Chapter 9:
The Shape Of Her Will
No ritual drew him. No contract bound him. No name was spoken across the Veil.
But something reached for him all the same.
A ripple of will, raw and unshaped, touched the border between worlds. Not desperate, not fearful – curious. It tugged at his essence like a child poking the shell of a sleeping god.
Corax should have ignored it. Spirits of his kind were not meant to answer the whispers of mortals, let alone infants. But the shape of that will… it was different. It was aware.
So, he answered. Not out of duty. Out of curiosity.
And found himself pulled through.
The world reassembled around him as light and scent and warmth. He landed in a nursery, quiet and golden, with soft blankets and flickering lanterns casting shadows across the walls.
And she was waiting for him.
A girl. No more than one. Sitting upright in her crib with her hands curled around the bars, eyes wide open. Blue. Too blue. Too focused. Infants should not look like that.
And yet, she did.
She didn’t cry or call for help. She simply stared.
“You’re mine now,” she said, with a voice that still tripped over syllables.
And Corax… stayed.
In that moment, he felt the first threads wind around him – not magic, not oath, but intention. She had not summoned him by force, but by clarity of will. A newborn without the language of the world, without the old language, yet with enough presence to reach across planes and draw a spirit from slumber.
He told himself he could leave at any time.
He was wrong.
At two, she gave her first command: “Watch them.” The nurses. The guards. Her mother. Everyone. She expected him to obey. And he did.
Not because of a spell.
Because of the look in her eyes when she asked.
At three, her questions began.
“What are you? Where do you come from? What is magic? What is mana? Why do some people have it and others don’t?”
Corax answered, at first, to amuse himself. A spirit playing at tutor. But she never forgot a word. She pressed deeper. She repeated his answers back to him with refinement, challenging inconsistencies, demanding clarity.
Then, one day, she asked: “How do I get more?”
And she meant it.
Not more spells. More mana.
She had already begun drawing it from the world around her. Slowly. Clumsily. But with terrifying precision. Corax watched in mute awe as she studied the flow of ambient energy in the manor.
By the end of her third year, she had done the impossible.
She formed a Mana Core.
Not from ritual. Not with aid. But with study, and hunger, and will.
Corax had guided her, yes. But only with words.
The rest… was her.
She built it quietly, like a secret organ blooming behind her heart. Her body adapted. Her aura changed. And her eyes – always too sharp for her age – began to shimmer in shades of pink.
But it wasn’t until her fourth year that Grace's thirst for knowledge darkened.
She didn’t just want to observe suffering anymore. She wanted to feel it. She wanted to control it.
First, it started slowly. A passing glance at the suffering of others. A look of curiosity as she watched someone in pain. It was as if watching someone else’s misery was a game – a way to pass time, like flipping through a book of stories she had yet to finish.
She called it her “Entertainment”.
But it wasn’t enough.
And so, she began to ask Corax to show her more.
“Bring me their pain,” she ordered one night, her voice sharp and cold. Her eyes had taken on a new hue. A faint glimmer of pink lingered at the edges of her irises, a reflection of something inside her that was changing.
At first, Corax obeyed hesitantly. He showed her glimpses of suffering from the dungeon; prisoners wailing in the dark, the screams of those wronged or broken. Grace watched, fascinated, her eyes alight with a strange delight.
But that wasn’t enough.
And so came the dungeon.
Grace ordered him to inflict the pain herself, to make it real. She stood there, watching, as Corax used his power to tear into the prisoner’s minds, slowly breaking them down piece by piece. Grace’s eyes glowed—pink—and her smile twisted into something more savage, hungrier. The longer she watched, the more she desired.
She was no longer just the little girl with questions. She had changed. And Corax felt the shift as though a weight had settled into the air, a presence far darker than the child before.
By the time she turned five, Grace had become something else entirely. A child, yes, but one who had tasted power and enjoyed it.
Her smile, once full of innocence, now twisted in ways that unsettled even Corax. It wasn’t just about knowledge anymore. It wasn’t even about power. It was about control. Entertainment.
She wanted to play with lives, with souls. To manipulate, to break, to entertain herself with the suffering of others. She told Corax once, it was the only moment, she wasn’t bored out of her mind.
And Corax?
He was her only audience.
But it wasn’t just Grace who had changed. Over the years, Corax had felt his own form shift. The more he remained tethered to her, the more his once-sharp optics grew dim and clouded. The clean lines of his shape began to flicker, warping into strange, unstable patterns. Once, he had been a distant spirit, a silent sentinel drifting through the spaces between worlds, not in the In-Between, but behind the Veil. Untouched. Unbound. He was free.
But now he was something else.
Tainted by her presence, reshaped by her will. His form had bent to reflect her desires, his essence slowly unraveling and knitting itself anew in her image. Grace’s will did not merely command him. It remade him, just as it bent the world around her to fit her vision.
And now, he could no longer leave.
He was bound – not by contract, not by spell or oath – but by soul.
So Corax became her first vassal.
Her first minion.
And her first stepping stone to something far greater.
--::--
It was Saturday.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Which meant no formal lessons, no etiquette drills, no arcane glyph memorization. Just open time. Grace’s time.
