North Drake
patreon
Book 1: Chapter 46: Add Her To The List
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:45:22 +0000 UTCChapter 46:
Add Her To The List
The sky outside her window had gone gray with sleep.
The main tower from the Ashford Estate cast long shadows across the courtyard, and the stained-glass candle holders lining Grace’s chamber flickered softly in hues of crimson and bone-white. The room smelled faintly of warm parchment and lavender ink, the kind Elyne insisted on for official correspondence.
Grace sat alone, curled in the corner seat beside her desk, robe loose around her shoulders, hair half-pinned and falling into her face. She had just finished her last lesson with Elyne for the day, review of judicial protocol, practical estate math, and three silent casting drills that left her mildly drained but otherwise unimpressed.
She hadn’t bothered with dinner.
Instead, she’d lit two candles, let the servants close the outer doors, and opened her box of sealed letters. There were seven. She picked the thickest one first.
“Still awake?” came a soft voice, neither echo nor whisper, but something folded between.
Grace didn’t look up.
“Yes,” she murmured. “You know that.”
A pause. She felt it, a faint presence near her shoulder, not heavy, but woven in. Like a shadow layered just beneath her skin. That was new.
Ever since he had poured half his essence into her—the day she nearly shattered—Corax had become something closer. Not louder, not clearer, but nearer. There was no distance anymore.
“I miss the silence of yer mind,” Corax said after a moment.
“I miss pretending I’m fine,” she replied, unfolding the parchment seal.
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave.
They both knew the bond wouldn’t last forever. Corax’s form had frayed in the Veil to stabilize hers. A soul anchor borrowed from a different realm. It might hold for years. But not decades.
Grace sighed and leaned her elbow against the desk. The parchment crackled as she opened the seal. The handwriting was sharp, confident, slightly too upright. She didn’t need to check the name.
Ronan.
Her brother. The last one still breathing. The one who called her little sister like it meant something.
She began to read.
The ink was fresh, the folds too tight. He must have written this quickly, maybe even with real concern. That alone made Grace slow her reading, just slightly.
Dearest Grace,
Word reached us at the front two days late, but I heard what happened.
Three attackers. One of them got close. Too close. I don’t care how strong you are, no one your age should have to face that kind of danger.
I know your mother left you in charge. I know you’re handling things. But please, don’t try to prove anything. Just stay safe. You’re more important than whatever legacy or estate you're carrying.
Grace’s eyes narrowed a little, but she kept reading.
They’ve moved us farther east. The Beastkin are stalling. Something’s shifted. I’ll write more when I know it's safe.
And please—if you can—try to be kind to Selira. She’s... not from our world. Velmire isn’t Ashford. She’s been strong, but I think she’s lonelier than she lets on. Maybe you could talk to her. You’re both my sisters now, in a way.
That made Grace snort. “Pathetic,” she muttered.
“She is technically yer sister-in-law-in-waitin’,” Corax offered lazily.
Grace rolled her eyes. “He probably sent her the same letter. Word for word.”
“Then perhaps she’s readin’ it now, wonderin’ why ye won’t speak to her.”
“Then she’s even more delusional than Ronan.”
But still… she didn’t fold the letter. She let it rest in her hand, eyes lingering on the words stay safe. She would. Of course, she would. But not because Ronan asked.
The second letter had thicker parchment and no noble seal. The wax was stamped with a hammer and wheat—a provincial merchant crest, nothing significant.
Grace slit it open with her nail and unfolded the contents.
To Her Grace, Lady Grace of Ashford, rightful heir and steward of the Estate in the absence of Her Excellency the Duchess,
May your days be blessed with clarity and strength.
I write with the utmost respect and in humble awareness of your new station, as word has reached Stonefield of your recent appointment. I am a merchant of standing, trading in grain, tools, cloth, and treated leathers—goods of proven quality and superior reliability.
It is my belief that long-standing suppliers from Valewick no longer meet the standards befitting your house. Should you be open to new agreements, I would be honored to present samples, terms, and references from trusted contacts within the western trade halls.
With all due respect and in the hope of profitable service,
Saren Holt, Master Trader of Stonefield
Grace let the paper fall lightly into her lap. Her fingers remained on the edge, absently smoothing the corner. So, they were already crawling in.
“Word travels fast,” she muttered.
“‘Tis when gold’s involved,” Corax remarked from the shadows.
She didn’t answer. Her mind was already spinning.
The merchant was ambitious, presumptuous, even. But not stupid. He’d addressed her with precision, with flattery that wasn’t clumsy. More importantly, he’d bypassed Valewick’s merchants entirely. That was bold. And bold people were often useful—or dangerous.
She folded the letter neatly and set it aside.
The third letter was pressed in a floral-patterned envelope. Grace raised a brow.
