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Book 1: Chapter 44: The Court
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:43:45 +0000 UTCChapter 44:
The Court
Time slipped past in quiet, sharpened routine.
The days blurred from repetition. Morning lessons in a high-windowed chamber beneath the east wing: six hours each day with Master Ardan, the old man’s voice winding through noble history, court structure, and diplomatic restraint like a metronome of civility. Grace sat with Clara on one side, Elen on the other, both struggling in different ways. Clara whispered too much. Elen whispered too little.
Afterward came the lessons with Elyne; magic, theory, control, and pressure points.
Every evening, Elyne would sit across from her in the study, hair half-unpinned, shoulders tight from running the estate, and talk through updates. How many wagons arrived. Who failed inspections. Which bannermen were slow in their reports. Grace listened, took notes, and asked questions.
A week passed, and with it, the month.
The first Monday of Liriane arrived with frost on the windows and silence in the halls. Elyreach had ended quietly, its last day slipping away in a haze of candles and court reports. Now it was Liriane, the first true spring month. A time of growth and emergence, when noble families resumed appearances and titles were weighed as heavily as crops.
Grace had learned, in her time on Nyras, that the calendar here was just familiar enough to unsettle her. Twelve months, like Earth, but each held forty days, not thirty. Four weeks of ten days each. A year stretched four hundred and eighty days long, with no concept of leap years or daylight savings. A curious side note? Sunday was still Sunday. Why, she didn’t know. Maybe the translators—divine or otherwise—had a sense of humor. Or maybe some things were too deeply embedded to strip out. Whatever the reason, it always made her feel like someone was playing a very long, very quiet joke on her.
Time in Nyras passed with a quiet steadiness. There were no glowing numbers, no buzzing alarms, no screens flickering to life in the dark. But there were clocks, elegant, weight-driven, some so finely made they could track the lunar tides. Brass mechanisms ticked behind stone and wood, ringing bells at fixed intervals. Schedules were still printed, dictated, obeyed. The sun moved overhead without interruption, and each day still held twenty-four hours, almost to the minute. But without electricity or cities that never slept, the pace of life felt slower.
The divine calendar was sacred. Each month was ruled by one of the Six Gods—each deity holding two months: one in ascendancy, one in ebb.
-Irasel and Iralune belonged to Iras, Goddess of Light.
-Kaeloth and Kaelith to Kaelir, Lord of Shadow.
-Elyreach and Elymere to Elyra, Lady of Space.
-Liriane and Lirfall to Lirien, the Wildmother.
-Velaris and Velhollow to Velarion of the Tides.
-Thyros and Thygrave to Thyron from the Earth.
The priests called it balance. Grace called it compartmentalized religion.
By Nyras reckoning, Grace was five. But the calendar here ran long, forty-day months, ten-day weeks, four hundred and eighty days to a year. It added up quickly. By Earth’s time, she was closer to seven. Clara and Elen too, officially six and seven, but in truth, both already past eight by Earth’s measure.
No one here noticed, of course. Why would they? They were born into it. Nyras was all they knew. To them, Grace was just another noble child growing up fast.
Today was Firstlight, the first day of the week, and the first day of the new month. A day for beginnings. For governance. For standing tall and pretending you were exactly as strong as your title implied.
And in Ashford, tradition made it more than symbolic. Every first Firstlight of the month, the great hall opened its doors to court. Nobles, stewards, landholders, and military captains gathered. It was court day. So, this was the day Grace of Ashford would attend her first full court session.
--::--
It was midday when Grace entered the great hall.
The doors opened without fanfare. Two knights stepped in first, both wearing Ashford colors, silver and black, then Grace followed, her steps steady. Behind her came Elyne, walking a pace behind. She didn’t say anything, but her presence made a statement on its own.
Everyone in the room stood and bowed.
That was the rule. On the Ashford Estate, etiquette wasn’t optional. Every person here was noble-born—even the servants. A slip in form reflected poorly on one’s own house, and that alone was enough to keep standards high.
Grace walked across the hall without hesitation. She wore a crimson dress with clean lines and silver embroidery. Around her neck, the diamond necklace her mother had given her sparkled with every step. Her hair was styled carefully, not too ornate, not childish either. It was the kind of precision that told everyone it had been done on purpose.
