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Book 1: Chapter 16: Chains Of Silk
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:18:39 +0000 UTCChapter 16:
Chains Of Silk
The marble hallway behind them faded with every step, swallowed by the hush of soft wind and trimmed hedges. Grace walked ahead of Ronan without a word, her slippers near-silent against the stone path that led into the southern edge of the estate grounds.
The garden here was quiet. No birds. No fountains. Just the faint rustle of leaves and the distant clink of a gardener’s shears, somewhere far enough not to matter.
She did not look back at him.
Her hands were folded behind her back, posture perfect, chin slightly raised. She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask him questions. Didn’t offer him her attention — not yet.
Ronan followed her with the careful steps of a man walking through a memory. Everything about her looked wrong and familiar at once. A dress too formal for morning, hair too perfectly curled, the slightest pink glint in her eyes when the sun caught them just right. She reminded him of Liliana. Her stillness. Her poise. The absence of any visible vulnerability.
It unsettled him.
“This was always the quiet part of the estate,” he said, more to the hedges than to her. “I used to sneak down here with Cedric to steal the last of the winterfruit.”
Grace said nothing. She simply turned, slowly, as they reached the garden gate. The metal had been freshly oiled, no creak, no drag. She pushed it open with one hand.
“I don’t eat fruit,” she said flatly. Then, after a pause: “But I like the quiet.”
She walked in without waiting for him.
The hedge-rows curled in soft, looping paths, and the low winter sun painted their edges in pale gold. The snow hadn’t touched this far yet, not with the warmstone enchantments buried beneath the soil. Blossoms still lingered on the thornless roses. The air smelled faintly of mint and lavender.
Ronan caught up slowly, hands in his coat pockets. He didn’t say anything.
And then, without turning, she reached out.
Her small fingers brushed his coat sleeve. Not tugging. Not pulling. Just resting. As if permission had already been granted.
He stopped walking.
She looked up at him, her expression unreadable.
Then she slipped her hand into his.
It was tiny. Delicate. But firm.
She tilted her head. “You’re taller than I remember,” she said.
Ronan blinked. And something shifted. Not in her, but in him.
Gone in that instant was the mirror of Liliana. The cold, blue-eyed duchess-in-miniature who wielded silence like steel.
In her place stood a little girl. Small. Soft. With golden curls and a ribbon tied just slightly crooked behind one ear. A child who reached for her brother’s hand and held it like it was a lifeline.
Ronan’s heart twisted.
And when she looked up at him, her expression open, a little uncertain, he saw not power, but fragility.
His grip closed gently around hers.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you the willow pond. If the birds haven’t frozen, they’ll still nest under the reeds.”
Grace nodded.
But inside?
Inside she smiled.
Hooked.
He would be easy.
He wanted something soft to protect. A sibling. A purpose. Something to keep the guilt from eating him alive.
And Grace could give him that.
She would give him all the smiles he needed. The gentle questions. The playful curiosity. The way her small fingers laced with his like she had never let go before.
And in return, he would give her loyalty.
Influence.
A brother in her pocket.
She leaned just slightly into his side as they turned the corner, her pace adjusting to match his longer strides. When he pointed out a low-hanging cluster of frost roses, she made a small sound of awe, just soft enough to be precious.
Ronan chuckled.
“Want to pick one?”
Grace shook her head, looking up at him with bright eyes. “No. I want to remember it just like this.”
He smiled at that. A real smile.
And Grace… Grace squeezed his hand.
Yes.
This will work nicely.
They walked in silence, only the sound of distant wind chimes and the crunch of gravel beneath Ronan’s boots filling the air. Grace stayed at his side, her small hand wrapped neatly in his, her expression unreadable.
They rounded the hedges and reached the pond, a quiet, silver-mirrored place wrapped in low willows and stones with warmstone enchantments. Birds still nested in the branches. The air here was gentler, distant from the cold weight of Ashford marble and duty.
Ronan stopped at the edge.
He sat down slowly, as if his limbs carried more than just his weight. Grace stood beside him for a moment, her blue eyes watching, then joined him with a quiet, practiced grace.
“…I wasn’t supposed to be the heir.”
His voice was low. Tight.
“It was Alaric first. Then Cedric. They were made for it. Everyone knew that.”