“Perfume,” she murmured, sniffing the faint trace of lavender. “How charming.”
Corax shifted slightly on the windowsill, his silhouette a blur of an orb.
Grace cracked the seal. The handwriting was precise, refined, even elegant. The kind of handwriting you used when begging a favor with dignity.
To Her Grace, Lady Grace of Ashford,
I write humbly in my capacity as a citizen of Valewick and as the mentor to Leon, your current prisoner. I acknowledge the severity of the situation and do not seek to contest your authority.
However, as his former teacher and guardian, I ask if I may be granted a brief visitation, under supervision if necessary, to see the condition of my apprentice. I offer this request with full respect for the laws and restrictions of House Ashford.
With all appropriate reverence,
Lady Callaire
Grace blinked… Then swore.
“Shit. Leon.”
She slapped her forehead with the heel of her palm.
“How did I forget about him?”
“Because you’ve been rather busy reigning over nobles, being nearly assassinated, and organizing court,” Corax offered, voice dry.
Grace’s lips twitched.
“Busy losing my mind to the Void, you mean.”
Corax gave a slow blink. “Aye, that too. Thought it went without sayin’.”
She let her hand fall and stared at the letter again, as if its existence personally offended her.
“That’s not an excuse. He’s entertainment.”
Corax tilted his head. “He is also still alive. Barely. You carved out his shoulder, not his heart.”
Grace exhaled through her nose, annoyed, mostly at herself. There had simply been too much. Too many pieces, too many games. And Leon had been pushed from her thoughts like a discarded toy behind the shelf.
She picked up the letter again.
“Well, guess it’s time to check on our little prisoner.”
Her grin returned, faint but unmistakably sharp.
“Wouldn’t want my guests to feel neglected.”
Corax pulsed faintly from his perch near the hearth, a low thrum running through the air like a distant echo. “Strange,” he murmured aloud, though more to himself than her. “Why do I feel like… I want to see him too?”
Grace didn’t look up. She was already folding the letter, already reaching for her cloak.
Corax hovered slightly, drifting an inch from the mantle. His form crackled at the edges, not unstable, just uncertain. “Is it the connection?” he asked, voice low and almost curious. “Half of me poured into you. And now half of you in return, riding my pulse like breath.”
He dimmed a fraction, flickering once. “Feelings,” he said, like the word itself was dangerous. “I never had those before.”
Grace paused at the door, fingers resting lightly on the frame. “You’re changing.”
Corax pulsed again, slower this time. “Or you are.”
She didn’t deny it. Didn’t even turn around.
Maybe both, she thought.
And then she stepped into the hallway.
--::--
The cell door creaked open on old iron hinges, and Grace stepped inside.
Leon didn’t look up at first. He didn’t need to. The way the air shifted was enough. The way her steps barely made sound on the stone. The way everything suddenly felt colder.
She stood just inside the threshold, letting her eyes sweep over him.
The shoulder—or what was left of it—caught her attention immediately. A part of him was simply gone. Skin where there shouldn’t be. A slope where muscle and bone once were. The Void hadn’t just erased the flesh, it had rewritten the shape of him.
Still twitching, she thought, a smirk tugging at her lips. Resilient little toy.
She reined it in. The smirk faded. The amusement didn’t.
Leon finally looked up, and the fear in his eyes was palpable. Not loud, not screaming, just… present. A trembling stillness, like a dog waiting to be kicked.
Grace blinked.
He’s the only one here who’s seen me like that. Really seen it.
That thought settled in her gut. Not like shame. More like… acknowledgment. Awareness. It wasn’t comforting.
She moved slowly, let the silence stretch thin between them as she crossed the small space and knelt beside him, her crimson skirts pooling across the stone.
Then, with that same sweet smile she used on noble daughters and wide-eyed guests, she reached out and cupped his face.
Her fingers were warm. “Leon,” she said gently. “You look awful.”
Grace tilted her head slightly, as if studying something delicate. Her smile didn’t change, still soft, still curved like a girl’s smile should be.
But her eyes were shining. Not just bright, but vivid—soft, deep blue, like the endless sea on a windless day. A gold-toned shimmer floated near the edge of her pupils, warm and sunlit, like a horizon just beginning to wake. And taped across that horizon, barely noticeable but undeniably there, was a whisper of pink.
--::--
Leon looked into her eyes, unable to pull away. He had seen them before—truly seen them—back when the pain was still fresh and her smile had meant something far worse. Back then, they had been pink. Shining, vivid, and unforgettable. Like some horrible light behind a mask too small to hide the monster.
Now?
Now they were calmer. Softer. But no less terrifying.
There was something in them that made his stomach twist, not the outright threat of violence, but the quiet certainty of it. The gaze of a predator that didn’t need to chase, because it knew its prey had nowhere to run.