The high seat waited at the center of the dais. It was her mother’s place, and Grace stepped up and sat down without adjusting her dress. She kept her posture straight, and she didn’t look around to check who was watching, she already knew.
To her right, two empty seats. To her left, two more. Reserved for the elder nobles of the estate. They would be seated when court formally began.
Elyne moved to her place behind the seat. She stood still; hands clasped. She didn’t speak. That, too, was a message. Grace was the one in command here, not a puppet. And definitely not a figurehead.
Grace folded her hands lightly on her lap.
Then the four elders entered together. Each stepped forward in turn, bowed, and took Grace’s offered hand. They kissed it—formal, dry, respectful—and then moved to their seats without a word. They didn’t need to look at each other; they already knew. All four were from old Ashford houses, the kind with bloodlines that ran back centuries. Most of them had likely split from House Ashford itself generations ago, cousins turned bannermen, allies turned stewards. They looked exactly how Grace expected: serious, proud, and fully aware that their presence made a statement.
Once the elders were seated, the guests were allowed to enter.
Selira came in first, walking with calm precision. She wore a dark blue coat with silver trim, her posture flawless. Her entourage followed a few steps behind, the noble daughters from Velmire, each dressed to represent their houses, only Melissa was missing.
They moved to the upper benches on the left side of the hall. Grace noted the placement, high, visible, but not central. Just far enough to show courtesy without overstepping. It was exactly where a political guest with uncertain weight belonged. Selira was good.
More nobles followed, mostly Ashford retainers or allied houses. The hall filled slowly but without disorder. Everything was controlled.
After all guests were seated, the hall fell into silence again.
Then the spokesman entered.
He was old, draped in a long ash-gray robe, his boots worn flat by decades of ceremony. But it was the staff he carried that drew every eye. Nearly six feet tall, carved from dark ashwood and bound in tarnished silver wire, and mounted on top, fixed with pins and iron spikes, was the skull of a stag.
Not polished. Not ceremonial. Raw bone, yellowed with age. It was a gruesome sight, and it was intentional. Grace kept her expression still, but her thoughts moved quickly.
Tradition is funny like that. A little death in the decorum just to remind everyone who this house really is.
The spokesman walked the length of the hall in silence and stopped before the dais. He bowed—first to Grace, then to each of the four eldermen—then raised the staff, and with a deliberate crack, slammed it down onto the stone floor. The sound echoed through the hall. When he spoke, his voice was rough with age but clear.
“By the rites of House Ashford and the laws of the estate, this court is now in session.”
He turned slightly, addressing the gathered nobles.
“Today, in the absence of Her Grace Liliana of Ashford, the chair shall be held by her daughter—Her Grace Lady Grace of Ashford—rightful blood of the black stag.”
He turned again to Grace, then to Elyne, who stood tall behind her.
“Her guardian and formally appointed steward of Ashford, Lady Elyne Marren, has approved this succession and relinquished full authority to the court chair for the duration of session.”
He stepped back with another bow. Grace’s fingers curled once on her lap, then relaxed.
So that’s how it’s going to be. Formal. Heavy. Weighted with words so no one can claim later they didn’t hear them.
Good. Let them hear every single one.
Grace had studied the rites. Elyne had explained them carefully, how a court day began, the structure, the formality, the weight behind each title and command. Grace had listened, nodded, memorized. But, as usual, she’d assumed some of it was exaggerated.
She knew justice here wasn’t clean. That part didn’t surprise her. Her feelings about fairness and consequence had been... distorted, ever since she’d been reborn in this place. She had tried to think of herself as reasonable, cold when needed, exacting when useful, but sometimes, when she truly sat with her thoughts, she realized she couldn’t tell the difference anymore between justice and punishment.
She hadn’t minded, but what happened next still caught her by surprise. The doors at the far end opened again, and two guards entered, dragging someone between them; the head maid, the one Grace had marked just over a week ago. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, her eyes wide and shoulders trembling, she looked nothing like the composed woman Grace remembered.
The spokesman raised his staff again.
“By the standing judgment of Her Grace Liliana of Ashford, the servant known as Lady Nella of House Mornell is to be executed on the first court day following her offense.”
For a moment, it felt unreal, like a story she’d written in her head just to see how far it could go. A petty act. A cut finger. A room full of silence. And now... this.
