North Drake
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Book 1: Chapter 31: Only Mine To Break
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 14:38:20 +0000 UTCChapter 31:
Only Mine To Break
The carriage rolled through Valewick’s western gate slower than usual.
Not because the guards hesitated, they bowed the moment they saw the Ashford crest, but because the streets were packed. More so than last time.
Grace leaned her cheek against the window, eyes half-lidded, watching as they passed through the familiar outer ring. Stone walls. Iron-clad towers. Sentries above. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything felt tighter. Heavier.
They were moving slower. Not due to poor planning, just traffic.
The streets weren’t panicked. Just... full.
More carts. More foot patrols. Small bands of soldiers moving between barracks and supply hubs. A squad of spearmen turned down a side road, each one carrying marked crates strapped to their backs. Cloaks dark. Boots worn. No ceremony. Just motion.
Same city, Grace thought. Just a little more serious than last time.
The carriage rocked as it turned past the main market lane. Last time, they’d breezed through in minutes. Now they were crawling. A group of mages was inspecting arcane barrier posts near a canal. Children watched from rooftops as supply wagons rattled by.
Then the carriage came to a stop.
Not rolled to a gentle halt, just stopped.
Grace looked up from the window, mildly annoyed but not surprised. Traffic had been worse than last time. She hadn’t expected a smooth ride, but this felt excessive. Elyne cracked the side panel open to speak with the driver. “Why aren’t we moving?”
“Platoon,” the driver called back. “Full one. Taking up the road.”
Elyne sat back with a quiet sigh. Grace didn’t wait. She shifted to the other side of the carriage and peered out.
A formation of soldiers filled the street, armor shining, boots hitting stone in perfect rhythm. Five wide. Dozens of rows. Shields, spears, full gear. Organized. Intentional. This wasn’t a parade.
It was a proper military column.
Walking front-left. Cloak catching the wind like he thought he was important. The knights around him wore royal plate, black wyrms on their chests, coiled and pierced by silver crowns.
Grace squinted.
Seriously? He’s marching under the Crown’s symbol now?
Ronan looked good, though. She’d give him that. Upright. Focused. A little too proud of the helmet he wasn’t wearing. And when he saw the carriage, his face actually lit up.
Great. He’s going to get sentimental.
The carriage slowed again. Ronan broke off from the column without being told. The knights adjusted automatically.
Grace opened the door before Elyne could stop her.
Ronan stepped closer.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” he said, voice too warm for the weather. “Thought you’d be locked away in court already.”
Grace stepped down, coat brushing softly behind her. She folded her hands in front of her.
“We were headed for pastries,” she said. “Important noble business.”
He laughed. Too loud.
“I’m leaving for the border,” he said. “They gave me a command.”
He gestured at the wall of spears behind him.
Of course, they did. Give the third son something shiny so he feels useful before they throw him into the meat grinder. But you forgot to mention Ronan, that you literally begged my mother for this.
He hesitated, then added more quietly, “I just wanted to say goodbye. Properly.”
Grace tilted her head slightly. “Lucky, then, we ran into one another.”
Her tone was smooth, just short of flat. Not cold, polite, maybe even thoughtful on the surface.
But her eyes said something else.
The carriage door opened behind her again with a soft clunk. Elyne stepped out first, composed as ever. She gave Ronan a nod, respectful, not deferential. Then Elen stepped down, posture straight, chin up. She bowed, short and crisp. And Clara followed, hands gripping her cloak. She dipped into a more formal curtsy, then quickly straightened, eyes wide.
Ronan smiled at them, polite and warm, but his focus stayed on Grace.
Before the silence could stretch, Elyne spoke.
“Lord Ronan,” she said smoothly, “a good day to you.”
Her voice was calm, but there was something firmer under it, a soft line drawn in the sand.
“I’m sure the Lady Grace appreciates your words. But today’s not for war talk. It’s for air, and sweets, and peace, however brief.” She gave him the faintest smile. “I’d like the girls to have one day without spears in every direction.”
