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Book 1: Chapter 48: Under Her Eyes
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:46:20 +0000 UTCChapter 48:
Under Her Eyes
It was Swordday.
Three days since the orchard. Three days since Clara’s silent tears, and the moment that changed something Grace hadn’t planned on changing.
That day was supposed to be simple, Grace thought, leaning against the window frame in her chamber. Morning light stretched across the floor, golden and pale. Just a visit. A bit of emotional cleanup. A noble gesture to keep a promise.
And yet, it hadn’t been like that at all.
Clara had tried to play it off, of course, brushing away her tears like they’d never happened. The moment Grace let go, Clara beamed. The kind of beam you couldn’t fake, not even if you were a noble girl trained to wear masks. She had clung to Grace's presence like sunlight after a storm, dragging her through every hallway of her modest little mansion with wide eyes and chattering excitement.
It wasn’t Grace’s first time there. But somehow… it felt like it was.
Clara showed her everything: the parlor, the garden paths behind the kitchen, the small music room that only had a lute and a broken stool, and her two maids who bowed far too deeply. She even reintroduced Grace to Ser Aldwin, the old knight who watched Clara like a grumpy uncle trying not to smile.
Grace had never cared to notice before. But now, she saw the careful stitches in the old rugs. The worn places on the bannister where Clara’s hands had passed too often. The childish scribbles on the underside of the study desk, hidden away like secrets in plain sight.
They’d eaten together, simple food, but good. And after that, Clara had shown her the bows.
She had dozens of them. Self-made. Silk and thread and carefully tied fabric in every shade of color imaginable. Clara’s eyes had lit up when she showed them, her fingers moving with surprising grace as she demonstrated how each one was done.
Grace had remembered the gift she’d received: the sprig of wintermint, wrapped in that same cream-colored ribbon with gold thread, tied in a bow that looked more deliberate now than ever before.
She had said, lightly, “It’s a fitting hobby for you.”
But inside… it had stayed with her.
She had thought it would be dull. Entertaining a child, someone technically younger than her by years, someone bright and bubbly and always trailing behind.
But Clara was not a burden.
She was bright. Earnest. Messy and real. The kind of real, Grace normally wouldn’t allow anywhere near her. And that day, Grace had made a decision she hadn’t voiced aloud.
No more tears.
Not for Clara.
Not if she could help it.
She had also told Clara about the court.
The day before, in a quiet moment by the window, Grace had explained the outcome, how Elen’s mother was to compensate House Bellgrave for the time Elen had stayed in Clara’s care. How Ser Trivelle was expected to resume responsibility. It was fair. Clean. Political.
Clara had gone pale. She hadn’t wanted it.
But Grace had taken her hands and held them steady. “You’re a baron’s daughter,” she’d said gently. “You should understand how politics work.”
Clara had stopped. Then nodded. Slowly. And bit her lip again.
Grace had noticed it—that little habit. Clara had started doing it more and more lately, like she used pain to hold herself together. A tiny anchor, just enough to keep her upright when the world shifted. It was… cute. Not healthy. But cute. And Grace didn’t comment. Who was she to judge? She had plenty of stranger ways of managing herself.
After the day with Clara, the days fell back into routine.
Lessons resumed. Clara and Elen sat beside her again at the study table, their quills scratching, their backs straight, their small brows furrowed with focus. Or at least, Clara’s was.
Elen didn’t say much.
Which, for Elen, wasn’t unusual. But now she said even less.
Clara tried. Soft questions. Gentle smiles. An invitation to walk together after class.
Elen answered with single words, eyes on the floor. To Grace, she avoided eye contact completely. Like she was trying not to exist.
It was strange.
Wasn’t Elen the one trying so hard to prove herself? The one who trained in secret, who took every lesson like a battlefield? Grace had thought—no, known—that the girl wanted a future close to her. That she saw Grace as more than a noble child, more than a classmate. As a path for her future.
And now?
Now she acted like Grace had burned her name into the stone and left no place for her.
Grace kept her performance steady. Sat tall. Spoke clearly. Played the role of the duchess’s daughter to perfection. But inside, Elen’s silence irked her. Not because she needed the girl’s attention—but because it was hurting Clara.