She hadn’t expected her mother to actually do it. And yet, of course she had. Because in Ashford, everything meant something. Even blood on the stones. Especially that. Grace didn’t feel guilt. She didn’t feel pity either. What she felt was harder to name. Something between validation and amusement.
And Grace’s thoughts were circling about this; Mother really does understand me. Or maybe I understand her. Or maybe we’re the same. Is this a message? A warning? A reward? God. My mind’s already fucked—does the world have to follow? Everything twists to match the shape of my thoughts. Or maybe it always did. Maybe I’m just seeing it clearly now. What a mess. What a beautiful, perfect mess. Yes that's it! Oh... I should focus on the present.
The maid whimpered as she was dragged to the center of the hall. Her legs nearly gave out. She tried to speak—a plea, maybe—but no one answered.
The spokesman turned toward Grace, then faced the hall. “Death by the Stag,” he announced, gripping the staff with both hands. Grace had thought it was just a symbol; ceremonial, theatrical. But it wasn’t.
Mana swelled in the man’s frame, old and practiced. The skull atop the staff lit with sickly orange, casting long shadows across the stone.
The first strike hit the maid’s shoulder. She screamed. The second cracked something deeper. The staff didn’t rebound, it sank. The skull’s eyes burned brighter with every cry. Blow after blow, precise and merciless. No words. No hesitation. It took around five minutes. Then it was done.
When it ended, there was no final breath. Just silence, and blood cooling against the stone.
No one spoke. Grace sat perfectly still, every thought in her mind twisted into knots; confusion, a little shock, maybe. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t smile. Something in her stomach turned, not with horror, but with a quiet, strange satisfaction. And something else, too. Something closer to… entertainment.
A good show… unexpected, but good.
Grace looked then across the room. Selira hadn’t moved. Her posture was perfect. Her gaze calm. But the noble daughters behind her were pale. She tilted her head slowly and turned her gaze back to the spokesman.
The spokesman stepped forward again. He raised the staff and struck the ground once more. The sound echoed sharp and hollow across the hall.
Two servants entered through the side door. They didn’t speak, and they didn’t bow. They simply moved to the body, lifted it without ceremony, and carried it out. The blood was left behind, a dark, glistening smear across the stone.
No one commented on it. Grace didn’t look away, and the spokesman turned back to the dais, his voice steady: “With the sentence carried out, the court is now formally in session.”
He adjusted his stance, then began the next part with practiced rhythm.
“On the agenda today: reports on estate security and supply, guest acknowledgements, local petitions, and scheduled noble grievances. A final declaration may be made by the chair.”
He paused.
“All parties shall remain silent until called.”
--::--
The court had finally begun in earnest.
The first parts of court proceeded without incident. Reports were delivered, read aloud in steady rhythm, supply ledgers, troop rotations, minor inspections. No one raised objections. A few barons submitted quiet acknowledgments of service. Selira remained silent throughout, her gaze cool but attentive. Two smaller nobles requested trade adjustments; Grace approved both without comment.
The court flowed like a well-rehearsed performance; each role played exactly as tradition demanded. Grace gave no speeches. She didn’t posture. She simply answered, nodded, moved the day forward. And it worked.
But now came the part Elyne had warned her about, the noble grievances.
Grace shifted slightly in her chair, adjusting her focus. This was where the performance ended. Grievances were messy, political, personal. And no matter how well the room was ordered, someone always came hoping to score points.
The spokesman cleared his throat and called the next item.
“Formal grievance, submitted by Ser Renar Morlan, Knight Commander of the Western Yard. Involving Ser Alis Trivelle, regarding conduct on estate grounds.”
Grace sat up a little straighter.
Elen's mother...
From the benches below, Ser Renar stepped forward. His armor was polished but plain, the colors of House Morlan, dark red with a broken silver line, worn sharp on his cloak. He bowed deeply at the base of the dais.
“My lady,” he said, voice strong but measured. “Three days past, during standard drills, I was confronted by Ser Alis Trivelle in the presence of my men and trainees. She disrupted an active training rotation without clearance, removed a cadet from my command, and publicly accused me of negligence and political favoritism.”
Grace said nothing. Her eyes remained steady, but her thoughts turned.
Elen didn’t tell me about this.
Not surprising. She wasn’t the talkative type. Still, something like this? A public scene involving her mother? That should’ve come up. Unless Elen thought it didn’t matter. Or worse, that it would.
