North Drake
patreon
Book 1: Chapter 14: A Mother's Favor
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:17:55 +0000 UTCChapter 14:
A Mother's Favor
The last toast had been raised, the final bite of sugared pear swallowed, and the nobles of Ashford were trickling out of the banquet hall like wine-drunk moths fluttering toward colder halls and warmer beds. The hall, once loud with clinking silver and strained laughter, now hummed with the low rustle of trailing silks and the occasional clack of polished boots against marble.
Grace remained seated beside her mother.
Liliana hadn’t moved in over ten minutes, her gaze fixed on the far windows, where torchlight flickered against the glass like the heartbeat of a distant fire. Her face was unreadable, that perfect porcelain mask she wore so well. It wasn’t coldness. It was focus. Like a chess master watching her board after a satisfying move.
Grace waited, because patience was power. Let others fidget and chase scraps of approval. She knew how to sit still. And finally, Liliana stirred.
“You were perfect tonight,” she said, not looking at her. “Not just well-behaved. Perfect.”
Grace blinked once. Her voice, when it came, was soft. “Thank you, Mother.”
A simple reply. Measured. Demure.
Liliana turned to look at her then, and Grace felt the weight of her gaze settle like a velvet mantle across her shoulders.
“They underestimated you,” her mother murmured. “Every last one of them. And now? They’ll remember you.”
Grace smiled. A small, perfect smile.
Of course, they will.
Liliana reached out, brushing a golden curl from her daughter’s cheek. “You carried yourself like a true daughter of Ashford. Not a child.”
Grace lowered her eyes. “I wanted to make you proud.”
She meant it. Mostly. But pride wasn’t the end goal. It was her leash.
Liliana rose, and Grace followed suit. The banquet hall was nearly empty now. Just two guards near the far doors and a servant collecting the untouched desserts from the edge tables. Grace knew she had only a moment.
Use it well.
She stepped closer, taking her mother’s hand gently.
“Mother,” she said, and let just a flicker of uncertainty enter her voice. “There is something I need to tell you. About the dungeon.”
Liliana stilled.
Her gaze sharpened. “Go on.”
Grace hesitated artfully. Then: “There was an incident. During our visit to Maison Callaire. An apprentice struck Elen and attempted to strike me.”
Liliana’s expression didn’t change. Not visibly. But the air shifted.
“What?” The word was soft. Deadly.
“He was restrained,” Grace continued. “Elyne ordered him taken to the dungeon immediately. She would have told you, but with Ronan’s arrival and the banquet…”
Liliana’s hand twitched.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“Leon,” Grace said. “The apprentice of Lady Callaire.”
Now her mother’s face changed. A shift. A shadow.
“He attacked you?”
“He tried,” Grace said. Then paused. Let her words come slower now. “But… I asked Elyne not to execute him immediately. He was provoked. Elen stopped him before anything happened to me. And…”
She looked up into her mother’s eyes.
“I believe he can still be useful.”
Liliana blinked. Just once.
Then she exhaled, the anger leaving her like steam through clenched teeth.
“You wish to spare him?”
Grace nodded. “Not pardon. Not release. But perhaps… a year in the dungeon. To reflect. To remember his place.”
A long silence followed. Her mother said nothing, simply stared at her daughter with the same look she gave old relics and rare grimoires, studying what should not be.
Then Liliana spoke, low and slow.
“You’ve grown sharper than I realized.”
Grace smiled, soft and full of light.
“I’m your daughter.”
Liliana nodded. Then turned toward the guards.
“One year,” she said. “No more, no less. At the end of that time, I will see him myself.”
The guards saluted.
Grace curtsied.
And inside, she smiled wider.
Thank you, Mother.
You just gave me the perfect pawn.
--💀--
Leon awoke in darkness.
The first thing he felt was pain. Not sharp, not sudden—but deep and throbbing, pulsing behind his ribs and along the side of his face. His right eye wouldn’t open. Swollen shut. The skin felt hot, stretched, like it might tear if he forced it.
The air was cold.
He was lying on stone. No, not just stone. There was a scattering of hay beneath him, damp and musty, doing little to dull the ache that spread from his shoulder down his spine.
He shifted slightly. Gritted his teeth. Everything hurt.