He swallowed; throat dry.
What is she?
Why do her eyes always shine? Why do they shift like that—like they’re reflecting something no one else can see?
This is completely insane…
“Nanana,” she hummed softly, almost sing-song, her tone wrapping around his thoughts like velvet. “You poor puppy. I’m here to help you.”
Leon blinked, slow and dazed. Her fingers were still on his cheek, warm and gentle. The golden shimmer in her eyes. He couldn’t look away. It moved, not like a reflection, but like a rising sun on the far horizon of an endless sea. It shifted with the faintest hue of pink tracing its edge.
“You… you wanted to help me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
And something inside him uncoiled. The tension in his jaw, the locked weight in his chest, it all began to slip. The pain in his body faded into something distant, detached, almost imaginary. His skin felt soft. Not numb, but light, like he was wrapped in clouds. Like he wasn’t in this cell anymore. His brain buzzed gently, and a part of him knew something was wrong, but it was so far away now. It didn’t matter.
“Yes,” Grace said, her voice warm and honeyed. “I’m here to help you, Leon… you poor, poor soul.”
He started crying. He didn’t even know why. Tears ran freely down his cheeks as his mouth quivered.
He saw her—really saw her—and for a moment, she wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t a noble. She wasn’t the thing that had broken him.
She was divine.
An angel in crimson silk and soft gold light. Not a monster. Not a tormentor.
She would never hurt him.
Not her. Not Grace. Not his goddess.
--::--
Leon collapsed in front of her.
Grace didn’t flinch. But she felt it, something moving inside her, again. Not the Void. The Void was quieter now, more like a whisper curled behind thought. This… this had been a push. An impulse that guided her hand, her tone, her presence. And she hadn’t resisted.
Because it had felt right.
“What the fuck was that now?” she muttered aloud, not expecting an answer. Corax drifted lower, slower than usual, his glow faint.
“That,” he said carefully, “was unexpected.”
Grace spun toward him, her eyes narrowed, breath still caught half between thrill and fear. “What was this? Why do I feel like some new freak, some other son of a bitch, is crawling around inside my soul again?”
Corax hovered, not close, cautious. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “Not Void. Not madness. Ye—You... inherited a spark.”
“A what?”
“A divine spark,” Corax said at last, voice lower now, more measured, like he was trying to believe the shape of the truth forming in his own mouth. “And if I’m right... I woke it when I poured part of myself into you.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck is a divine spark, Corax?”
He hesitated. “Something rare,” he said then. “Precious. A gift, not of power, but of essence. When a god or goddess places a sliver of their being into a mortal. A spark. Dormant, until… it isn’t.”
His glow dimmed slightly. “It wakes in moments of extremity. Death. Despair. A shattering of self. That’s when the spark remembers what it is.”
Grace blinked slow. “So, I’ve got a divine spark in my chest, a Void core humming behind my ribs, and apparently I’m destined to become that eyeliner-wearing nightmare with too many teeth I met in the dark. All at five years old. On this charming little borderline world called Nyras.”
She gave a long, unimpressed blink.
“Figures. I’m not a person. I’m a plot device.”
She turned back toward Leon’s unconscious form; voice flat. “And I’m still not the strangest thing in this world.”
Corax pulsed faintly, as if to correct her. But stopped.
Then, after a pause, he spoke careful. “It came from Iras.” There was more to say, that he had felt the presence of Iras, unmistakable, when Grace had shattered. That spark-bearers had once been avatars, warriors of divine will in the wars that split the planes. That it was an honor beyond titles, beyond circles, beyond anything mortals were meant to carry.
But he didn’t say it. She wouldn’t care, and she proved it a second later.
“Iras, huh?” Grace muttered under her breath. “Great. Add her to the list.”
Corax hovered lower, flickering. “What list?”
“My fucking hit list,” Grace said flatly. “Of every self-righteous piece of shit who thought they could fuck with my head.”
Her voice stayed even, but something behind it cracked.
“I’ll find every last one of them. Gods. Spirits. Whatever twisted trash thought I’d be honored. I’ll drag them into the dirt and unmake their names. Rip them apart. Laugh while—”
She stopped. Just for a breath.
Corax pulsed faintly, uncertain. “Ye don’t mean that,” he said, not like he believed it, but like he needed to say it.
Grace didn’t answer.
She just smiled, and it wasn’t warm. Then, without a word, she glanced down.
Leon. Still unconscious. Sill breathing. Fragile in the way broken things sometimes were, pitiful, but not useless. Grace’s expression shifted again, softening into something colder.
She turned around and her steps toward the door were light and almost graceful.
“Let’s write to Lady Callaire,” she said, voice smooth now. “We’ll allow her to see him.”
She paused at the threshold, not looking back.
“Let’s see what becomes of it.”