Grace wasn’t sure if she was annoyed by the silence… or curious about the reason for it.
She refocused on Ser Renar as he continued.
“When I challenged her breach of protocol, she responded not with correction, but with insult. She called me ‘a relic without discipline’ and a ‘second-rate officer riding on borrowed name.’ There were witnesses. Twelve in total.”
He paused.
“Under normal circumstances, I would request satisfaction by steel. But as duels are currently forbidden by order of the Duchess, I instead seek a public reprimand, acknowledgment of the breach, and a formal note entered into the court record regarding Ser Alis’s conduct.”
The hall was silent.
Grace waited exactly three seconds, not rushed, not hesitant, then turned her head slightly to the left.
Elyne had told her how to handle this. One of the eldermen on her left gave a single nod and rose to his feet.
“In accordance with estate law and the rights of fair grievance, Ser Alis Trivelle will be summoned to offer her account to the court.”
Ser Renar stepped aside with a stiff bow. He did not speak again, but the tension in his stance didn’t fade.
The doors opened. Boots clicked steadily against stone as Ser Alis Trivelle entered the hall. She wore field leathers, not formal wear, her sword was peace-bound at the hilt, her posture straight, and her presence unshakable. A scar crossed the bridge of her nose. Her hair was pulled tight at the crown. Every movement was measured.
Grace’s gaze sharpened.
An older version of Elen.
It was strange, she could see it immediately. Not just in the bone structure or the stance, but in the eyes. Cold when needed. Precise. Unapologetic.
Ser Alis bowed with crisp formality before the dais.
“Your Grace,” she said evenly.
Ser Alis bowed with crisp formality before the dais. It was a minor breach, not enough to draw gasps, but clear. You always waited for acknowledgment before addressing the court. That was the rule. Grace said nothing. She didn’t correct. She simply watched.
Noted.
Then, without waiting for permission, she began her side of the story.
“I returned to the estate three days ago,” Ser Alis began, her voice steady, “after being informed that my daughter, Elen Trivelle, was residing outside my household, without notice, and without permission under the guardianship of another noble family.”
Her eyes didn’t waver. She didn’t speak like she was defending herself, more like she was stating facts no one had the right to question.
“I intended to remove her from that arrangement personally. As is my right, by blood and duty. I approached the western training yard where she was active. Upon arrival, I found Ser Renar Morlan conducting drills with cadets, including my daughter.”
She let that hang for a second.
“I informed him that I would be reclaiming my child and taking responsibility for her schedule going forward. He objected. Loudly. In front of his men.”
A faint pause. “His tone was inappropriate. His wording was a direct challenge to my judgment and honor.”
No one moved.
“I responded in kind,” she said flatly. “Nothing more. I did not draw steel. I did not threaten violence. I acted as a mother, a veteran, and a knight of this house.”
Another pause. Controlled. Calculated.
“If the court believes it improper for a woman to speak plainly to a man who questions her right to protect her daughter, then I accept whatever reprimand is deemed necessary.”
She bowed again. But only once. And not as deeply.
Grace neither responded, nor nodded, nor blinked, only listened.
So that’s her story. How… boring.
It wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t quite right either. She remembered exactly when Elen had started staying at Clara’s mansion, after the attack, the day they had returned to the estate. Grace had still been unconscious. Elen had already been there for a week by the time she woke up.
No one had made it official. There were no documents, no declarations. Clara was just a baron’s daughter, and she didn’t have any adult relatives living on the estate. It wasn’t like she’d claimed Elen. It just… happened.
And that made it worse.
Petty, Grace thought again. All of this is petty. And for this, we’re holding a formal court? Maybe we really should start punishing people for pettiness. The whole lot of them... pathetic.
She didn’t say it aloud.
Because this wasn’t about truth or protocol. It wasn’t even about Elen anymore. This was about her. Grace. The court was watching her. Every noble seated along the benches, every guest at Selira’s side, every guard and steward in the back row, they weren’t judging Trivelle or Morlan. They were judging her.
"How will the little daughter of the Duchess handle it?"
"Will she show favor to her friend?"
"Will she punish a knight? A mother? A woman who stepped out of line?"
Grace let the silence hang for just long enough. Then she gave a small nod.
“Thoughts?” The word wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.