He tried to sit up, and the world tilted. Something warm smeared beneath his cheek. Blood. Old, maybe. Or new. He couldn’t tell.
The cell was pitch black except for a faint glimmer from the corridor beyond the iron bars. He turned his head toward it. Slowly. The iron door was thick, bolted, its edges rimmed with rust. Someone had left a jug of water just inside. No cup. No food. Nothing else.
No blanket. No toilet. No words. Just the cold. Just the dark.
Leon closed his good eye.
He didn’t cry. That would have hurt too much. Instead, he whispered to himself, voice raw.
“What did I do?”
Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe three. He couldn't tell. There was no sunlight down here, only the occasional drip of water echoing off the stones. The cold worked its way into his bones, numbing the pain but never erasing it.
He stared at the wall. Thought of her again. Lady Callaire.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. She had taken him in when no one else would. A common boy with nothing but a quick tongue and a knack for ingredients, half-starved and desperate the first time he set foot in her boutique.
She’d seen him. Really seen him. Not as a burden. Not as a street rat. But as potential. She’d offered him a place. A purpose.
Strict? Yes. Brutal, sometimes. She once made him scrub soot from the alchemy pots with his bare hands for a week after he misread a dosage and nearly blew a client's eyebrows off.
But never unfair. Never cruel. She’d given him books. A real bed. Meals that weren’t stolen. And her time.
And now…
Now he was here. On the floor of a dungeon.
He wanted to scream. Not from pain.
From shame.
He had embarrassed her. No… worse. He had made her kneel.
He saw it, clear as day, even through the haze of blood and panic. Lady Callaire, bowing before that icy governess, pleading for his life. The humiliation in her voice, not because she feared for herself, but because of what he had dragged her into.
Leon gritted his teeth, curling tighter onto his side.
She had taken him from nothing.
And this was how he repaid her.
Just before he could slip into unconsciousness—not quite sleep, more like the dark edge of escape—he heard it.
A creak.
The slow, eerie groan of rusted hinges moving for the first time in hours.
Leon flinched and forced his good eye open. The iron door to his cell was shifting inward, letting a sliver of warm torchlight spill across the filthy floor.
At first, he couldn’t see anything. Just the silhouette. Small. Slender.
Then the light caught golden curls.
She stood in the doorway, still as a statue, wearing a dress fit for royalty, deep red and burgundy silk, the hem trailing just above the dirt. In her small hands, a silver tray with food. Steam curled from the bowl. Bread. Cheese. Soup, maybe.
Leon blinked. It couldn’t be. But it was.
The girl from the boutique. The girl he’d shouted at. Raised a hand toward.
The girl he wanted to punch.
He scrambled to sit up, every muscle screaming. Shame lanced through him sharper than pain ever could. He opened his mouth to speak.
But she spoke first.
“I did everything I could for you,” The girl said, her voice soft. Her eyes, so terribly blue and ringed in innocence, were heavy with sadness. “You won’t be executed. You won’t be burned.”
He stared at her.
She stepped into the cell; her dress too fine for this place.
“Just one year,” she continued, and her voice didn’t waver. “Only one. I couldn’t do more.”
Leon broke. Tears sprang hot and fast, cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks. He bowed his head, hands shaking.
“Thank you,” he rasped. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”
She stepped forward and pushed the tray into his arms.
“Eat,” she said simply. “You need your strength.”
Leon obeyed. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t look up. He simply took the bread first, then the bowl, cradling it in trembling hands. It was warm. Real. The scent of herbs and broth nearly broke him all over again.
He ate like a starving dog, but with tears in his eyes. Grateful. Ashamed.
He would have never expected such kindness. Not here. Not now. Not from her. He glanced up, just once, through his lashes. She was watching him with a sad smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
The torches behind her flickered. Softly. But wrong. Not the usual flicker of fire. Something slower. Pulsing. Like a breath.
Leon had almost finished the soup, his first proper meal in what felt like an eternity, but in reality, only hours—when her voice cut through the silence like a knife.
“How do you plan to pay me back?”
He froze. The spoon hovered mid-air. Her tone was... different now. Not cruel. Not cold. Just off. Calm, yes. Even kind, in a way, but not like before. Not sad. Not warm.
Businesslike. Transactional.
His breath caught. He lowered the spoon slowly, eyes rising to meet hers.
