing lightly over its edges. Her expression steeled into calm resignation. "Your mother told me clearly that I should teach you everything. No exceptions."
She slid the parchment toward Grace, turning it gently so the young girl could read clearly. Grace scanned the words carefully, a sense of unease prickling at the back of her neck.
Haron (Human) – Imprisoned / Ready for harvest
Jul (Human) – Dead / Harvested
Mirs (Beastkin) – Imprisoned / Insufficient, awaiting maturity
Vira (Beastkin) – Imprisoned / Sufficient for summoning – relocation requested
Rhel (Beastkin) – Imprisoned / Chosen for summoning sacrifice
Elyne tapped the list once with a fingertip, then looked Grace in the eye.
“Justice, Grace?” Elyne’s voice was low, unwavering. “Justice is giving fools who dared to stand against Ashford a new purpose. It is refusing to waste their lives on empty punishment. We do not execute for pride, or out of anger. We make them serve a purpose for the house, if they cannot live for us, then they die for us. That is our justice: efficiency, not cruelty. Order, not chaos.”
She let the words settle, her gaze sharp and practical, unclouded by regret.
“Wasting life is for the weak. We take what can be used. That’s the difference between Ashford and the rest of the kingdom.”
Grace glanced up. "These aren't prisoners in the usual sense then."
Elyne straightened, her gaze steady and clear. There was no shame, no regret in her demeanor, only the careful composure of someone who knew exactly who she was, and what she stood for. "They’re resources, Grace. Instruments of power. In Ashford, strength and justice are closely intertwined. Your mother, your family, my family… the old blood—we uphold the old ways. Many have tried to bury them beneath softer laws, but we do not bow to such changes."
Grace tilted her head slightly, studying Elyne’s unwavering resolve. "So, this is the 'justice' you speak of? Power through sacrifice?"
Elyne nodded firmly. "In our tradition, yes. The strong thrive, the weak sustain. It has always been our way. Our justice is clear, strength must rule. Compassion and mercy, as you said yourself, are luxuries we cannot afford."
Grace’s expression was thoughtful, controlled curiosity masking any deeper emotion. Elyne watched her carefully, a faint sadness finally creeping into her eyes, not for the tradition itself, but for Grace’s premature maturity.
"Grace," Elyne said softly, prompting the young girl to look up. "I'm not saddened by these truths or our ways, they are our heritage, our strength. But I wish you could have had longer to simply be a child. To enjoy innocence, to find happiness before carrying burdens meant for adults."
Grace considered this quietly, her eyes steady and cool as they met Elyne’s sincere gaze. "Childhood is another luxury," she murmured, voice quiet but firm, "one I’ve never truly known." Elyne nodded slowly, the storm outside punctuating their solemn understanding. "Perhaps that's why your mother trusts you. You’ve understood more than any child should."
Grace’s eyes flickered briefly back to the parchment, shadows from the storm dancing across its surface. "Understanding," she replied softly, "is merely the first step toward control." Her gaze landed again on the last name. "So, would you explain maybe a little more about this list... for example this name; Rhel? He's marked specifically as a sacrifice for summoning?"
"Indeed," Elyne confirmed calmly. "He is marked, as the list states, as a suitable sacrifice for one of the rituals conducted at the citadel."
Grace's eyes narrowed slightly. Sacrifice. Rituals. The words lingered in the air like smoke, unsettling but not unfamiliar. She didn’t know this Rhel. But that wasn’t the point.
She looked back at Elyne, searching for more, but Elyne offered nothing further. Only the calm certainty of someone who had said enough.
"Are they slaves?" she asked bluntly. "What kind of rituals are we talking about?"
There was something twisted here, she could see it now, feel it beneath the surface like a splinter she couldn’t quite reach. The terms, the cold efficiency of it all. Was she being raised in a cult? Had she always been?
She needed answers.
But Elyne, surprisingly, grew quieter. More guarded. Her earlier openness vanished behind a mask again. "Some things are only taught in time," Elyne said finally, eyes turning back toward the parchment. "And some truths are best learned when you're ready to use them, not just understand them."
Grace didn’t push further. And Elyne, without another word, quietly reached for the parchment stack and gathered it together. With a soft thud, she closed the ledger at Grace’s side.
"That’s enough for today," she said, her voice smooth and final.
--::--
Grace shut the door to her room behind her with a soft click, pausing for a moment in the hush that followed. The air inside was still, candlelight trembling on her desk and the faint thunder rumbling in the distance. Outwardly, everything looked as it always did; quiet, orderly, safe. But her mind was spinning.
