Chapter 10:
They Will Burn You
The cobbled roads of Valewick shimmered faintly beneath the late morning sun, scrubbed clean by servants before dawn and still dusted with the petals of winter bloom. Snow hadn’t reached the city yet, not truly, but the air had a bite to it, sharp enough to redden cheeks and ruffle the coats of passing noblewomen.
Two carriages rolled through the noble district gates. The first bore the Ashford crest in fine silver against lacquered black, its velvet-curtained windows trimmed in burgundy silk. Inside sat three young girls, all dressed in winter coats of varying pedigree, and one smiling shadow who called herself a governess.
The second carriage followed at a measured distance, unadorned but heavier, its wheels reinforced and its suspension not nearly as kind. It bore no crest. Inside sat six guards, clad in muted armor stitched with Ashford red, weapons wrapped in velvet to muffle their clink. Their captain rode beside the driver, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his longsword, the other constantly checking the street ahead.
The second carriage was there due Elyne’s insistence.
Her sweet, smiling shadow had requested the escort two days prior, in a formal missive to the Duchess. A precaution, she’d written. Given the recent unrest and Lady Grace’s importance, I advise a minimal military presence for reassurance only.
Minimal. Six guards. Not including the one riding beside the driver.
As the carriages rolled over the frost-dusted stone toward the city’s noble district, Grace sat nestled between Clara and Elen, her posture flawless, her hands folded. She did not look out the window. She already knew what she would see.
Valewick was the kind of place that prided itself on curated wonder – on wealth dressed up as artistry. The aristocratic quarter flaunted its wealth like silk: soft to the touch, expensive to maintain, and hiding a whole economy of thorns beneath the hem.
Marble storefronts gleamed beneath wrought-iron awnings. Enchanted glass shimmered with shifting displays, lace fans that danced in their own reflections, perfume vials that misted when approached. Everything here whispered: Only the privilege people belong.
Grace smiled faintly. She belonged.
The carriage came to a stop before Maison Callaire – Couture & Parfum, a boutique lined in polished jet-stone and carved cherubs, where the scent of imported spices wafted through the doorway like an unspoken promise.
Elyne stepped out first, boots clicking softly as she turned with a gloved hand offered toward the carriage.
“Ladies,” she said brightly, “we’ve arrived. Please stay close.”
Grace ignored the hand and stepped down on her own, dress catching the morning light in delicate folds. Clara followed with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, nearly catching her foot on the step. Elen emerged last, steady, silent, watching.
Behind them, the second carriage came to a halt with military precision. Six guards dismounted without a word. Two took post near the boutique’s door. Two moved to the corners of the square, their gazes scanning roofs, alleyways, windows.
Grace didn’t look at them. Elyne had requested them. Elyne had arranged the formation. Elyne had briefed the captain that morning.
It was almost adorable. She’s playing general again.
Grace’s eyes flicked toward her governess for the briefest moment. Elyne’s back was turned, speaking with the shop’s proprietor at the door. Not watching. Good.
Clara broke the silence with a delighted gasp.
“Oh, Lady Grace – look!” She pointed at a window across the street. “They’re selling real silver hairpins in the shape of roses!”
Grace leaned forward slightly, just enough to humor her.
“How lovely,” she said, her voice warm, curious. Measured. “Would you like to see them later?”
Clara beamed. “Could we?”
“Of course.” Grace smiled. “Anything that makes you smile is worth the time.”
Elen made a sound halfway between a cough and a scoff.
Grace turned to her smoothly, eyes gentle.
“Elen?”
The taller girl shook her head. “Nothing. Just seems a bit much for hairpins.”
“Perhaps,” Grace said, tilting her head slightly, “but I’ve found that beauty – even unnecessary beauty – can be a kind of armor.”
That earned her a look. Not confusion. Interest.
Very good.
Elyne turned then, ushering them inside with the cheer of a woman who thought she had everything under control.
“Come along, girls. Let’s find something stunning.”
Grace moved forward without hesitation, steps light, every detail of her movement precisely calibrated. She entered the boutique not as a child but more like a presence, a porcelain doll come to life, too composed, too quiet, too watchful.
And as the shop’s perfume hit her like silk lined with poison, she smiled.
