North Drake
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Book 1: Chapter 4: The Game Begins
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:08:30 +0000 UTCChapter 4:
The Game Begins
The five-year-old Grace sat at the window in one of many a cozy living rooms of the Ashford estate, gazing dreamily out into the swirling snowfall. Her mother Liliana, the Duchess of Ashford, sat in a rocking chair beside the large fireplace, quietly turning the pages of an old, leather-bound book. The firelight flickered gently across her elegant features, casting warm, shifting shadows that danced upon her thoughtful expression.
Liliana glanced up occasionally, her eyes softening as they rested on her daughter's small silhouette against the frosted glass.
Suddenly, a loud knock at the door shattered the peaceful moment. With a scowl, Liliana set her old, leather-bound book aside onto the small table beside her. She rose from the rocking chair, straightening herself with a practiced grace, irritation flickering briefly across her composed features.
Grace turned away from the window, curiosity lighting her eyes as she watched her mother move toward the door.
Liliana crossed the room swiftly, her delicate red gown rustling softly against the polished wooden floors. As she reached the door, Grace noticed the faintest shimmer envelop her mother's form, a barely visible ripple of energy.
A protective layer spell. Grace noticed.
The Duchess pulled then the heavy door open with practiced poise, revealing a young messenger standing breathless and covered in snow. His cheeks were flushed red from the biting cold, his eyes wide and anxious.
“My apologies for the interruption, Your Grace,” he said hurriedly, bowing his head. “I bring urgent news from the capital.”
Liliana’s expression hardened, her eyes narrowing slightly. She hesitated only a moment before nodding crisply so he could continue.
“It’s about the Duke’s sons…” the young messenger began, his voice tight with urgency. He swallowed hard, but then froze as his eyes landed on Grace, still seated quietly at the window.
The child didn’t move. She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze calm – but far too focused for a kid. The faint light from the snow outside danced in her eyes like silent embers.
The messenger hesitated. “I… I didn’t realize the Lady Grace was present.”
Liliana stepped forward; her tone curt but controlled. “She is no stranger to serious matters. Speak.”
Still uncertain, the messenger glanced once more at the little girl, as if trying to reconcile the gravity of his message with the childlike figure before him.
Grace tilted her head ever so slightly.
“Go on,” she said softly.
“Y… yes… my apologies for my rudeness,” the messenger stammered, bowing his head again, this time lower, more earnestly. He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s about Lord Alaric of Ashford… and Lord Cedric…”
A pause.
“They’re dead. Only Lord Ronan remains.”
The words dropped into the hall like stones into still water.
For a moment, the only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire.
Liliana went utterly still. Her expression remained unreadable, but her fingers clenched ever so slightly at her sides.
At the window, the messenger caught a glimpse of another reaction, something that made his breath hitch. For the briefest moment, Grace smirked with glee, her eyes shining with a flicker of happiness far too bright for grief. But in the blink of an eye, it was gone, replaced by a sorrowful expression so perfect it could have been carved from porcelain.
She turned her gaze to the floor, her voice soft, almost trembling.
“That’s… terrible news.”
The messenger stared at her, unsure if what he’d seen had been real at all...
Liliana’s voice broke the silence.
“How?” she asked, calm and sharp as a blade. “Tell us everything.”
She stepped aside, motioning for the messenger to enter. The warmth of the hearth behind her did nothing to soften the air.
The messenger stepped inside, and Liliana closed the door behind him with a quiet thud. The warmth of the fire contrasted sharply with the chill that still clung to his cloak, and to his news.
He bowed his head once more, then spoke.
“It happened near the borderlands, Your Grace. Lord Alaric and Lord Cedric were leading a diplomatic escort to the northern garrisons – meant to reinforce ties with House Stormvale and inspect the outer defenses.”
He hesitated, visibly pale now, before continuing.
“Three days ago, their caravan was attacked. At first, it was believed to be bandits, but… the attackers were too well-equipped. Too well-trained.”
He glanced up briefly, eyes clouded with the weight of what he’d seen, or what had been described to him.
“They struck with precision. No demands. No ransom. Just silence and steel. The guards were overwhelmed before they could even raise the alarm wards. One survivor claimed the ambush was over in less than a minute.”
A beat passed.
“Whoever they were… they knew exactly what they were doing. And exactly who they were there for.”
A heavy pause followed.
Liliana’s expression didn’t change. Not a twitch, not a flicker. Her face was carved from noble marble, composed, cold, unreadable. Grace’s face, too, remained still, her eyes locked on the hearth as though the flames held the answers.
The silence lingered a moment longer, until Grace finally broke it. Her voice was soft, trembling with carefully measured sorrow.
“So… my half-brothers… are dead?”
She turned to look at the messenger, her wide eyes now glistening with unshed tears.
“My big brothers…” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath.
A single tear slid down her cheek, and not even the firelight could reveal whether it was real.
Liliana turned her head slightly, her gaze falling on her daughter. She said nothing at first. But then her expression softened, just slightly. The mask of the Duchess slipped, if only for a heartbeat. She stepped closer and knelt beside Grace, brushing a tear from her cheek with a gentle touch. Her voice, when it came, was quiet, low and warm, just for her daughter.
“Yes, my darling… they are gone.”
Grace blinked up at her, eyes wide, shimmering with sorrow.
“My big brothers…” she whispered, as another tear slipped down her cheek.
Why did a child – her child, only five years old – have to endure the weight of such loss? Why did Grace have to learn so soon what death meant? What it took?