Too many threads... she thought, rubbing her temple as she crossed to the window. Why, just why is everything so complicated in this freaking world?
Her thoughts sharpened, swirling faster.
No, of course it’s not enough that literally everyone wants to fuck with my soul. I’m still a freaking child and I have to carve out my own future here… and now, apparently, I live in a household of cultist fanatics or something!
She almost laughed—almost. Instead, she scowled, pressing her forehead against the cool glass.
On the surface, nothing ever looks off. Everything’s so clean. So proper. Corax would’ve told me if there were weird rituals here, right? He said nothing ever happens inside the estate. So, all this shit must go down in the citadel. Figures. But then why does the estate have to handle any of it? Why are these names, these 'sacrifices,' on Elyne’s desk, sandwiched between lists of flour and wool shipments?
Grace clenched her jaw.
Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something even bigger?
Grace let her forehead rest against the windowpane for a moment longer, breathing in the hush that followed her tangled thoughts. Fine. If no one wants to explain, I'll find out myself.
But the problem was obvious, she couldn’t just slip out and go wandering around Valewick. The estate was a gilded cage, guards at every door, eyes always watching. And even if I wanted to see the citadel, there's no way they'd let me go alone, she thought, lips pressing into a thin line.
I could try playing the dutiful daughter… ask to see Mother… but no. She’s too busy pretending to fight a war with the Beastkin to deal with my curiosity. Grace stifled a bitter laugh. Besides, I've got a mountain of business to handle myself.
She exhaled and paced back to her desk, fingers drumming on the wood. Her gaze drifted to the memory of that list, and the one name that had caught her eye—Rhel.
Maybe… she mused, a faint glimmer of resolve sharpening her posture. Maybe that’s where I start…
Her mind settled. Yeah. I’ll try it this way.
She didn’t hesitate. “Corax!”
A flicker of shadow condensed by the window, smoke and violet light swirling as Corax’s form shimmered into the world. He hovered above her shoulder, his voice wry and almost fond: “Yer upset, little one.”
Grace let out a short, dry breath, rolling her shoulders. “No, I’m not upset. It’s just… you know, the last weeks… it feels like every time I get a piece of the picture, the whole thing shatters into even smaller pieces.”
She looked up at him, her gaze sharp but not commanding. “Well, whatever. Can you do me a favor?”
Corax was quiet for a beat, his presence pulsing, curious. A favor, not an order.
Grace pressed on. “Could you go to the citadel and look for a beastkin named Rhel? Just observe him and report back, maybe he’s… interesting.”
Corax’s glow flickered, a whisper of a nod. “As ye wish, little one.” And with that, his form unraveled, folding out of sight, dissolving into a thin veil of smoke as he slipped away to do her bidding.
As Corax vanished, Grace sat down heavily, a familiar ache blooming behind her eyes. She pressed her fingers to her temple, grimacing. "Is it already time again?" she muttered into the empty air, more habit than question.
She let herself settle cross-legged on the rug, slowing her breathing, drawing each inhale deep and steady. Meditation had become a necessary routine. She closed her eyes and slipped inward, diving beneath the storm of her thoughts.
At first there was nothing. Silence, black and whole.
Then—faintly—a ripple of pink shimmered at the edge of her vision, soft as silk and just as insidious. The familiar whispers followed, slithering through her mind in cold, playful threads.
Take what’s fucking yours… all of it. Everything belongs to you now. Why not have some real fun? That maid outside—she’s nothing, just meat and noise, waiting to be broken. You could make her beg, you know... Rip off her fingers one by one, see how long she screams before she passes out. Fuck, you could cut her up and no one would dare stop you. THAT WOULD BE FUN... She’s lowborn filth, don't forget... her life’s yours to use or ruin. Go on. Show them what real power looks like. What’s stopping you? WHAT? This world is yours to fuck with, Grace. You could take everything, and they’d all still kneel...
Grace gritted her teeth, forcing the voices back with pure will. She focused on the warmth buried deeper inside, a pulsing light that disgusted her even as it steadied her soul. She hated that she relied on it, the warmth, the power, the not-quite-voice that pushed back against the Void. She hated even more that she knew where it came from.
That bitch Iras, she thought sourly. Divine spark, savior of little lost girls, keeping me sane at the price of pride. Grace let her disgust rise, then let it go, channeling it into the shimmering core at her center.
If that’s what it takes, she thought coldly, so be it. But I’ll never call it a gift. I don’t need whispers in my head, to know I will kill her too.