The elderman to her right spoke first, old, steady, with a clipped accent from the river provinces. “Ser Trivelle acted on instinct, but in doing so, breached military protocol. That cannot be ignored.”
The second followed, his tone less severe. “The intent may have been personal, but the words were public. And in public, words are action.”
The third, the eldest, cleared his throat before speaking. “I see no cause for reprimand. But I see no cause for dismissal either. It was a clash of pride, not law.”
The final voice came from her left. “If we punish one, we elevate the other. If we dismiss both, we uphold discipline. But the question is, what does this court value more?”
They all turned their eyes back to her. Now it was Grace’s turn, and she sat still. Outwardly calm. Inwardly moving fast. What was the best path? What would bring the greatest gain?
Ser Alis Trivelle had spoken like a woman who believed she had a shield, Grace’s friendship with her daughter. It didn’t sit well. Not because it was insulting. But because it was half-right. Favoritism was a form of power. And right now, Grace had few she could call truly hers. Elyne. Her six knights. That was it. Everyone else bowed to her position—not to her. A loyal dog in armor was worth more than a smiling courtier without blood on their hands.
So yes, she could secure a favor here. Turn this into a debt. Leverage loyalty from Elen, from her mother, from a knight house with reach.
But her thoughts bent darker than that. This wasn’t about right or wrong. This court—Ashford itself—was never about justice. It was about power. About appearance. About who could bite, and who had to bleed for it. That’s why it never felt odd when she overstepped. Why she never hesitated. It wasn’t because she was cruel, not entirely. At least Grace didn’t think about herself as cruel. It was because this place taught her that cruelty worked. The proof had come today. When the head maid was dragged in chains. Grace had already punished her. Given her a second chance, in her own way. One finger. A warning. The next step could have been up to the woman.
But her mother had revoked that.
Just like that.
Grace had never seen her mother handle someone like that before, not directly, not in front of her. Maybe Liliana had two faces. Maybe she always had. Grace didn’t care. She wasn’t the girl from Earth anymore. She wasn’t a mindless thing chasing revenge, either. She was Grace. And she wasn’t here to change the system, she was here to own it. To twist it into something she could use. If someone tried to chip away at her mind—her control—then they’d burn. Quietly. Efficiently. Completely.
But she knew better than to act too early. She couldn’t afford to start breaking pieces off the board while people were still counting them. So, she’d play the long game. Let them underestimate her. Let them smile and bow and think her harmless. And in the meantime?
She’d keep her sanity sharp. Keep her power clean. And keep her face calm.
Thanks again, Corax, she thought absently. For helping me stay true to myself.
Her eyes refocused. She’d gotten distracted. Back to the present. Back to Ser Alis. To Morlan. To this little stage where everyone wanted to know just how far the Duchess’s daughter would reach.
So, what should I do here?
She let the silence stretch just a little longer. Then she looked down, first to Ser Alis, then to Ser Renar. Her voice was calm. Sharp.
“Tell me,” she said, “why should I favor either of you?”
That got their attention. Ser Renar blinked. Not in confusion, but recalibration. Ser Alis’s jaw shifted slightly, her composure slipping for half a breath before snapping back into place.
Grace kept going.
“You both speak of honor. Of chain of command. Of duty.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “But none of that answers the real question: Why should I care which one of you is right? What do you offer me, this court, or this estate, that makes your version of this story worth favoring?”
No one spoke. Grace didn’t fill the silence. She just waited. Because this court wasn’t here to sort petty disputes. It was here to measure people. And right now, she was measuring both of them.
Ser Renar recovered first. He stepped forward, his armor catching the torchlight as he addressed the dais. His voice was clear, firm, not emotional.
“I serve the estate, my lady,” he said. “Not just with name, but with structure. I train the men who hold your walls. I enforce the discipline that keeps your ranks from collapsing when real war arrives. If chain of command begins to fray in times of peace, it does not survive conflict. My grievance is not just about pride. It is about precedent. Favoring me is favoring the system that holds your order together.”
He bowed again, sharp and clean, before stepping back.
Ser Alis was slower to speak. She didn’t lower her eyes or soften her tone. She met Grace’s gaze with the same quiet defiance she had shown during her entrance.