And Grace couldn’t stand watching Clara get hurt. No one was allowed to hurt this girl, besides Grace.
She suspected it had to do with Ser Trivelle. Elen’s mother. The sudden reassertion of discipline, or perhaps something more grounding like shame.
Whatever it was, Elen was pulling away.
Outside of class, Grace’s schedule didn’t let her dwell on it. Every evening she met Elyne at the training grounds. Their sessions were intense, focused. The current subject: still null affinity.
Elyne was patient, methodical, pushing her in just the right ways. Grace could feel something forming beneath the surface, an edge to the void that wasn’t quite void, a thread of something else. But she couldn’t grasp it yet.
After training, they moved to the study. Elyne would walk her through estate documents—land assessments, troop reports, letters from minor vassals and merchant requests. Grace absorbed it all. Her days were full.
So full, she barely noticed the pressure building beneath it all.
Until this morning. The day of the duel.
--::--
The old training courtyard had been cleared by the sixth bell.
Stone walls ringed the space, ivy clinging to their lower edges like memory too stubborn to die. The floor was worn, scarred in places, half earth and half broken tile—the kind of ground where history lingered in every crack.
A formal circle had been marked at the center. Clean chalk over weathered stone, framed with ceremonial ash branches inlaid by the attending herald. On the northern wall, a raised platform had been set for noble spectators, simple in structure but elevated in meaning.
And people had come.
Not just soldiers, but staff, stewards, household guards. A few visiting merchants and minor nobles.
Ser Renar Morlan stood near the center already, armored, helm under one arm, flanked by two of his house adjutants. His frame was solid, shoulders squared, expression locked in place like iron cooled too quickly. Around him, a small knot of estate soldiers had gathered.
It was a public duel, and though the outcome would be legal and final, support was being tallied in glances and silences. Morlan’s men weren’t loud. But they stood where people could see them.
Near the eastern archway, another group drew attention—Lady Selira, dressed in tailored silver and navy, surrounded by her retainers. She didn’t sit on the platform; she chose to stand, arms loosely folded, gaze calm but alert. A political creature, watching a political moment.
She was smiling. Slightly. Selira had a sense for weight, and this moment had it. It had been announced as a “friendly sparring match,” but anyone with sense knew it was more than that. A quiet reckoning. A power balance check wrapped in protocol. And Selira made sure she was seen. It was important that people got used to her presence during events that mattered, so that, over time, they’d start associating her with the moments that shaped Ashford’s future.
From the southern walkway, Ser Alis Trivelle entered the courtyard with her head held high. Her armor caught the sun in sharp angles, blackened steel trimmed with the sigil of House Ashford’s private guard. She was a presence, broad-shouldered and fire-haired, her stride unshaken by the crowd or the whispers that followed in her wake.
She did not bring squires. No fellow knights. No friends or comrades from the citadel.
Only her daughter walked behind her.
Elen, smaller than the armor she carried, clutched her mother’s helm with both hands. Her eyes flicked quickly across the crowd; nerves barely hidden behind her carefully trained steps. She wasn’t made for audiences. But she followed, silent and steady, even if her fingers were curled too tightly around the metal.
They crossed the courtyard to the opposite edge of the circle, stopping a measured distance from Ser Morlan and his cluster of supporters.
No greetings were exchanged. Only nods.
Then came the sound of boots, measured, deliberate.
Grace entered the courtyard at the head of a procession that had clearly been arranged for effect.
She walked alone at the front, a crimson dress trimmed in black, her shoulders squared beneath the weight of her diamond-chain gifted from her mother, in the meantime the chain evolved to a symbol of her authority gleaming in the light. Her curls were pinned with deliberate elegance, and her eyes, sharp and unreadable, swept the courtyard like a seasoned ruler arriving at court.
Just a step behind her, Clara of House Bellgrave followed, her posture poised, her hair neatly done. She wore a soft blue gown and held her hands in front of her like she belonged there. And for this moment, she did. The fact that Grace walked with her publicly, side by side, elevated her in the eyes of everyone watching.
They noticed.