Liliana wanted to weep, to gather her daughter into her arms and shield her from the cruelty of the world. But she was not just a mother. She was the Duchess of Ashford. And duchesses did not cry in front of messengers. They did not falter. They did not break. So, she held her grief behind her ribs, where no one could see, and she wrapped her arms around Grace with warmth and calm, because that, at least, she could give her.
A mother’s embrace, where the Duchess could not speak.
What Liliana didn’t know was that, deep inside, Grace was calm. Cold. Watching.
The tears had come easily. Too easily. Not because she missed them, but because she knew they had to be missed. Because a child who didn’t cry for her brothers would be noticed.
And Grace had no intention of being noticed for the wrong reasons.
Dominatus whispered within her: Control the scene. Control the heart. Control the perception.
She lowered her eyes again.
“I’ll be strong,” she murmured.
And every word of it was true.
Just not in the way anyone would expect.
The messenger coughed quietly, shifting his weight as if the warmth of the fire had suddenly become too intense. It was an awkward sound, unwelcome, but necessary, as he gently intruded on the fragile scene between mother and daughter.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he said, eyes lowered in respect. “But… there’s more.”
Liliana’s embrace stiffened just slightly.
“The Duke has issued orders. His youngest and last remaining son – Lord Ronan – is to return to the Duchy at once. He is now the heir.”
Liliana said nothing, but her arms tensed slightly around Grace.
The messenger hesitated, then continued.
“Additionally, His Grace commands that you, Lady Liliana of Ashford, assume full control over the Duchy’s military forces and begin immediate preparations for war.”
A beat passed.
“He believes the deaths of Lords Alaric and Cedric were not accidents. He suspects assassination… and fears the enemy is not yet finished.”
The words hung in the room like smoke, slow to settle, hard to breathe.
Liliana closed her eyes for a moment.
Just one breath.
Alaric and Cedric were not her sons by blood. Neither was Ronan.
They were the legacy of the Duke’s first wife, the woman who died bearing his last son. Her ghost still lingered in portraits and memories, but it was Liliana who stood now at the head of House Ashford.
And Grace… Grace was her blood. Her legacy. Her future.
When Liliana opened her eyes, they no longer shimmered with grief. They burned with focus.
A faint shimmer pulsed around her, barely visible to the untrained eye, a ripple of power that hinted at what lay beneath her composed exterior.
An Archmage of the Seventh Circle.
One of the few in the realm. A title earned, not inherited. Respected. Feared.
She gently released Grace, resting a hand on the child’s golden hair, then rose with a grace that felt more like command than motion.
“So be it,” she said, her voice carrying both warmth and iron.
“Tell the Duke I accept his command.”
The messenger swallowed hard and bowed, but Liliana was already thinking ahead.
“All battalions stationed within the Duchy are to report to Ironhall within five days. I want the Circle’s war mages summoned from Westvale. And contact House Stormvale, now is the time for loyalty, not silence.”
Then she added, colder:
“Arrange for Ronan to return. Quietly. Through back roads. I’ll not lose another son, my blood or not.”
She turned, her gown sweeping behind her like a flare of flame, and looked out the window at the swirling snow.
“If they wanted a war…” she said softly, as her eyes began to glow faintly with arcane light, “…then I will show them the price of starting one.”
Behind her, Grace sat still, silent and small. But her eyes gleamed with quiet fascination.
Power drawn was power learned. And her mother – her brilliant, terrifying mother – was a source of both.
Then Liliana spoke again, voice quiet but commanding.
“When will my husband return?”
The messenger hesitated. For a moment, he looked as though he wished he were anywhere else.
“He… can’t, Your Grace. Not at this time.”
He bowed his head quickly. “The King has summoned him to remain at court. With the death of two heirs and the tensions at the border, His Majesty demands the Duke's presence for… counsel and… appearances.”
Liliana’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Appearances.
Politics wrapped in grief. Power dressed as protocol.
She turned fully, her gaze burning into the messenger now.
“Then I am the sole voice of House Ashford until his return.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
She gave a slow nod, then spoke not to the messenger, but to the room itself.
“So be it. I will hold the line.”
Liliana nodded slowly, but her gaze remained distant, sharp and thoughtful, as if seeing far beyond the walls of the great hall.
The King had summoned the Duke to remain at court. Now, after the deaths of Alaric and Cedric.
Now, when the realm was on the brink of war.
Now, when his absence left Ashford vulnerable.
It was too convenient.
Too precise.
“He won’t be allowed to return,” she murmured under her breath, more to herself than to the messenger. “Not until they’re certain Ashford is broken.”
She turned back toward the fire, the glow catching the edge of her eye once more.
“Someone is pulling strings.”
Grace looked up at her mother, head tilted, innocent gaze hiding the razor-sharp attention underneath.
Liliana’s voice was lower now, colder.
“Alaric and Cedric were removed. Ronan is isolated. The Duke is cornered at court. Someone is plotting against him… against us.”
She turned sharply back to the messenger.
“You will not carry my reply.”
The young man blinked, startled.
“Your Grace?”
“I will not risk the wrong eyes seeing the wrong letter. Go now. Fetch Ser Elric. Tell him I require his immediate presence in the study. He will know what to bring.”
“At once, Your Grace!” the messenger bowed and rushed from the room, snow scattering from his boots as he vanished down the corridor.
Liliana stood motionless for a long moment.
Then she turned and looked down at Grace, her expression softening.
“You’ll stay close to me from now on.”
Grace blinked up at her, the perfect portrait of obedience.
“Yes, Mother.”
But inside, her mind was already moving.
Someone was playing a game.
And Grace was determined to learn the rules, so she could later write her own.