After breakfast – a delicate arrangement of spiced porridge, warm fruit compote, and buttered rolls served with jasmine tea – Grace sat primly at the edge of her chair, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
Elyne beamed across the table.
“Well then, Lady Grace,” she said, setting down her teacup with a cheerful clink, “are you ready for your surprise?”
Grace tilted her head, feigning curiosity.
“A surprise?” she echoed sweetly.
Elyne nodded. “Since you’ve been such a diligent student all week – and because it’s Saturday – I thought you deserved something special.”
Will you hang yourself in front of me? The thought came unbidden, dry and bitter.
Her governess stood, brushing invisible dust from her dress, then gestured toward the window, where two carriages waited in the courtyard, their banners marked with the crest of Ashford.
Elyne turned back, practically glowing.
“I’ve arranged a little outing. To the city.”
Grace didn’t move.
“Oh?” she asked, her voice warm and friendly. “What for?”
“To shop,” Elyne beamed. “For little ladies, of course. And…” she paused, drawing out the moment like it was meant to be delightful, “… I invited Clara and Elen to join us!”
There it was.
Elyne’s grand idea of a reward: parasols and petticoats and forced camaraderie.
Grace blinked. Once. Slowly.
Elyne kept talking, her voice filled with brightness and a misplaced sense of triumph. “The three of you got along so well during lessons. I thought it’d be nice for you to spend some time together outside the estate. You know… shopping for ribbons, sweets, maybe even a new book or two!”
Grace’s fingers tensed around her porcelain teacup – just enough for Corax, watching silently from the far corner, to feel the shift in the air.
“Of course,” Grace said, her voice smooth, “what a wonderful idea.”
Elyne clapped her hands gently. “I thought so, too!”
Grace stood, setting her napkin aside and smoothing her dress.
A little later,
The courtyard smelled faintly of oiled leather, fresh hay, and blooming frost vine from the garden wall. One of the carriage doors had just been opened, and the soft sound of booted steps on stone echoed between the manor walls.
Grace descended the front steps slowly, each movement precise, her small hands folded neatly in front of her. Her dress, a soft ash-grey trimmed in burgundy, fluttered slightly with the wind. A white ribbon was tied into her braid today. She looked innocent, presentable and charming.
Waiting by the carriage, two familiar faces turned toward her.
Clara was the first to curtsy, her expression bright and eager. “Good morning, Lady Grace! It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it?”
Her voice was breathy, and her cheeks were already flushed from excitement. She wore a pale pink coat with tiny gold buttons, too big for her frame but clearly chosen with care. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sleeves as she beamed at Grace.
Elen, standing beside her, offered a short nod instead. “Grace,” she said plainly. Her auburn curls were tied back in a tight braid, and her coat was dark green, far simpler than Clara’s but immaculately clean. Her stance was a little stiff, hands behind her back, eyes watchful.
Grace took them both in with a single glance.
One desperate to please. One trying not to care. Both still thinking they understood the rules of this little game.
Grace smiled, sweet as spun sugar.
“Good morning, Clara. Good morning, Elen,” she said, her voice soft but clear. “I’m so glad you could join me today.”
Clara giggled, rocking on her heels. “I’ve never been to the city with noble company before. I don’t even know what to look for. Maybe gloves? Or a new hairpin?”
Elen shrugged. “I’m here because my mother told me to.”
Grace’s smile didn’t falter.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, then I hope we find something you didn’t know you needed.”
Elen blinked, and Clara laughed again, too loud this time.
Behind them, Elyne approached with the grace of someone who thought she was orchestrating something beautiful.
“All set, my ladies?” she asked brightly. “We’ll ride together in the front carriage — the one with the heating charm, of course. The city is still brisk this time of year.”
Clara turned toward Elyne. “Thank you for inviting us, Lady Marren! This is so exciting!”
Elyne chuckled. “Just Elyne, dear. And it was Grace’s idea to befriend you two. She’s quite the little hostess.”
Grace tilted her head. “I do like to keep things… interesting.” Then she stepped up to the carriage first and turned back to the girls. “Shall we?”
Clara scrambled up behind her.
Elen hesitated a second longer, then followed.
The carriage rocked gently as it rolled over cobbled roads, its enchantments softening the ride to a low, rhythmic sway. Outside, the frost-kissed fields of the Ashford estate began to give way to the winding paths toward the city, where slate rooftops and busy markets waited.
Inside, plush velvet seats and an enchanted heating charm.
Clara was the first to fill the silence, as expected.
“So… um,” she began, fiddling with the bow on her lap, “what do you think we’ll find in the shops today? I hope they have new hair combs. My old one cracked last week.”
Grace nodded politely. Fascinating.
Elen sat with her arms crossed, gazing out the window. “I want boots,” she said simply. “Real ones. The kind that doesn’t slip in the mud.”
Clara blinked. “Boots? For a tea outing?”
“They’re practical.”
Yes, Elen, Grace thought, nothing says noble elegance like mud-proof footwear. Truly inspiring.
“I suppose I wouldn’t mind new gloves,” Grace said aloud, tilting her head with just the right amount of dreamy detachment. “Maybe with little silver roses stitched in.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Clara gasped. “You’d look like a real lady from the ballads!”
