North Drake
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Book 1: Chapter 34: Not Dead. Again.
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:39:29 +0000 UTCChapter 34:
Not Dead. Again.
Velwick didn’t sleep that night.
Not the market stalls. Not the noble quarter. Not the gates.
Someone had tried to kill the Duchess’s daughter.
And when the news reached the Citadel, it got worse.
A wave of mana broke from the high tower. Just one. Cold. Controlled. But it shook the upper wards and cracked a hall that had stood for three generations. Even the stone remembered what Liliana’s rage felt like. And her rage was fearsome.
The rumor spread faster than the bells could ring. No one knew the name of the attackers, only that three of them came out of nowhere and that two had died screaming. The third had stabbed the child in the chest. That was enough.
The Black Guard kicked in doors across the noble quarter. Mages from the duchess’s enforcers marked homes in silence, then returned later with no warning. At least fourteen arrests were made in a single night. Six turned into executions. Two were simply never seen again.
The two assassins that survived the fight were taken. Not to prison. To a public square. They were questioned under mage-light for two days, and then their throats were cut in front of a crowd. One of them begged. The other didn’t. The crowd cheered when they fell.
--::--
When Grace collapsed at the bakery, bleeding and quiet, Clara had screamed. She hadn’t even meant to, it had just come out. Elen had caught her before she could fall with her. Elyne had moved faster than either of them could see.
Space folded around the wound. It didn’t seal, not fully, but it stopped. It held. Elyne’s hand hovered over Grace’s chest, casting silent glyphs into air so tightly that no one else could even read them. She didn’t speak. She just worked.
Clara had grabbed Grace’s hand and refused to let go. She didn’t notice the blood at first. Not the warmth, not the stickiness on her fingers. All she saw was Grace falling. And the knife. And the smile on the assassin’s face. She dropped to her knees beside her and clutched her hand so tightly it made her own palm ache. She kept saying her name, not shouting, just repeating it. Soft. Desperate. Over and over. Like if she stopped, Grace might slip away for good. Tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t cry loud. She didn’t scream again. She just shook.
She didn’t know how to stop it. She didn’t know what to do. Her noble training hadn’t prepared her for this. No one had told her what to do when someone you cared about was bleeding out beside you on a bakery floor.
In the back of her mind, a single thought looped.
She got hurt because of me.
And she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t let go. Not for a second.
Elen didn’t say anything. She stood behind Clara, eyes fixed on the room like she was guarding them both. Her hand hovered over the hilt of her belt knife, knuckles white around the grip, but she didn’t draw. She tried to look calm. Tried to stand like her mother had taught her, back straight, knees loose, head steady. But her face was pale. Paper-white. Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She kept swallowing like it would make the shaking stop. It didn’t. Her legs hurt from locking her stance so tightly. Her eyes stung, but she refused to blink too fast. After all, behind her toughness; she was only seven years old. She had seen someone try to kill one of her first friends. And she didn’t know if Grace was going to wake up again.
But she stood.
When the enforcers arrived, they didn’t come with noise.
They moved like trained blades, fast, silent, already knowing what had happened. One of them knelt beside Elyne without a word. She was sitting against the bakery wall, her hand clutched tightly over Grace’s wound, sleeves stained red, expression unreadable.
The healer moved quickly. Not gentle, but efficient. He placed his hand over Elyne’s and murmured something soft, arcane. Then she let go.
The spell stabilized the bleeding. The worst of it was sealed, not healed, but held. The healer didn’t look at Clara or Elen. His eyes stayed on Grace. His hands moved in practiced motions. There was no panic in him. Only pressure.
Another enforcer approached the broken remains of the assassin.
He said nothing as he knelt, gathering both halves of the body into a containment wrap lined with gold-threaded wards. There was no ceremony. No outrage. It was just cleanup. He stood and left with the corpse bundle, vanishing into the street like smoke drawn back into a pipe.
The highest-ranking enforcer stepped beside Elyne. A fifth-circle war-mage and an enforcer, a force of nature, someone who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
“You need to report,” he said.
Elyne didn’t argue.
She stood. Staggered once. Regained her balance.
And without a word, she turned and walked toward the Citadel, leaving the girls in silence.
