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Book 1: Chapter 35: I’m Done Playing A Little Girl
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:39:54 +0000 UTCChapter 35:
I’m Done Playing A Little Girl
She didn’t mean to fall asleep again. But she did. Five more minutes had turned into maybe an hour. Or two. Or whatever. Time didn’t mean much when your head felt like it had been smashed with a rock and your shoulder had been cut open like bad fruit.
When she opened her eyes again, the light in the room had changed. Brighter. Late morning, maybe. And she wasn’t alone.
A maid stood by the side table, quietly changing the water basin. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her steps careful. She wasn’t the usual one. Younger. Grace didn’t move. She just watched. Eyes half-lidded, breath slow. Still. Silent.
The girl didn’t notice. She didn’t even look in her direction. Just went about her task like she was cleaning the room of a corpse instead of a noble.
Great. Already replaced by a mop bucket and a towel.
The maid paused. Looked toward the fire. Tossed in another log with a grunt.
They really thought I was going to die.
She stayed quiet. Just breathing. Watching. The girl adjusted the curtains, adjusted the basin, wiped a table that didn’t need wiping.
No one checked if I was dead this morning. Guess we’re done with the dramatic part.
Grace didn’t blink. She wasn’t ready to talk. Not yet.
Her head still pulsed, and her mouth was dry, and her shoulder felt like it had been sewn together by a blind butcher. But she was alive. And someone had entered her space without permission.
She watched the maid move across the room — slow, deliberate, the kind of quiet that wasn’t careful, just opportunistic. Grace didn’t blink. Just tracked her with her eyes, waiting. The girl wiped the desk once, then twice. But she didn’t move on.
Instead, she pulled open the small drawer on the left side.
Grace didn’t react.
Maybe she was just tidying. Maybe. But then the maid reached inside, and didn’t pull out a cloth or quill. She fished.
Her fingers moved with purpose.
And then she pulled something small and metallic from the velvet case beneath the desk ledge, Grace’s spare brooch. Silver-plated, Ashford-engraved, minor enchantment for signal flares. Not valuable in coin, at least not for Grace, maybe five or ten gold crowns, but distinctly marked. Personal.
The girl hesitated. Looked around. Then slipped it into her apron.
Grace didn’t move.
Her head still pounded. Her body still ached. But her patience? Gone.
Fucking seriously? I get stabbed, bled out on a bakery floor, wake up after a goddamn week, and this little shit’s robbing me?
She kept watching. The maid turned slightly, now eyeing the jewelry case on the dresser. Her fingers twitched again.
Right. That’s it.
Grace exhaled through her nose.
Then reached inward.
She didn’t need words. She didn’t need catalysts. She had her Core — her second heart, buried near her real one, formed long ago by will, study, and silence. It ached when she called to it, raw and slow from disuse, but it answered.
Mana surged.
Not violently. Not like a wave. Like blood thickening in her veins.
She didn’t cast yet. She just opened the flow. Directed it.
At Third Circle, she didn’t need to burn bright. She could control the current. And this time… no one was watching. No Elyne. No guards. No interruptions. Just her and the thief.
Slowly, deliberately, Grace shifted under the blanket. She slid her legs off the bed, careful not to wince, though her shoulder protested with every inch. Her bare feet touched the cold floor. She didn’t care.
The girl was still at the desk, one hand easing toward the case’s latch.
Grace stood. Silent. Then stepped forward.
One. Two. Three steps.
She walked without sound; eyes fixed on the girl’s back. The air in the room had shifted, not enough to spark notice, but enough to taste. Mana pooled in her hands now. No spell formed. No word needed.
Just intent.
--::--
Rina knew it was wrong. She just didn’t care anymore. She was sixteen. A junior maid, yes — but the daughter of a knight, personally selected to serve in the Ashford estate. Her name had been called along with five others when the head housemaid gave the order: “You’ll watch over the Duchess’s daughter. Day and night. No mistakes.” It was supposed to be an honor. And for the first few days, it was. She did everything right. She followed protocol, kept the fire lit, checked the blankets, rotated the basin. Grace of Ashford hadn’t stirred once.