“What?” he asked, his voice rough.
“I saved your life,” The girl said, her expression unreadable now. “That should be worth something.”
There was no malice in her voice. No threat. But something was missing—something human maybe. The way she said it, the way she looked at him… it wasn’t the way children talked. It wasn’t how anyone should talk.
Leon blinked. Tried to shake off the creeping cold that crawled up his spine. He swallowed hard.
“I’ll do anything,” he said quickly. “I’ll repay you; I swear. I didn’t mean to…”
But the words stumbled out awkwardly, like they didn’t fit the shape of the moment.
Because the moment had changed.
He looked at her again. Really looked.
She was just a girl. A tiny noble girl in a dress too fine for the dungeon. But she stood there without fear, without guards, in a place no child should be alone. The iron door behind her was wide open. No footsteps. No shadows. Just her.
And she hadn’t blinked once. Not once since she stepped into the cell.
Leon’s hand trembled, still holding the spoon. His mind kicked into motion, faster now. Twelve years old, streetborn, apprentice to an alchemist. He wasn’t stupid. He knew how to read a room, a face, a threat.
This didn’t feel right. This didn’t feel safe.
It was a dark night. He was alone. And the little girl in front of him, still smiling, still silent, wasn’t acting like a little girl at all.
She looked like a doll. A beautiful, motionless doll.
Then she tilted her head slightly. Not a big motion, just enough that the flickering torchlight caught in her golden curls again. Still, she hadn’t blinked.
Leon swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze, even though everything inside him screamed to look away.
With almost a whisper she asked, so softly it almost didn’t sound like a question:
“Do you care about her?”
Leon blinked. “W-what?”
“Lady Callaire.” Her voice remained calm. Too calm. “Your mentor. Do you care about her?”
His breath hitched. “Of course, I do. She… she took me in. Treated me better than anyone ever did.”
She smiled. It was gentle. Almost.
“That’s good.”
Then came the pause. Too long. Too measured.
And then: “You should make sure she stays safe.”
The words were whispered like a secret, but they landed like a threat.
Leon’s blood turned to ice. “What do you mean?” he asked, heart thudding now. “Why wouldn’t she be safe?”
The young noble girl finally blinked.
Once.
Then she turned her head slightly, looking past him toward the wall, as if the dungeon itself might echo back some kind of answer.
“I heard she pleaded,” she said softly. “On her knees. For you.”
Leon flinched.
“She humiliated herself,” she continued, “in front of people who don’t forget things like that.”
She looked back at him.
“Be useful, Leon. Because if you're not… she might pay for your mistakes.”
The torchlight behind her flared. Just for a moment. But Leon felt it in his bones.
She tilted her head back toward him, and for a heartbeat, everything about her shimmered, just beneath the surface. The air in the cell felt heavier, tighter, as if the shadows were listening too.
Then she smiled again. Different this time. Not warm. Not even neutral. It was playful.
“Wouldn’t it be delightful,” she whispered, her voice light and airy, “if Lady Callaire were disemboweled?”
Leon froze.
The words didn’t register at first, not fully. They drifted through the cold air like falling ash, delicate, absurd. He blinked, thinking he’d misheard. That the bruising, the hunger, the fear had made him imagine it.
But her expression told him otherwise.
She was still smiling.
Still smiling.
He stared at her, breath catching in his throat, and whispered, “What…?”
She tilted her head the other way now, as if examining him. As if curious how long it would take for the horror to settle in.
“All those herbs,” she said softly, “all those precious little jars she keeps. So many neat little tools. What would they look like scattered across the floor… soaked in red?”
Leon flinched.
No.
This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. She was just a girl. Just a child.
But something behind her eyes…
A pink shimmer began to glow inside her iris.
“I can feel it now…” she said calm, and that pink shimmer in her eyes pulsed once, slow and languid, like the heartbeat of something ancient in too small a body.
She was just a girl.
Just a child…
He dropped the tablet. It hit the floor with a dull clatter, broth splashing across the stone.
And he took a step back. His instincts screamed. Panic clawed at the edge of his chest. But then his street-sense kicked in.
He wasn’t a noble. He wasn’t coddled. He’d grown up hungry, afraid, cornered more than once in the alleyways of a city that didn’t care if he lived or died. He knew fear. And he knew how to run.