Behind them walked Elyne, dressed in formal Ashford colors, the kind of quiet presence that demanded respect without asking. Everyone in the estate knew her; governess, battle mage, guardian of the young Duchess’s daughter. And beside her, the court herald held his staff like a banner. The carved stag skull atop it glinted faintly, a stark symbol of House Ashford’s authority. He walked with solemn purpose, marking the moment as official, sanctioned, and recorded.
Then came the six personal knights, moving in silent rhythm, three rows of two. Ashford’s finest, handpicked to guard the girl who had become more than just a noble child.
When Grace stepped fully into the courtyard, the murmurs began.
Not from soldiers or servants, but from the guests. The merchants, the lesser nobles, the daughters and sons of allied houses, and the well-dressed opportunists who had found reason to wander near Ashford Estate this week. They weren’t here for the duel, not really. No one traveled this far to see two knights bruise each other’s pride in a so-called friendly match.
They had come for her.
To see the girl at the center of every rumor. To measure the child who dared speak like a ruler. To see if the whispers carried truth.
And the moment Grace entered, they leaned in; watching, judging, calculating. And none of them looked away.
Many had never seen her outside of formal announcements. But they had heard.
They had heard about the Velmire banquet, the night Lady Selira was formally welcomed to Ashford, and how the little girl in crimson had interrupted the celebration with the poise of a duchess, declaring a state of war before nobles more than quadruple her age could lift their goblets. They had heard how she had stood beside her mother, the Duchess Liliana, and announced that Ashford would stand alone if it must.
She had overshadowed her elder brother, Ronan, completely.
Not by shouting, not by force, but simply by being seen. By speaking as though she’d always belonged at the center of the hall. And from that moment on, more than a few began to wonder who the real heir of Ashford truly was.
They had heard of the last court session, her first. Where she sat in her mother’s chair, took the oath of witness, and delivered judgment without hesitation. Where she announced this duel.
They had heard also of the assassins and of her brilliance in magic, rumors said she was at least at the second circle with five. They also heard her mother had gifted her the control over the estate. So, Grace was one of the most important and unknown figures in Ashford currently.
Whispers had become stories. Stories had become momentum. Now they watched her step into the courtyard not as a child of title, but as the center of gravity.
And none of them looked away. And the sight did not disappoint.
--::--
Grace didn’t slow her steps, but her mind was anything but still.
How did this happen? she wondered as the stone beneath her heels echoed into the expectant hush. How did a “friendly sparring match” between two pride-wounded knights turn into this?
A public event. A gathering of nobles. A spectacle.
She sighed inwardly. Elyne had explained it earlier, with that steady voice she used when Grace needed to understand something before it exploded. Turns out, when she’d ruled on this duel, when she’d laced her fingers and said, “Let the court, and your arms, determine who is truly more fit”—she’d done more than resolve a petty conflict.
She had unknowingly overruled her mother.
Liliana had long forbidden formal duels among her knights, especially anything that left a record. With the Beastkin invasion pressing at the borders, she couldn’t afford injuries, grudges, or fractures in the chain of command.
Grace hadn’t declared blood, or death, but she had used words like “supervised sparring match” and “let it be recorded.”
And that was enough. Enough to bind the result in ink and turn a training bout into precedent.
Which meant the outcome would go into the court ledger.
Permanently.
For nobles, that was no small matter. It meant the loser didn’t just lose face. They carried a mark, an official, public one. Anyone could point to the record and say, “See? Your failure is legally acknowledged. Recognized. Real.”
Grace sighed again, quiet behind her composed expression.
Elyne had also told her that supervised meant more than it sounded. It meant under the eyes of the ruling court, in this case, her.
They would be fighting for more than pride; they would be fighting for validity.
And it was all because she—some super nerdy girl with a taste for clean phrasing—had said “Let it be recorded.”
What a mess, Grace thought dryly.
She wasn’t wrong, but gods, it was exhausting how this world bent around words. A single sentence and now she was here.
Well, she thought, blinking slowly as the courtyard opened before her, nothing to cry about now.
She was already in it.
Might as well own it.
Grace stepped onto the raised platform like she belonged there—because, well, she did.