When the remaining guards came to retrieve them, they found Clara curled beside Grace, still gripping her hand.
She didn’t look at them. She didn’t hear them, not really. Someone spoke, calm, but it didn’t matter. Her world had narrowed to one thing: Grace breathing.
They had to pry her fingers loose, one by one. She fought them at first. Not violently, just instinctively. Like someone drowning, refusing to let go of driftwood. Her voice cracked when they took her hand away.
Elen didn’t protest. She didn’t move.
She just followed. Her fists were clenched at her sides. Her face was still pale and tight.
She didn’t say a word during the ride back.
Neither of them did.
--::--
The carriage brought them back to the estate in silence.
Grace had been taken to her wing immediately. Clara hadn’t seen where. No one would let them follow. Not the knights. Not the enforcers. Not even the staff. Just a few hushed voices and the sound of distant doors closing.
Clara was escorted to her small mansion beyond the gardens. The steward welcomed her back. The old knight stood at attention, trying to hide the worry on his face. The servants brought warm food and clean linens. They didn’t ask questions. But none of it helped.
She didn’t want food. She didn’t want tea. She just wanted to know if Grace was breathing.
Elen stood outside awkwardly, not sure where to go. She didn’t say anything, but Clara knew.
Her house was small, farther from the estate wall. Her mother was still at the citadel, serving Liliana. No one was waiting for her. No lights on. No fire lit. Just a quiet room and an empty cot.
Clara didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Elen’s sleeve before the knight could escort her away.
“Elen? Just come with me,” she said, at first hesitantly but then firm.
Elen blinked. “I’m fine—”
“You’re not,” Clara said. “And I’m not either.... So, you’re staying… Please.”
Elen tried to argue. Failed. Then nodded once and followed her inside.
They stayed together that night. Elen slept in Clara’s room. Not much was said. Clara cried quietly when she thought Elen was asleep. Elen stared at the ceiling and gripped the edge of the blanket until her knuckles ached. Neither of them slept well.
The next day, they asked if they could visit Grace.
The answer was no.
They asked again later.
Still no.
By the third time, the servants stopped looking them in the eyes when they answered.
--::--
Elyne returned on the evening of the second day.
She didn’t knock. She just walked into the small mansion’s receiving room, cloak damp from the rain, boots heavy with road dust. Her face was pale. Her hair was tied back too tightly. And there was a scar now — thin, fresh — along her right cheek.
Clara stared at it. Elen said nothing.
Elyne didn’t explain.
She just smiled, soft and strained, and said, “There you are.”
Her voice wasn’t cold. But it was muted. Like someone had lowered the brightness inside her chest.
She brought them pastries. Not from the same bakery. She didn’t say why.
Clara took one. Didn’t eat it. Just held it.
Elen asked if Grace was okay.
Elyne paused.
Then nodded.
“She’s still resting. But she’s strong. Stronger than most adults I know.”
She sat with them on the couch, one hand resting on her thigh, fingers curled like she wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“I thought I’d come check on my girls,” she said.
Then smiled again.
This one was even weaker than the first.
Clara sat beside her, hands folded in her lap, dress rumpled from hours of pacing. She hadn’t spoken much since Elyne entered. Her eyes kept drifting to the scar on Elyne’s cheek, but she didn’t ask. She wanted to, gods, she wanted to, but something about the way Elyne sat told her not to.
Elen was perched in the armchair across from them, posture rigid. Her arms were crossed, but her hands were clenched too tightly. She wasn’t glaring. She wasn’t sulking. But she was staring at the floor like it had personally betrayed her.
“Will we be allowed to see her soon?” Clara asked finally. Her voice was small. Tired.
Elyne didn’t answer right away. She looked at the window. The light was dim now, casting long shadows across the sitting room.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not up to me anymore.”
That answer didn’t make sense to either of them.
“But you’re her guardian,” Elen said. It came out sharper than she intended.
“I am,” Elyne said, nodding. “And right now, that means staying out of the way.”
Clara looked down. “I just… I want to tell her thank you.”
“She knows,” Elyne said. “Even if she’s not awake yet. She knows.”
No one spoke after that for a while.
The silence stretched. Then Elyne leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“You both did well,” she said. “You stayed calm. You did what mattered.”