His eyes stayed on the water, unmoving.
“I was the third son. The quiet one. The one who read maps instead of leading drills. They called me ‘gentle Ronan.’ Even the servants. I was fine with that. I didn’t want more.”
Grace didn’t speak.
“I haven’t seen father in five years,” he muttered. “Not a letter. Not a word. He vanished into the capital and never came back. And now…”
He closed his eyes. The silence pressed in.
“I’m the only one left.”
His hand clenched slightly around hers.
“And I’m supposed to marry a girl I’ve never met. Secure alliances. Prove I’m strong. Make the duchy proud. I didn’t even get to grieve my brothers properly.”
He shook his head.
“I’m afraid of her, you know,” he added quietly. “Your mother. Liliana.”
Grace tilted her head.
“I believe you.”
Her voice was soft. Gentle. Perfectly still.
Ronan glanced down. Her small hand was still folded in his. She hadn’t let go once.
She smiled.
“You’re not alone anymore.”
He blinked.
She scooted a little closer, her curls brushing against his coat sleeve, her feet barely touching the stone.
“I may be small,” she said, lifting her chin with theatrical determination, “but I’m a Duchess-in-training. And I’m going to protect you now.”
“…Protect me?” he repeated, unable to stop a laugh.
Grace nodded seriously.
“If your bride turns out to be evil, I’ll scare her off. If Mother says something scary, I’ll hold your hand. If anyone tries to hurt you…” She puffed out her cheeks, eyes narrowing, “I’ll bite them. Hard.”
“…You’ll bite them?” Ronan blinked.
“Like a trained battle goose.”
“…A battle goose?”
She nodded again, very solemn. “We had one once. Mother said it was possessed. But it was very loyal.”
Ronan laughed. Really laughed this time, the sound breaking loose from somewhere deep, brittle, and rusted.
“Grace… you’re incredible.”
“I know,” she said brightly, hugging his arm.
And in that moment, that soft, ridiculous moment, the world felt a little lighter.
To Ronan, she wasn’t the Duchess’s mirror anymore.
She was just… Grace.
His little sister.
Warm. Strange. Brilliant.
Someone he could protect.
Someone who, for the first time since everything fell apart, made him feel like he wasn’t completely alone.
“I’ll help you with everything,” she said suddenly, her voice smaller now, tucked against his shoulder. “I’ll make sure you never have to carry it alone.”
He looked down at her, at the way her lashes caught the sunlight, at the soft determination in her face.
“…Thank you.”
Grace just nodded.
She didn’t need to say anything more.
Because in her mind, the threads were already tying. Tighter. Cleaner. More secure.
He was hers now.
Not through fear. Not through magic. Through something far more binding.
Love.
She rested her head against him, humming a quiet tune under her breath.
And as the wind stirred the branches overhead, Ronan closed his eyes.
For the first time in months, he felt at peace.
--::--
The porcelain clicked faintly as Ronan set down his cup.
The tea was too hot. Or too bitter. Or maybe it was just the company.
Across from him sat Duchess Liliana of Ashford, her back straight, her gown a tapestry of black and crimson silk that shimmered like blood in candlelight. They were alone in one of the estate’s many tea rooms — not the warm, floral ones meant for guests, but a cold chamber of slate and carved wood. Delicate, yes. Beautiful, even. But suffocating.
Liliana didn’t sip from her own cup. She didn’t need to. Her presence was already enough to drain the warmth from the room.
"You’ve improved your posture," she said without looking at him. Her eyes lingered on the rain-dappled window, where the gardens blurred like watercolors. "But you’re still slow to speak."
Ronan swallowed. “I prefer to think before I do.”
She hummed, faintly amused. “Then let me help you think.”
The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was pressure. Like the space between words in a contract, sharp enough to bleed if you touched it wrong.
Liliana finally turned her gaze on him.
“Lady Selira of House Velmire arrives in one week.”
Ronan nodded. “Yes…” he hesitates for a brief moment, “Mother.”
“She is to be courted. Publicly. Graciously. Visibly.”
“…Visibly?”
Liliana’s eyes sharpened. “The nobles of Ashford will be watching. The lesser houses are already circling like crows. They smell weakness in this family. They think you’re still grieving. Still untested. Still soft.”