After a week, it stopped feeling like duty. It started to feel like superstition. Like they were waiting for a corpse to blink. No movement. No voice. No sign of breath beyond the shallow rise under silk sheets. She didn’t look like someone recovering. She looked like something paused. And eventually, Rina had stopped checking so carefully.
She hadn’t planned to take anything. It started as curiosity. She’d open drawers, touch fabrics, run her fingers along the edge of the embroidery on Grace’s coats. Noble things, soft, expensive, far nicer than anything she’d ever owned. Even the brush was lined with silver. Then she found the brooch. Ashford silver. Runes etched into the frame. Personal. She held it for a few seconds. Then pocketed it. Just one piece. The girl wouldn’t need it.
Now she stood at the desk. One hand on the latch of the jewelry case. Steady. Calm. Routine. No noise in the room but the fire and her own breath.
And then the air changed.
Not cold. Not loud. Just… wrong. Like something behind her had noticed. And wasn’t blinking. Rina turned.
Grace was standing right in front of her.
Rina froze.
She didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Her fingers slipped from the latch without meaning to. It wasn’t just that the girl was awake, it was how she looked.
Pale. Way too pale. Like she hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks. Her skin almost waxy in the light of the room. Her blond curls were a mess, frizzed and tangled around her shoulders like someone had dragged her through a storm. And her eyes—
Her eyes were bloodshot blue, the kind of red that came from broken capillaries and worse things. They were wide, unblinking, and so still it felt like she was staring at a doll that might start screaming.
And then there was the blood.
Dried and streaked under her nose, down one cheek, smeared faintly across her chin. Rina hadn’t even looked at her properly when she came in. She hadn’t thought to. Why would she? The girl had been unconscious all week.
But now she stood there.
Silent.
Not speaking. Not asking.
Just... watching.
Rina’s mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
She wasn’t shy. She wasn’t weak. She’d been around nobles all her life. She knew how to smile, how to lie, how to talk her way around mistakes. But the girl in front of her — this pale, blood-faced, silent little noble — wasn’t acting normal.
She wasn’t blinking.
She wasn’t moving.
Just watching.
Rina’s throat worked once. Then she forced a laugh. Too high. Too quick.
“Oh, Lady Grace! You’re awake!” she said, voice a little too bright. “Thank Iras, we were all so worried! I was just tidying up. Nothing serious. Just checking the dust and—”
Grace didn’t blink.
Rina swallowed.
She felt her back start to sweat.
She could call the guards. That was protocol. Theft was a hanging offense in the estate. But if she did that, they’d check her apron. They’d find the brooch.
And then it wouldn’t be the guards she had to worry about.
It would be the duchess.
So, she smiled. Small. Polite.
Just a misunderstanding. That’s what she’d say.
If the girl ever stopped staring.
And then Grace finally spoke.
It was barely a whisper. Not loud. Not sharp. But every word scraped across the inside of Rina’s skull like broken glass. The kind of voice that didn’t need to shout to terrify, because it meant every single syllable.
“Did you whore know how my past days were?” Grace asked, voice flat and slow.
Rina didn’t move.
“Did you fucking little shit know what was messing with my fucking life here?” Grace continued. “What’s been clawing through my head for days? What I’ve seen?”
The air felt colder now. Rina’s legs locked.
“Did you really think it was a good idea to come here, into my room, to take something from me? Something that’s mine?”
Grace didn’t blink. Her eyes stayed locked, unbroken.
“Are you really that dumb?”
The blood had dried across her face, but it made her look worse, like she hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. Like she’d bled for someone else and decided the world owed her pain back.
“You think I’ll call the guards?” Grace said, quieter now, almost amused. “You think that’s what this is?”
Rina tried to step back. She couldn’t. Her legs didn’t listen.
“You frustrating piece of garbage,” Grace said, the words curling, slower now. “You think you can take from me?”
She stepped forward.
“Fine.”
Rina flinched.
“Take it.”
Grace tilted her head, smile sharp and terrifying.
“Do it. Go on, you silly dumb bitch.”
The mana in the air hummed again. Not bright. Not glowing. Just dense.
“I’ll take something in return.”