Elen scoffed. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You stayed standing when most would’ve run,” Elyne said. “And Clara? You didn’t let go.”
Clara looked up, blinking too quickly. “I was scared.”
“That doesn’t make it worth less,” Elyne said.
She smiled again. It was still broken. But there was pride in it now. Just a little.
“You’re part of her circle now. Whether you realize it or not. That means something.”
She stood slowly, brushing down her sleeves.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t worry too much. Grace is—”
She paused.
“—a lot harder to kill than she looks.”
Then she left.
The door closed gently behind her, and the room was quiet again. After the door closed, Clara sat frozen for a few seconds. Then she turned to Elen.
“Her scar,” she whispered. “Do you think someone… gave it to her?”
Elen didn’t answer right away. She looked at the floor, her jaw tight, eyes sharp but unfocused.
Clara shifted in her seat. “It wasn’t there before.”
“I know,” Elen said quietly.
Clara waited, but Elen didn’t go on.
“I just… what does it mean?” she asked.
Elen hesitated. Then finally said, “It’s a mark.”
“A punishment?”
Elen nodded once. “Sort of.”
She didn’t want to explain it. But she also knew Clara wouldn’t stop asking. So, she leaned forward, arms resting on her knees, voice low.
“If a knight or a retainer fails to protect someone under their care, they’re marked,” Elen said. “Sometimes it’s public. Sometimes it’s private. But it always means the same thing.”
Clara looked pale. “That they failed?”
“That they were trusted, and didn’t succeed.”
Clara’s voice dropped even further. “You think… the Duchess did it?”
Elen didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Clara’s eyes widened.
“And if Grace had… if she…?”
“She’d be dead,” Elen said flatly.
Clara stared at her. Elen didn’t flinch.
“My mother serves in the Duchess’s personal guard,” she said. “That’s the law. If you fail the Duchess’s blood, you pay for it.”
The room went still again. Clara looked at the chair where Elyne had just been. And suddenly, the scar looked a lot deeper.
--::--
Selira had not been looking for drama that day.
She was walking the estate grounds with her three attendants, noble daughters from Velmire, dressed in silk cloaks and city-polished boots, gossiping about embroidery, travel permits, and the state of Ashfordian tea. Selira had let them talk. It was easier than correcting them.
They were just turning toward the gardens when the first horses rode in.
Heavy hooves. Sharp commands. The kind of silence that follows bad news.
Selira stopped walking.
The enforcers came in a wave, marked in crimson, black and silver, their armor dulled by haste, not ceremony. One of them dismounted near the main steps. Two more carried a figure between them, small, limp, wrapped in velvet and blood.
Selira didn’t move, but her eyes narrowed.
Grace.
The daughter of the duchess. The one who had frozen the banquet with a sentence. The one no one truly knew how to describe.
She stepped forward, leaving the Velmire girls behind. They quieted instantly.
A soldier, not a knight, but armored and riding with the group, stood by the courtyard wall. He noticed her approach and straightened with instinctive discipline.
“My lady,” he said with a nod. Not deferential, but respectful. “You may wish to return inside.”
“What happened?” Selira asked.
The soldier hesitated. Briefly.
Then lowered his voice.
“The daughter of the duchess was attacked,” he said. “An assassin. Three in total. One reached her.”
Selira’s posture didn’t change, but her mind had already shifted gears.
“She lives?”
“Yes,” he said. “The enforcers of the Duchess brought her back. She was injured. Badly, from the look of it.”
“And the attackers?”
“One dead,” he said. “The others… will wish they had died…”
Selira nodded once.
“Thank you.”
The soldier gave another short nod and stepped back into position.
She turned toward her attendants.
“Return to the guest wing,” she said.
They obeyed without comment.
Selira stayed in the courtyard a moment longer, watching the door where the girl had vanished inside.
Selira didn’t react outwardly.
She simply stood, hands folded, eyes calm. But inside, her thoughts moved faster than the horses had.
This was bad. Very bad.
Someone had tried to assassinate the Duchess’s daughter.
It didn’t matter if it was random, coordinated, or a message. It didn’t matter if the King had ordered it or not. The moment Grace of Ashford — the quiet child suddenly made public — became the target of a political killing, everything changed.
And Ronan?