“I do not speak for politics,” she said. “I speak for my daughter. I’ve led men in three campaigns, through fire and ruin, long before most of the officers in this hall knew how to stand on their own. When I see something that risks my child’s safety, or yours, I don’t wait. I act. That’s how I was trained. That’s how I serve. I will not apologize for doing what I know is right.”
She didn’t bow. She simply stood in place, hands clasped behind her back, her stance that of a soldier expecting judgment but not fearing it.
Grace took a moment. She let them wait. Then she straightened slightly in her seat and spoke with clarity.
“Both of you are correct. And both of you were wrong.”
Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
“As Elen’s parent, Ser Trivelle had every right to reclaim her daughter’s supervision. But doing so during active drills, in public, without coordination, was inappropriate. You should have waited until training concluded. Then spoken to Ser Morlan directly and made your intentions clear.”
She paused, then looked to Ser Renar.
“And you, Ser Morlan, are right to defend order. But you let the situation escalate. You filed your grievance not only as a correction, but as a punishment. That is not your place.”
The room stayed silent. Grace kept her voice even.
“More than that—Elen has lived outside her family home for nearly three weeks. She had no servants. No guardian present. No staff. That is unfitting for a knight’s daughter in the service of this duchy.”
Her gaze didn’t shift.
“That it was Lady Clara Bellgrave who offered her a place, and that she took it, reflects better on Clara than it does on you, Ser Trivelle.”
Grace let the words hang just long enough.
She didn’t need to raise her voice. She knew how these things worked, nobility didn’t fear volume, they feared being measured and found lacking.
It stings, doesn’t it? Being called out not for failure in battle, but failure in etiquette. In parenting.
She didn’t care that Ser Trivelle had been at the Citadel. That was her choice. She’d left Elen behind, no staff, no steward, no structure. It didn’t matter that Grace knew why. That she knew how little coin Trivelle had left, how every spare copper had gone into Elen’s bladework, her clothes, her future. That was the job. That was the cost of playing the game.
No one cares why the blood was spilled. Only that you didn’t wipe it up fast enough.
And Clara… well. Clara had played her part without realizing it. The lonely baron’s daughter with the empty halls, always too sweet for her own good. Grace didn’t mind rewarding her. Not openly. So, she’d wrap it in policy.
Compensation for services rendered. Nobility recognizing nobility. She leaned forward. Grace let that one land. A light jab. Sharp enough to sting. Measured enough to be defensible.
“Therefore, I rule as follows: Ser Trivelle will formally compensate House Bellgrave for the care and service provided to her daughter over the past weeks. In addition, you will appoint household staff to your residence, immediately. As a knight of the Third Circle and a personal agent of the Duchess, such oversight is expected.”
She let the words settle, then turned slightly toward both knights.
“But this court recognizes that grievances were shared, not just duties neglected. As such, both parties will offer formal acknowledgment.”
She paused, eyes narrowing just enough.
“Now.”
A beat of silence passed—tense, but not defiant—before Ser Alis stepped forward. Her jaw was set, but she extended her gloved hand.
“Ser Morlan,” she said. “For the accusations cast and the words I spoke, I offer apology.”
Renar met her eyes. He was older, broader, but the tension in his stance eased as he took her hand and shook it.
“Likewise, Ser Trivelle. I spoke out of turn, and made assumptions unbecoming of my station. Consider the matter closed.”
Grace gave a small, polite smile, the kind that held more sharpness than sweetness.
“And one more thing,” she said lightly, lacing her fingers atop the desk. “Since both of you are so clearly concerned about each other’s fitness as protectors of Ashford’s children…”
Her smile tilted. “…you will engage in a supervised sparring match. Three days from now. Public grounds. Friendly, of course.”
Gasps and amused murmurs rippled through the chamber.
Grace’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“Let the court, and your arms, determine who is truly more fit.”
Then she looked briefly to the left, and then to the right, a gesture of conclusion.
“Let it be recorded.”
She didn’t smile.
The spokesman struck the staff against the floor once more. The sound echoed, final.
Ser Renar gave a bow and stepped back without argument. Ser Alis nodded stiffly and turned to leave. Grace didn’t look at either of them as they exited.
The room stayed quiet for a beat longer, then movement resumed, a slow shift as everyone understood that court, for today, was done. No one said much. There had been no shouting, no spectacle beyond the one that opened the day.
But the message was clear; Grace had handled it, and the rest would carry the story.