Grace’s voice dropped to a whisper again, even softer.
“I’ll take everything you have.”
Rina opened her mouth.
“I— I didn’t—” she started to say.
Then the pain hit.
A crack. Sharp. Blinding.
Her knee gave out under her in an instant, shattered before her brain could register what had even happened. One second she was standing — the next, she was screaming, crumpled to the floor, her apron twisted beneath her like a rope.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her leg was on fire.
She tried to move, to roll away, to understand, but Grace was already standing over her, small and pale and silent. That bloodstained face stared down at her with no pity.
Rina gasped. “Please—”
But Grace cut her off.
“When everyone thinks they can take advantage of me,” she said, voice calm, cold, “I should remind the world.”
Rina whimpered, trying to crawl backwards, but her ruined leg dragged like dead weight.
“I should remind the world...” Grace took a step forward.
Then her hand came down.
Flat. Open. Straight into Rina’s shoulder.
There was no spell. No warning.
Just impact.
Rina shrieked. The pressure forced her body flat to the ground. Something tore. She felt her skin split, then muscle, then—
Screaming.
Louder now. Wet.
Her own blood sprayed the edge of the desk, hot and bright.
“...that everything has a price,” Grace whispered.
Then Grace ripped.
The sound was wrong. Tearing, splitting, crunching.
Rina’s arm detached from her body with a pop and a spray. She shrieked again, wild, guttural, high-pitched and choked with snot and blood. She thrashed. Whined. Pleaded.
The door opened.
A guard stepped in — one of the black-cloaked knights from Grace’s personal escort, hand on the hilt of his sword.
He saw her.
Saw the blood. The girl on the floor. Grace, standing over her with one arm covered in gore, face blank.
She looked at him. He hesitated. Then Grace nodded once. He closed the door behind him and took position again outside in front of it.
Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood guard.
Rina writhed, blood soaking the rug beneath her, soaking through her dress, the pain coming in waves too fast to count. Her leg was broken, her shoulder shattered, and her arm—she didn’t know where her arm was. Her vision blurred with tears and blood, her lips trembling as she tried to say something, anything, to stop it.
Grace stepped forward, slow, deliberate. Her voice was cold. Distant. “I’m done with this,” she said. “For real. Who do you think you are?” Her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t twitch. “Why do you think you can take anything from me?”
Rina opened her mouth, sobbing, screaming, gasping. She didn’t even know what she was saying. Just pleading. Just crying. Just wanting it to stop. Her fingers clawed uselessly at the floor.
“Shut the fuck up,” Grace snapped, suddenly sharper. “My fucking headache is getting worse.”
Then she reached down and grabbed her.
Her small, blood-covered hand wrapped around Rina’s throat like it belonged there. Like she was meant for this. The pressure was instant. Crushing. Rina’s lungs emptied in a single strangled gasp. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
Everything narrowed. Her vision dimmed. Her hearing went muffled, then vanished.
The fear didn’t leave. But the pain did. The world turned black.
--::--
Grace stood still; her hand wrapped around Rina’s throat.
The girl had stopped moving. Her body was limp, blood slick down her side, mouth half-open in a final gasp she never finished. Grace’s grip was locked, fingers sticky, warm.
Her head was pounding. Harder now. A pulse behind her eyes, behind her teeth. Her whole body felt wired, like every muscle had too much charge and nowhere to put it. Her Core was still wide open. Mana pulsed through her veins like heat through iron. It didn’t fade.
She’d done it.
She’d killed someone. For real. No magic tricks. No long-distance orders. No manipulation. Just her hand. Her will.
Her eyes didn’t blink. Her chest didn’t shake.
She felt… nothing.
No relief. No triumph. Just frustration.
Just tired.
They — the voices, the doubt, the whispers from the Void and her own fractured mind — they wanted her to question it. Wanted her to break. Wanted her to cry or scream or laugh like a mad thing.
Fine.
If they wanted a lunatic, they’d fucking get one.
She opened her hand.
Rina’s body dropped to the floor like trash.
Grace stepped back, breathing shallow, blood still on her cheek and her fingers.
Her headache was still getting worse.
Grace stepped over the corpse like it was a dropped robe.