She let her gaze sweep across the courtyard. The crowd quieted. All those watching eyes felt warm on her skin, like sunlight filtered through expectation. She let them look. Let them wonder.
Then her eyes found Selira.
The daughter of the Duke of Velmire was standing just off the noble section, flanked by her fashionable little retinue like she was posing for a portrait. Grace smirked, tilted her head slightly, and waved. Not a stiff, noble gesture, but a casual, almost cheeky little flick of her fingers.
Let’s see how she plays this.
Outwardly, she leaned a touch toward her and called down with a playful wink.
“Hey, big sis. Come sit with us!”
Selira beamed, ever graceful, and tilted her head in perfect acknowledgment. She didn’t hesitate, not even for a heartbeat.
“I would be delighted,” she said aloud, voice carrying smooth and light as silk.
Grace watched her break from her entourage and ascend the platform. Of course, you would. She took her place without ceremony, setting on Grace’s right side with practiced poise.
Clara, already seated at Grace’s left, straightened slightly when Selira approached. The older girl didn’t ignore her. She offered Clara a polite smile and a formal nod.
Points for manners, Grace thought. But don’t get too comfortable, sister-in-law-in-waiting.
The three of them sat, framed in sunlight and silence, while knights moved into place below.
And in Grace’s head, the sarcasm practically dripped.
This must look so perfect, she mused. The brilliant young ‘true’ heir. The loyal best friend. The pretty political match. All lined up like we’re hosting some royal product launch.
But it wasn’t just theater, it was strategy. Inviting Selira to sit beside her wasn’t only about charm or optics. It was a message. A quiet, deliberate acknowledgment. Of Selira and Ronan. So, everyone could see the Ashford line still standing together, at least in public. There was no fracture here. No feud. Just unity.
She leaned back, lips curling just slightly.
Gods, I’m accidentally good at this.
--::--
Once the crowd had stilled and the tension settled into silence, Ser Alis Trivelle stepped forward, directly toward the platform where Grace sat.
She bowed low, fists closed at her sides in formality, and then reached into her cloak. From it, she drew a small velvet sack, the kind that clinked faintly with the sound of coin. Her gaze lifted, not to Grace, but to Clara.
“I have not forgotten the ruling,” she said clearly. “House Bellgrave sheltered my daughter when I could not. Today, I repay that debt.”
A wave of discomfort passed over Clara. Her posture stiffened, and the color drained from her face. She looked quickly to Grace, her lips parted, she was uncertain.
But Grace only nodded. Slight. Certain.
Clara rose, slow and careful, and descended the few steps to meet Ser Trivelle. She bowed, shallow but polite, then reached out and accepted the sack with both hands.
“Thank you,” she murmured, almost too softly to hear. “Your honor is... appreciated.”
Ser Trivelle gave a single, sharp nod and turned back to the crowd.
“Let it be known that no debt remains between House Bellgrave and my line. The matter is closed.”
Clara bowed again and retreated, pale as a ghost. She sat back down beside Grace with folded hands, but her eyes drifted toward Elen—just briefly, just once.
But Elen didn’t look back.
She kept her head down and her gaze low, avoiding Clara as if her life depended on it.
Grace watched the whole exchange with careful detachment.
Then, she raised her voice, smooth and even.
“If this is settled, then let the match begin.”
The court herald stepped forward in response, staff in hand, stag skull catching the light as he moved to the center of the courtyard.
He struck the ground once.
“Witnessed by Ashford,” he intoned, voice ringing clear across the stone. “By the ruling of her Grace, Lady Grace of Ashford, steward in absence of the Duchess. This match shall be held in public, under the supervision of the court, for the purpose of clarity and resolution.”
He turned; staff extended.
“The terms are as recorded: a supervised sparring match, to be conducted with live steel, until yield or disarm. No strikes beyond restraint. All present are bound by silence until the outcome is known.”
The herald stepped back.
And the duel began.
--::--
Both knights took their positions, helmets secured with practiced precision. The hush that settled over the courtyard was almost reverent.
Then, without a word, they moved.
Their mana flared, not wildly, but with tight, honed control. Grace felt it before she even saw it: the shift in the air, the hum through the stone beneath her feet. Both knights opened their mana cores, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.