Ronan glanced at the platoon behind him, then back at them.
“Of course,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” Elyne replied. “And Ashford is proud of you.”
He looked like he wanted to say more. To Grace. But he didn’t push it.
Instead, he nodded.
“Then I’ll go,” he said. “Goodbye, Grace.”
Grace simply looked at him.
For a second, she considered what she should say.
Something encouraging? Something warm?
He clearly wanted it, the way he looked at her lately, like she was his baby sister and some kind of symbol all at once. He clung to the idea like it gave him purpose.
Should I give him something real? Tell him I believe in him? That he matters?
She tilted her head again. Unsettling.
No. That would ruin the fun.
Let’s see if the grin holds when things stop being ceremonial. Let’s see how long the third son lasts outside mother’s shadow.
She smiled faintly.
“Don’t embarrass us.”
Ronan blinked, then smiled back, smaller, more honest.
“I’ll try.”
Elyne gestured lightly, cloak catching the breeze. “Let’s move along. The market won’t wait forever.”
Clara and Elen stepped back toward the carriage. Grace followed, unhurried. And Ronan returned to the road.
The carriage door shut behind them, and with a click of reins and a call from the driver, they began moving again, wheels groaning gently against stone as the route turned toward the noble district. Grace’s knights followed on horseback, one riding ahead, two at the rear, one on either flank.
Behind them, the marching formation resumed.
Steel boots. Shields. Measured pace.
Ronan didn’t look back.
But not everyone kept formation.
Two rows behind him, one of the Crown’s knights, plate dark, helm down, wyrm crest catching the light, glanced to his left. Another knight returned the look. A nod. Barely noticeable.
Then the first one fell back.
No orders given. No signal. Just a quiet shift in spacing.
And then he turned. Not toward the formation. Not toward the gates.
Toward the carriage.
He broke from the road, silent as plate would allow. The guards at the sides said nothing, not Ashford men. He passed through a narrow side path between buildings, boots catching frost, and kept pace with the carriage at a distance.
The knight moved like someone born in shadows. His plate barely clinked, despite the weight. As he slipped down a narrow side street, the light around him warped, not gone, just… off. Like it couldn’t quite decide how to land on him.
He lifted two fingers to his helm, whispering into the carved sigil etched along the jawline.
“She’s here. I saw her.”
A beat of silence.
Then, behind him, two more figures peeled away from the side alleys. One wore a heavy cloak, mismatched boots, and a low hood. The other, smaller, slighter, had wrapped their face in patterned silk, more dancer than soldier. Both moved too cleanly to be street rabble.
The taller one spoke first, voice low. Male. Calm.
“The one Lord Glimmergaze mentioned?”
The name landed like a dropped knife. Sharp. Overdesigned. A little ridiculous, but nobody said anything about it.
“Yes,” the knight said. “Just as described.”
A pause. Then the third voice joined; smooth, female, distant.
“It’s just a little girl, she doesn’t sound like much.”
“She isn’t,” the knight said. “That’s why no one’s looking at her. Until now.”
The cloaked one chuckled once. “Perfect.”
“She’s not alone,” the knight reminded them. “Six knights. And the mage with them watching close.”
“Should be no problem,” the woman said.
None of them smiled. They simply melted deeper into the alleyways, keeping the carriage in their sights as it rolled on toward the noble district.
Unseen. Unnoticed. And entirely on track.
--:--
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the bakery at the corner of Roseview Lane. Petals and Pearls. Same ridiculous name. Same sugar-drenched air. The storefront shimmered like it always did, all soft enchantments and charm spells, like someone had decided reality wasn’t cute enough.
The name was etched in looping gold script across a marble archway, framed by enchanted pink blossoms that never wilted. Subtle warding lines glowed faintly beneath the windows. The place practically screamed safe, sweet, expensive.
Her knights moved without being told. Two took position near the archway. One stayed by the door. The others fanned out just far enough not to spook the patrons, close, but not crowding.