“I am grieving,” he muttered.
Liliana didn’t blink. “Then grieve quickly. And quietly. Your courtship will be a declaration — not just of intent, but of strength. House Velmire is not giving us their daughter out of charity.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
She leaned forward slightly, and the shadows in the room leaned with her.
“You’ve spent your last years sulking over books and maps. You’re a scholar, not a statesman. But now you are the heir. And you will perform. You will court this girl like she is the sun itself, and you will do it while every noble in this duchy watches.”
Ronan looked down at his cup. The tea had gone cold.
“I’ve never even met her.”
“You will. And when you do, you will smile. You will flatter. You will make her believe this match is a privilege.”
Liliana’s fingers tapped once against the rim of her saucer.
“If she finds you lacking — if she senses hesitation — the entire alliance could fray. You know what that means.”
Yes. He did.
Velmire’s ships. Their coastal access. Their subtle threat to the duchy’s western border. This was not about marriage. It never had been.
It was a bargain.
And he was the coin.
“…What if I fail?” he asked quietly.
Liliana tilted her head. The way a falcon does, right before it dives.
“Then I’ll find another use for you,” she said, not unkindly.
The words chilled him.
“I’m not like father,” Ronan said suddenly, surprising even himself. “I won’t vanish.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she stood. “That,” she said, “remains to be seen.”
She didn’t dismiss him. She didn’t have to.
Ronan rose slowly, bowing just enough to avoid insult.
As he left the room, the warmth didn’t return. The chill followed him.
The door clicked shut behind him and Ronan exhaled. Quiet. Shaky. His hand slid off the doorknob like it weighed more than his sword ever had.
His back was damp with sweat.
He kept walking, straight-backed, measured, even as something in his chest curled inward. The hallway air felt too warm, too tight. Two maids passed him and bowed politely. He nodded back, kept his pace.
Don’t stumble. Don’t let it show.
He turned the next corner. No one was there.
Only then did he stop walking.
Leaning one shoulder against the cool stone wall, he let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. His fingers were shaking. He clenched them into fists.
By the gods…
That hadn’t been a tea meeting. That had been an execution with better manners.
Liliana. His stepmother. The Duchess. The ruler of Ashford.
The moment father left for the royal court, she had taken the reins of the duchy — and never loosened her grip. Not once.
Five years. And in that time, her word had become absolute.
Guards obeyed her before she even spoke. Nobles whispered her name like a prayer they hoped wouldn't be heard.
She didn’t just lead the duchy. She was the duchy.
He’d heard the stories, even before he returned.
The war-dragon. The border fire. How she walked into a battlefield alone and left it silent. How her magic split the sky. How it only took one spell. One command. One breath.
They said only three mages in the kingdom had passed the Sixth Circle.
Liliana of Ashford was one of them.
And Ronan?
He was nothing.
No mana core. No mage blood. Not even the determination to study spellwork through scrolls and rituals like the desperate ones did. Without a core, magic was barely more than a trickle. Enough for a party light. A floating plate. Second-tier spells if you killed yourself trying.
He’d never bothered.
What was the point of chasing scraps?
He was never supposed to inherit.
That was Alaric’s role. The firstborn. Strong. Sharp. Noble. Liliana respected him.
Then there was Cedric. The second. Cautious. Clever. He’d been tolerated.
And now only Ronan remained.
The quiet son. The bookworm. The afterthought.
Her eyes hadn’t said it. But the silence had. That perfect, cold silence between her words.
You are the only one left.
Not chosen. Just left.
Ronan wiped his hand across his face. His palm was clammy.
A week. That was all the time he had.
One week before Lady Selira of House Velmire arrived.
One week to become a prince. A leader. A man worth marrying.
Not for love. Not for peace.
But because House Ashford needed the alliance. And he was the coin being offered.
He looked down at his hands. They didn’t feel like a noble’s hands. They felt like someone else’s mistake.
He pushed off the wall.
One step.
Then another.
He thought of Grace.
Her hand in his. Her voice — soft, warm, bright. The way she had said “We’re a team.”
That had helped. It still did. Somehow.
But it wasn’t enough to stop the weight pressing down.
Liliana had said it without saying it.
“Fail, and I’ll find another use for you.”
He didn’t know what that meant.
And he didn’t want to.