Nature affinity. She recognized it immediately. Not as pure as Lirien’s chosen, but present, rooted, steady, alive. Mana coursed through their bodies like green fire, strengthening limbs, sharpening reflexes, heightening perception.
Not spellcasters, not here. Not like her. Knights didn’t waste time with runes or chants in a duel like this. Even Elen’s mother, often called a battle mage, was first and foremost a Knight.
The two vanished.
A second later; impact.
Steel slammed against steel with a sound like a shattering branch, the collision sending a blast of wind rippling outward in every direction. Dust lifted, cloaks fluttered, and a few gasps escaped from the gathered crowd.
Grace’s eyes widened.
Even from the platform, she could barely track them. Their movements were a blur, sword, step, twist, strike, faster than any training dummy or sparring match she had ever seen. And she was Third Circle. She knew what that meant.
They’re both at the edge. Just beneath the Fourth Circle, where mastery began to bend the rules of motion and perception.
She could feel it in the way their mana pulsed, not just dense, but disciplined. Coiled. As if waiting to explode.
And yet, even at this level, there was a difference. Having a Third Circle Mana Core was one thing. Being able to actually fight like it… was another.
The duel accelerated. Sparks flew. Blades crashed in rhythmic, bone-rattling tempo.
And Grace leaned forward slightly, silent, her gaze locked.
This, she thought, is why knights still matter.
The duel exploded into motion.
Steel blurred. Mana surged. Each strike sent shockwaves through the courtyard, dust kicking up with every step and counter. The knights moved like living storms, clashing, pivoting, recoiling, barely more than streaks of color and momentum to most of the onlookers.
But not to Grace.
She sat forward slightly, watching with unblinking focus. Around her, the crowd had gone silent, nobles and merchants alike too stunned to speak. Even Clara, at her side, had forgotten to breathe.
And then Grace’s gaze drifted sideways. Selira.
The older girl was standing, not out of respect, but to see better. Her posture poised, her arms folded loosely, her eyes sharp and steady. She wasn’t just watching the duel. She was tracking it.
She can follow it, Grace realized. Every move.
Selira might only be Second Circle, but she wasn’t ornamental. Grace had seen her cast before—efficient, focused, smooth. There was a weight behind her grace. And Grace liked people who didn’t waste effort. Who didn’t pretend.
Competence, she thought, is so much better than charm.
She turned back to the fight.
The tempo had changed. The blows now had weight, not just speed. Sword strikes forced the stone to groan beneath their boots. Sparks leapt like fireflies. And still neither knight yielded an inch.
The rhythm of the duel shattered the moment Ser Alis Trivelle shifted her stance, subtly, but with unmistakable purpose.
Grace felt it before she saw it. A pulse through the ground, a flare in the air. The mana around the red-haired knight deepened, tightened, then snapped inward like a heartbeat.
Her sword lit up.
Not with spellwork, not with glyphs or runes, but with fire, raw and alive, licking up the steel as if it had always belonged there. The flames curled outward, dancing along the blade like it had a will of its own.
Grace inhaled sharply. Intentional magic.
Elyne had explained it, how intentional casting was different from ritual spells. It wasn’t spoken in the old runic tongue or traced with glowing symbols. It was will, alignment, and a core open wide. Only those with a mana core could do it. Only those attuned.
Mages without a second-heart had to use substitutes like mana pearls, conduits, prepared focus tools. But those with elemental alignment could channel the raw threads of their affinity freely… if they were strong enough to handle it.
Nature-aligned mages, like both these knights, could tap into the wild elements; fire, water, wind, lightning. But not earth. That belonged to Thyron, and his domain had rules.
Ser Alis, with her fiery temperament and red braid trailing behind her helm, had always leaned into fire. And now it bled from her sword like fury.
Across from her, Ser Morlan didn’t hesitate.
His blade crackled suddenly, dancing with raw electricity, bright and jagged as stormlight. No words. No chant. Just the sharp snap of power released through focus.
Two knights. Two blades. One wrapped in flame. The other crackling with lightning.
And the air between them boiled. The duel had escalated. And everyone felt it.