Grace stepped down first, fur-trimmed coat catching the breeze. Clara followed with a little skip in her step. Elen climbed down last, eyes flicking over the storefront like she was expecting a trap hidden behind the frosting.
Again, Grace thought. This place really does look like it was designed by a sugar-addled princess.
Inside, the bakery was busy but not packed. Locals gave them a quick glance, recognized the Ashford crest stitched into Elyne’s sleeve, and immediately looked away.
Good. That was how it should be.
They were seated again in a private alcove behind a velvet screen. Elyne, without asking, ordered for them: cinnamon cakes, honey tarts, fruit-glazed pastries, and warm whipped cacao dusted with gold sugar.
Clara gasped at the sight of it. Elen blinked like she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to eat or interrogate it. Grace folded her hands and smiled sweetly.
Elyne, always composed, watched them for a moment, then finally relaxed into her seat. For once, she didn’t speak first. She just let the silence settle.
Clara took the opening.
“This is really nice,” she said, picking up her pastry like it was a sacred artifact. “I didn’t think I’d enjoy the day this much.”
That’s because your expectations are so low, you get excited over cupcakes and conversation, Grace thought. But sure. Be happy.
Elen, more hesitant, glanced at her own tart, then at Grace and Clara.
“Um. I was thinking,” she said, clearing her throat. “After this... if we’re still near the tailor shops... I might stop by one.”
Clara looked up immediately. “Oh! Do you want company?”
“I—” Elen paused. “I thought maybe we could go together.”
Clara beamed. “I’d love that!”
Grace gave a small, graceful nod. “I could use gloves. Something with silver detailing. The embroidery on my last pair was... disappointing.”
And the two of you will get hopelessly overcharged if I’m not there to negotiate. Not that I care…
Elyne smiled softly from across the table, watching them. Not just Grace. All of them. It was that warm, wistful expression she wore when she thought no one was looking. Like something in her chest hurt, but in a good way.
She’s getting attached, Grace thought. How sentimental.
Clara was still talking, giddy over a new comb she hoped to find. Elen, despite herself, was relaxing into it, actually answering questions, maybe even smiling.
It was almost normal.
Almost.
Grace took a sip of her cacao, eyes half-lidded.
The light from the chandelier reflected in the surface, golden, flickering, soft.
Then she felt it.
A pull. Not physical. A thread, deep in her core. Familiar. Almost like Corax — that ungrateful spirit — when he used to approach from the Veil. But this wasn’t him.
And across the table, Elyne felt it too.
Her posture didn’t change, but the mana around her shifted. Space flexed, subtle, quiet, like the room had blinked.
Then the door opened. A waitress stepped in, and everything fell apart.
It happened in seconds.
Less.
Grace’s body moved a fraction too slow. Her eyes caught it, but her limbs couldn’t follow yet. Clara smiled. Elen looked toward the pastries.
They didn’t see it. But Grace did. The waitress didn’t walk, she slid.
The air around her stuttered, light catching at odd angles. And in that instant, Elyne whispered runic words.
No not whispered, she spoke. Fast. Sharp.
ᚾᚨᚱᚨᚨᚲᚢᚾᚨ ᚷᛁᚷᚾᚨᚱ
The words rang through the air like a bell behind the eyes.
Reality cracked.
A shimmering line cut forward, not fire, not wind, but the absence of presence. A spatial slash that split the waitress’s position in two.
But the waitress moved, too. She whispered something of her own — lower, more guttural — and vanished.
Not in light. Not in smoke. In shadow.
Her form tore like paper. The afterimage of her stood in place for a heartbeat, then was ripped apart by Elyne’s slash, shredded in the middle of the velvet-curtained room.
But she wasn’t there anymore.
She stepped out of her own shadow. Right beside Elyne. Knife drawn.
The blade thrust forward, but stopped.
No, not stopped. Stretched. The air around Elyne bent — space folded in on itself. The knife couldn’t find its path. It moved, but never reached.
Like trying to stab into a reflection in water.
Elyne didn’t flinch. Her palm opened, and a flash of force, pure, compressed momentum, shoot towards the assassin.