No hesitation. No pause.
Her feet were bare. She didn’t care. Blood stuck warm against her sole for a second, then cooled. She walked to the door, ignoring the ache in her shoulder, ignoring the mana still humming beneath her skin.
The knight stood tall outside. Ashford crest on his cloak. Her mother’s soldier. He didn’t turn when she opened the door — just acknowledged her with a short nod, eyes already on her.
Grace stared up at him.
“Who is her superior?” she asked, voice low and flat. “This girl stole from me. Who the fuck hired her?”
He didn’t blink. “It was the head maid. Lady Nella of House Mornell, my Lady.”
Grace’s tone didn’t shift. “Then bring me to her. I should probably set things clear. I’m done playing a little girl.”
The knight didn’t hesitate. He turned and opened the hall door. Grace followed.
She didn’t clean herself. Didn’t change. She walked barefoot, blood on her legs, splattered across her arm, streaked across her face like warpaint. The corpse was still cooling in her room. She didn’t care.
The halls of Ashford estate were quiet when she passed — then suddenly loud. Gasps. A few quick murmurs. Servants turned pale. Pages stepped out of the way fast. One knight outside a door dropped his eyes and bowed low.
No one stopped her.
No one dared.
They reached the servants’ wing within minutes. The corridor smelled of starch, iron, and fresh laundry. A cluster of kitchen staff peeked down the hall. One ran. Two froze.
The door to the head servant’s office creaked open.
Lady Nella stepped out, expression curious, lips already forming a question.
Grace didn’t let her speak.
She nodded once at the knight beside her.
He understood.
In one swift motion, he grabbed Nella by the wrist, spun her off balance, and forced her to the ground.
The sound of her knees hitting stone echoed.
Gasps rippled through the gathered staff.
Grace stood still in the doorway, barefoot and bloody.
Every servant in the vicinity saw her. Saw not the little friendly girl Grace, not the calm but always polite girl. They saw her mother in miniature. They saw not a child — they saw rightfulness.
Grace’s voice came low, steady, cold.
“You brought a thief into my room.”
Lady Nella looked up, shaking slightly, her eyes wide with confusion and growing dread.
Grace didn’t let her speak.
“You appointed someone to stand at my bedside. Someone who rifled through my belongings. Who stole from me. Who could just as easily have slipped in a blade.”
The weight of her words hit harder than a shout.
“A maid with light fingers could just as easily have had poison. Or orders. Or a knife at my throat.”
Grace stepped forward.
“And you let that happen.”
Lady Nella tried to speak, voice catching. “I— I didn’t—”
Grace raised a hand.
“Knife.”
The knight beside her didn’t hesitate. He drew the long dagger hanging at his side and placed it in her open palm, hilt first. Grace didn’t even glance at him.
Lady Nella turned white.
No one moved. No one dared to interrupt. Not for her. Not against the duchess’s daughter — not against this version of her.
Grace stepped forward, knife in hand, expression calm.
“Give me your hand.”
Nella froze. Then, slowly, wordlessly, extended it.
Her fingers shook.
Grace didn’t warn her. Didn’t hesitate.
She moved with speed and precision.
One cut. Sharp. Clean.
A single finger fell to the stone floor, blood following immediately.
More gasps. More silence.
Lady Nella didn’t scream. She bit her tongue. Eyes clenched shut. Tears fell, but she didn’t fall. She just nodded.
She knew, she’d fucked up, and Grace was right.
“One finger for this blunder,” Grace said, her voice still quiet. “One finger for another chance.”
She leaned down slightly.
“Don’t you dare disappoint me again.”
She handed the bloodied knife back to the knight. He took it without flinching.
Then she turned, barefoot, bloodstained, silent.
And walked back toward her rooms.
The knight released Nella. She crumpled against the wall, clutching her ruined hand.
Behind them, the servants finally exhaled, and the whispers began. Fast. Desperate. Like wildfire ripping through dry fields. Everyone wanted to tell someone what they had seen.
And no one would ever forget it.
Not the blood. Not the silence. Not the girl.
Grace of Ashford had woken up, and the estate would never look at her the same again.