Grace’s smile didn’t so much as twitch. Because the hallmark of true power is, of course, embroidery.
Elen didn’t even look away from the window. “I heard the west gate has a new stall with weapons made for children. My brother says they’re training kids from House Redlane already.”
Clara wrinkled her nose. “That’s awful.”
“It’s smart,” Elen muttered. “Better to learn when you’re small.”
Why yes, Grace mused, let’s all play soldier in the streets. Perhaps the losers can die dramatically in matching boots.
She rested her chin lightly on her hand, eyes half-lidded in practiced elegance. Her voice came soft and sweet:
“I think there’s a storybook shop near the square, too. Maybe we can find something fun to read together.”
Clara beamed. “Oh, I love stories! Especially the ones with magic animals and brave girls.”
Elen grunted. “I like the ones where the villain wins.”
Grace turned to her slowly. “Oh?” she said, her voice the very picture of innocent surprise. “Why’s that?”
Elen shrugged. “Because they always do more interesting things.”
Grace’s eyes sparkled. Well now, she thought, aren’t you just full of potential.
Clara had shifted to sit with her legs tucked slightly beneath her, hands smoothing down her dress again and again. “Do you think we’ll be allowed to see the silver market?” she asked, wide-eyed. “They say the merchants there bring trinkets from the northern isles.”
“I don’t see why not,” Grace replied evenly. “If it pleases Elyne.”
The name landed softly, but deliberately. Three pairs of eyes turned.
Elyne sat across from them, legs crossed neatly, hands folded over one knee. Her expression remained calm, warm even – the practiced mask of a court-raised noble and battle mage – but she hadn’t said a word since they’d departed.
Grace’s smile sharpened just slightly.
Strange, isn’t it? Usually, you never shut up.
Elyne met her gaze briefly, then smiled, soft. “As long as we stay together and don’t stray too far from the main road, I don’t see why not.”
Clara practically clapped. “Oh, I hope they have music boxes! My sister once saw one that played a whole song about Saint Lirien and a tree that sang with the moon.”
“I prefer knives to singing trees,” Elen muttered, arms still folded.
“You’d get along well with the bandits,” Grace said with a soft chuckle.
Elen raised an eyebrow, suspicious but silent.
Clara laughed nervously, unsure if it was meant to be a joke.
Grace turned slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “Elen, your mother serves in my mother’s guard, doesn’t she?”
“She does,” Elen replied, watching her closely now.
“Is she strong?”
“She’s Third Circle,” Elen answered without pride, but without hesitation. “And she’s beaten every male officer in her tier.”
Ah, Grace thought. A little pride, then. Just buried under all that righteous scowling.
Grace nodded slowly, tilting her head. “And what about you, Clara? What does your family do?”
Clara blinked. “My father’s the Master of the Hunt. He leads the hounds and oversees the grounds when the Duke hosts hunts.”
Yea I know… tell me something new… What should I do with you?
“Oh,” Grace said sweetly. “So, you like animals?”
Clara lit up. “Yes! All kinds! I used to feed the hawks until one nipped my finger. But it wasn’t his fault. He was just nervous.”
Grace nodded thoughtfully.
Cute. Soft. Likely to cry if I twist the wrong string. Noted.
“And do you hunt?” she asked.
Clara blinked again. “Me? Oh, no. I could never hurt something.”
Grace smiled.
“But you like watching the hounds run?”
“Yes… They’re so graceful. And clever.”
And full of teeth.
Elyne stirred slightly in her seat, adjusting her posture. Grace didn’t look at her, but she felt the flicker of magic woven in the shift – a faint glimmer. A scrying veil? No… just a passive awareness charm. She was watching. Listening.
Grace leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment as if content.
The rest of the ride passed in a haze of polite chatter and thin laughter, the kind that filled space without meaning. Clara kept talking – about her sister’s new harp, about her favorite jam, about a dream she had where she flew on the back of a sparrow the size of a cow. Elen mostly listened. Or pretended to. Her eyes remained fixed on the passing trees, but her fingers drummed quietly against her knee… a rhythm, Grace noticed, that matched the bounce of the carriage wheels.
Elyne spoke only when asked.
That, more than anything, confirmed Grace’s suspicions: she was watching today. Not accompaniment.
How wise of you.
As the carriage rounded a final bend, the trees gave way to open land, neat stone fences, frozen wheat fields, and clusters of smoke rising from distant chimneys.
The City of Valewick loomed ahead, nestled between sloping hills and the curve of the river.
The outer wall came into view – tall, grey, ancient – marked by towers at even intervals and an iron gate that shimmered faintly with warding sigils.
Beyond it, the first rows of houses sprawled outward like ripples in water, cobbled lanes, busy squares, and the faint sound of a lute being tuned by a bored street performer.
Clara pressed her nose to the window.
Elen leaned forward just slightly, curiosity cracking her shell.
Grace didn’t move as the carriage slowed.
A guard stepped forward, recognizing the crest on the door. He raised his hand in greeting, and the gate began to creak open.
Grace blinked.
And then smiled.