Ronan was already on thin ice. Showing the royal crest. Calling himself cousin to the King. Declaring, openly, where his loyalties lay. It didn’t matter that the Duchess had sent him to the front. To most, it now looked like the Ashfords were splitting down the middle, Grace on one side, Ronan on the other.
If this turned into a war — and it would — Ronan wouldn’t survive it.
And if he didn’t… Selira’s engagement became her problem.
Her future. Her alliances. Her position in Velmire.
So, she had no choice. She had to take matters into her own hands and help this dimwitted fiancé all by herself.
She let out a slow breath, turned, and walked toward the gardens. Her shoes clicked quietly against the stone. The air was colder here, quiet, shielded from the estate noise.
Five steps behind her, exactly as trained, the war-mage followed.
She didn’t turn to look at him.
“I want a message sent to my father,” she said. “Directly. Use the crest.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Inform him there was an assassination attempt on the girl Grace. Tell him it failed. Barely.”
She stopped near a hedge, eyes on a flower that hadn’t bloomed in weeks.
“Tell him I request additional retainers. Discreet ones. No uniforms.”
The mage nodded once. “Understood.”
“Also inform him,” she added, voice flat now, “that the war with the Crown may begin earlier than expected.”
She turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.
“Tell him I am not in danger. Yet. But I want to remain that way.”
The mage bowed, and vanished with a crack of space, leaving her alone in the cold.
--::--
After a week, Grace woke up with a headache.
Not a dull ache, a sharp, throbbing pulse behind her eyes that felt like something was trying to hammer its way out of her skull. Her shoulder ached too, heavy and stiff beneath layers of tightly wrapped bandage. She winced as soon as she tried to move.
The room was dim, curtains drawn. No candles lit. No one seated at her bedside. Just the quiet crackle of a dying fire in the hearth across from her.
She blinked slowly. Once. Then again.
Her body felt strange. Not weak exactly, just off. Like she’d been poured back into herself at the wrong angle. Her fingers twitched when she moved them. Her breathing felt shallow.
She shifted slightly under the blanket and stared up at the canopy above her.
Her own bed. Her own room.
So, not dead. Again.
Hooray.
Her head throbbed harder. She shut her eyes and tried to breathe through it.
Images surfaced. Out of order. Out of sync.
The Void. The pressure. Her own face, no, not hers. Older. Smiling. Unhinged.
Great. My subconscious is a lunatic.
She groaned softly and tried to push the thoughts away. They didn’t leave.
Her fingers curled in the blanket.
She remembered the darkness. She remembered the voice. Herself talking to herself.
God, I’m so fucked up.
She tried to focus. Just to grab hold of the memory, to pull it into shape.
The pressure behind her eyes spiked, and suddenly, warm liquid ran over her lip.
She touched her face—Blood. Of course.
Perfect.
She wiped the blood away with the back of her hand. It smeared across her fingers, dark red, almost black in the low firelight.
She stared at it for a second. Then shrugged.
Whatever.
Not the worst thing to come out of her head this week. She smeared the rest of it on the bedsheet without thinking and let her arm fall back onto the pillow.
Her nose was still dripping. She tilted her head to the side so it wouldn’t stain the good silk.
Void. Voices. Mirrors. Myself.
God, she was tired.
And her head still felt like it had a curse carved into the inside of her skull.
So, I met myself in the dark. Cute. Real original. Next, I’ll have a dream about a stairwell with no top.
It wasn’t just a dream, though. She knew that.
She’d been there.
She saw the threads. The thing that tried to wrap around her. The voice that whispered she wasn’t allowed to—
—what? Exist? Choose? Fight back?
She couldn’t remember the rest. The details blurred the harder she focused.
The memory was there. Just beneath the surface. But trying to reach it felt like dragging barbed wire through her own thoughts.
I’m missing something. Still. They cut something out of me, and I didn’t even get to scream.
She swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her voice cracked when she whispered, “Assholes.”
She didn’t know if she meant the spirits, the gods, the Void, the people who tried to kill her, or the version of herself grinning like a lunatic in the dark.
Maybe all of them. She rolled onto her side, slowly, arm tucked under her head.
The pain in her shoulder pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
I need water. And a knife. In that order.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
But first... just five more minutes.
Just five.