It was an interesting fight, not just for its power, but for what it revealed. Grace had never truly seen anyone fight like this before in Nyras.
Sure, there was the assassin. Elyne had cut the woman down with space magic, slicing through distance and flesh with chilling precision. But that had been a different kind of violence; quick, surgical, and far removed from anything Grace could process at the time. She hadn’t watched that fight. She’d been too busy trying not to die. Too busy throwing herself in front of Clara, trying to rescue that little airhead.
This duel was the first time she could truly study how real warriors moved. And she couldn’t look away.
Maybe, she mused, I should start learning the sword myself.
The thought drifted idly through her mind, until the tension peaked again. Both knights flared, blade to blade, magic to magic, and for a breathless second, she felt the crowd lean forward as one.
Then her eyes flicked to the court spokesman, and she frowned.
"It was declared a friendly sparring match," she murmured, calm but sharp. "Remind them."
The man, still and silent until now, nodded once.
And then, Grace felt it again: his mana. Slow. Inevitable. Heavy like old stone sinking into deeper truth.
It was the same sensation she had felt in court, days ago, when he stood beside her like a monument carved from myth. She still didn’t know what Circle he was, couldn’t guess. But he was no ordinary herald. His presence was more than ceremonial.
Why haven’t I bothered to learn more about him? she thought. Who even placed him here with his creepy staff?
Her eyes dropped to the staff he held, the one crowned by a stag’s skull, its empty sockets now glowing faintly, pulsing with mana. The wood beneath it vibrated, the grain swallowing the energy like a rooted sigil.
The spokesman raised the staff and struck the courtyard stone once.
Time lurched. The fire vanished. The lightning died.
Both swords dimmed in mid-swing, the raw elemental force siphoned clean from their edges. The knights froze where they stood, blades still in motion, bodies poised in momentum denied.
Then, the spokesman spoke, his voice deep, echoing:
“The terms were sparring. Not slaughter. The court watches. The court records. Fight with strength, not pride. Yield by blade, not by blood.”
He stepped back, silent once more.
Both knights dipped their heads, a silent apology, mutual and precise, then resumed.
This time, without elemental fury, only strength and skill.
Their mana cores remained open, enhancing their speed, reflexes, and control, but the blades no longer burned or sparked. It was a duel of pure technique now, grit and discipline stripped of spectacle.
For ten long minutes they danced across the courtyard, the clash of steel echoing off stone walls, breaths heavy and sharp between strikes. The crowd had quieted again, watching not with awe, but with respect.
And then it happened.
Ser Morlan’s grip faltered—just for a second—but it was enough. His blade spun free from his hand, skidding across the stones and stopping inches from the ring of guards.
He straightened, took a breath, and gave a clean, respectful bow toward Ser Trivelle.
“I yield.”
No drama. No shame. Just truth.
Ser Alis Trivelle turned and strode toward the platform where Grace sat, her armor scorched at the edges but her back unbowed. She dropped to one knee and bowed low.
Grace met her eyes, then nodded once for acknowledgment and approval.
And then, on a whim, Grace slipped a small ring from her finger. A simple gold band with a modest gem. Child-sized. Elegant, but not ostentatious. It glittered for a moment in the light before she tossed it, deliberately, to land before Ser Alis.
The knight blinked, caught off guard, but only for a moment. She picked it up with silent care.
The gesture was loud, even if no words followed.
The ring was worth at least ten gold crowns, a fortune to a woman of duty, not luxury. But more than that, it was public.
One that said: If you ever find yourself without place or post… come to me. There will be work.
And from the faint flicker in Ser Trivelle’s expression, Grace knew the message had landed.
Ser Trivelle bowed again, this time deeper, the ring clutched in her gloved hand. Then she stood, turned, and walked away. The crowd stirred behind the silence. No cheers. Just thoughtful glances. Respect passed between nobles in nods, in the language of court.
Grace leaned back slightly on her seat, letting the silence hang. She exhaled slowly, her gaze sweeping the crowd one last time. And rose from her seat without waiting for ceremony.
Clara followed instinctively. Selira, a heartbeat after, and she began to talk about the duel. Grace’s knights fell into place.