It exploded outward.
But the assassin was already moving, gone again, swallowed by the floor-length shadow of the chandelier.
Shouts rang outside. Steel on steel. Battle.
Grace’s heart slammed once — hard — and she drew mana.
She focused. Visualized. Pulled from the core near her heart, the mana dense, cold, heavy like liquid night.
She forms the words but…
Too slow.
It had been three seconds. Four at most. She needed ten. Eleven if she wanted to cast without a flaw.
And then—
The shadow beside her shifted.
A shape rose from it.
The assassin.
Not rushed. Not sloppy. Smug grin. Knife in hand.
Grace’s eyes went wide.
She’s not here for me.
The assassin didn’t look at her.
She winked. And then turned the blade toward Clara. And stabbed.
Time slowed.
Grace moved.
Not because she was ready. But because there was no one else who could.
She saw the blade turn.
Saw the glint of light off steel. Saw the angle. The wrist. The line.
And saw Clara, sitting there, soft, sweet, eyes wide, too slow, too trusting.
Grace didn’t think.
She calculated.
Where the knife would hit.
Where Clara would bleed.
How long it would take her to stop breathing.
Pathetic.
Stupid girl. Always smiling. Always nervous. Always too eager to please. You think life bends around kindness? You think it saves you?
You should have seen this coming.
You should have learned.
She felt her core flare, hard, fast, not enough for casting, but enough to move.
Clara still hadn’t moved.
Still frozen. Still her stupid, precious self.
I never liked you, Grace thought.
You’re a burden. A distraction. A useless pile of feelings and ribbons who cries over dead birds and broken hair combs. You little shit. I... ahh fuck this.
Her legs pushed off the ground. Her fingers closed. No magic. No spell.
Just motion.
You’re an idiot.
But—
You’re my idiot.
The knife closed in.
And no one else gets to touch what’s mine.
Too fast. Too close. No time for spells. No time to scream.
Just instinct. Grace’s core flared. Raw. Unstable. She didn’t shape it. She didn’t think. She pulled.
And the world cracked.
She didn’t move through space. She fell.
Not forward. Not sideways.
Down.
Into something empty. Cold. Familiar.
The color vanished. The air turned thick. And the time stopped completely. It wasn’t teleportation. It was the Void.
It reached for her like an old friend. She didn’t greet it.
For a split momentum in time, someone or something saw her. She felt it. She got the attention of something inside the void. But—
—she pushed, and she landed outside again.
Right in front of Clara.
No, not in front... She's standing exactly where Clara was standing. Clara was pushed back a bit.
The assassin’s eyes widened.
Too late.
The knife slammed into Grace’s shoulder.
She gasped. Sharp. Shallow. Her whole body shuddered.
Clara screamed.
The table hit the floor behind them. Elen shot to her feet. Elyne shouted something in runic, another one of those words that split the world.
But Grace didn’t hear it. Not clearly. Not over the rushing heat in her ears.
The blade was still in her. The pain was real. Blinding. She dropped to one knee. Blood soaked into velvet. Her fingers dug into the floor.
The assassin stepped back. Not smug anymore. Panic in her eyes. It was almost as if she didn't want to hurt Grace. And Grace looked up. Just enough. And smiled. Small. Crooked.
Because it hurt. And she was bleeding. And Clara was still breathing.
That’ll do.
The assassin took another step back.
And then her body split.
Clean.
From shoulder to hip.
Like the world had simply decided she was over.
A line of white burned in the air where Elyne’s spell had landed — just a cut in reality itself.
Both halves of the assassin dropped to the floor without a sound.
The alcove was silent. Outside were still sounds of a fight.
Grace stared at the blood on her fingers.
She couldn’t hear anything now. Not Elyne. Not Clara. Not even her own heartbeat.
She felt someone catch her, Elyne, probably.
The warmth of a hand. The rush of voices turning distant.
Everything blurred. The chandelier above her twinkled once.
And then the world went dark.