His gaze flicked behind her. The door was still open and no guards to see. Just her, she was still standing there, and still smiling.
His thoughts stuttered, but his body moved before he could catch up.
She was small. Half his height. He was twelve. She was what—five? Six? And the last time he lashed out; the older girl flew across the room like paper in the wind.
He wasn’t a fighter. But he was desperate.
I just have to shove her aside, he told himself. Just once. Just get through that door, get out, find Lady Callaire…
He pushed off the wall and surged forward. One move. One chance.
His hands reached out, aiming to shove her aside, get her out of the way—
Then he heard it.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a whisper—clear and deliberate, in a language he recognized only from theory, from dusty old texts and the warnings of Mistress Callaire back in the workshop.
ᚷᚱᚨᚹᛁᛏᚢᛋ ᛈᚱᛖᛋᛋᚨ. (Gravity press)
The runes struck the air like a knife through velvet. It wasn’t just a phrase, it was a command, a chain reaction, a spell.
And then the world broke.
A force he couldn’t see but felt in every bone slammed him downward with the weight of a mountain. He didn’t fall, he collapsed, crushed flat to the floor in a heartbeat. His ribs ground against the stone. His chest couldn’t rise. His limbs refused to move. Even his voice was locked behind clenched teeth and sheer pressure.
Panic surged, but beneath it, so did something else.
Realization. That had been runic magic. And you couldn’t cast that without a Mana Core. Not truly. Not freely.
He knew enough from his alchemy studies to understand the rules. Words held power, but runes, real runes, those were ancient. Dangerous. You needed to shape mana directly, not channel it through potions or tools. If someone without a Core tried to cast them, they’d need a conduit—an engraved amulet, a mana-forged ring, a staff etched with symbols and soaked in power.
She had none of those. No trinket. No wand. No visible source of mana. She had only her voice.
Which meant… she had a Core.
A little girl with a Mana Core.
Leon’s blood turned to ice. The weight on his body was unbearable, but the weight in his mind—the implications, the terror—was worse.
Was she even a little girl?
She crouched beside him again, curls bouncing gently with the motion, and gave a small giggle. Playful. Almost sweet.
He tried to turn his head to see her face, but he couldn’t move. Not an inch. Not even to breathe properly.
That giggle again.
“Did you really think you could run?” she asked, her tone like a mother chiding a naughty child. “You’re lucky I like you, Leon. That’s the only reason your insides are still inside.”
He whimpered. He hadn’t meant to. But he did.
She leaned closer, and her voice dropped to a whisper.
That’s when the mask fell.
Not physically. Not something he could point to. But it was gone all the same—slipping off her like a silk ribbon dropped on stone.
Her expression shifted… she was enjoying this.
Every breath he took, every twitch beneath the crushing weight of her spell, she drank it in like music.
Leon’s panic rose again, full force, his heart pounding so loud he thought it might burst through his ribs. He tried to move, to scream, to roll away, anything, but the pressure still held him tight, unrelenting.
She hadn’t even blinked.
The runes had drawn power from her Core, he knew it, but she wasn’t winded, wasn’t drained. She looked brighter, sharper, more alive.
And then her small hand moved beneath her gown. Slowly. Deliberately.
From a hidden fold of silk, she withdrew a knife. A small, delicate thing. Gilded hilt, curved edge. It glinted in the flickering torchlight like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment.
Leon’s breath caught in his throat.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t scream. But he could see.
Her eyes—still glowing faintly pink—watched him with fascinated calm. She brought the knife close to her lips, brushing a fingertip down the edge, then whispered, soft as a lullaby:
“You said you owed me.”
A pause. A breath.
“Well then…” she purred, “entertain me.”
And she drew the blade across his forearm.
It wasn’t deep. Not at first. But it hurt.
Leon screamed, the sound ripping raw from his throat, echoing off stone like something feral. The pressure didn’t lift. The spell didn’t falter. Her control didn’t waver for even a second.
She just watched.
Watched and smiled.
Then she made another cut. Slower. Deeper.
He bucked against the invisible weight, tears blurring his vision.
Still smiling, she murmured, “You’ll be strong when this is over, Leon. You’ll be mine. And strong.”
Another cut.
The cell filled with the scent of blood and fear.
And the girl, his torturer, began to hum.