The interior of Maison Callaire was a performance in itself. The walls were lined with enchanted mirrors, reshaping reflections just enough to flatter. Chandeliers flickered with floating candlelight held in place by unseen runes. Every table was arranged like an altar – ribbons coiled in velvet trays, gemstone clasps glimmering like the eyes of dragons, and gloves so delicate they seemed woven from moonlight.
A tall woman in slate-gray robes approached, her hair pinned with a silver comb shaped like a falcon in flight. She gave a shallow bow, the kind that acknowledged Grace’s status without groveling.
“Welcome, young ladies,” she said, her voice old but smooth. “You grace our humble boutique.”
Clara practically curtsied into the floor. “Thank you, madam – it’s beautiful!”
Elen gave a nod. Just that. Eyes already moving from shelf to shelf.
Grace didn’t move. She let the silence hold half a second too long. Long enough for the woman to glance at her again.
Then she blinked slowly, smiled just so, and said: “We’re pleased to be here.”
Not I. We.
Let them see a little unity. It made it easier when that unity eventually fractured.
Elyne gave a polite cough and stepped forward.
“These young ladies are here on behalf of Duchess Liliana of Ashford. They’ve been given a small stipend to choose what they like. Within reason.”
Clara turned; eyes wide. “Truly? We get to choose?”
Elyne nodded. “Within reason,” she repeated, with a smile too soft to be threatening.
The shopkeeper bowed again. “Of course. Let me fetch our winter collection. Please, make yourselves at home.”
She glided away with the kind of grace born of knowing when to vanish. Good.
Grace wandered toward a stand of brooches shaped like frost-petals, each one enchanted to shimmer differently depending on the light. She did not reach out. She simply looked, and let the silence between her and the gold-trimmed mirror grow long.
In it, she saw herself. Pale. Perfect. Still.
Clara’s voice behind her was a flutter of silk and breathless joy. “Lady Grace, look – this one has a charm that changes color based on mood! Isn’t that delightful?”
Grace turned her head slowly. Clara was holding up a scarf woven from silver-threaded wool, its hue shifting from lilac to rose with her excitement.
“A reflection charm,” Grace said softly. “How very… honest.”
Clara blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Only that some people should never wear their hearts so openly.”
There was no bite in her tone. But Clara shrank just a little, smile faltering.
Elen looked up from a table of leather gloves and stared at Grace for a moment too long.
Grace turned back to the brooches.
Behind her, Elyne moved with quiet diligence, speaking with the shopkeeper near the rear counter. Their voices too low to hear, but Grace didn’t need ears to understand the rhythm. Elyne was vetting inventory. Inspecting magical quality. Calculating.
Grace smiled faintly at her reflection.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
She’s learning.
Then… something moved.
The boutique’s front door opened with a soft chime.
In stepped a boy – perhaps twelve, maybe older, tall for his age but awkward in how he carried it. His sleeves were rolled up, and his fingers were ink-stained, suggesting some recent contact with spell parchment or inventory ledgers. An apprentice, clearly. He didn’t bow. Didn’t glance toward Grace. Just strode in like he belonged.
He moved toward the back without really seeing who occupied the space. Then he caught sight of Clara, who stood near a display of hair clasps shaped like tiny phoenix feathers, her fingers hovering delicately over one etched in pink pearl.
The boy scoffed. Loudly.
“You should only touch something you can afford, little kid.”
Clara froze. Her hand withdrew instantly, as though burned. Her face went bright red.
Elen turned sharply, eyes narrowing.
And Grace?
Grace didn’t look at the boy. She turned for a brief moment her head down, so no one could see her bright grin.
--::--
Leon was a fourth-year alchemist apprentice, training under Lady Callaire, the owner of Maison Callaire. His day began early. As usual, Lady Callaire handed him several completed orders to deliver to the wealthy clients in the noble district of Valewick.
But the air in Valewick felt off today.
The first customer, a jeweled matron with powdered skin and a voice like chipped glass, snatched the vial from his hands without so much as a glance. "Finally," she muttered, as if he’d arrived late. He hadn’t.
At the second manor, the butler eyed him with disdain and tossed a silver coin onto the steps, “For your trouble.” Leon picked it up silently, fingers tight around the coin’s cold weight.
The third client didn’t open the door at all. A maid slid it open a fraction, took the salve, and shut it again without a word.
So, his mood was more then sour, when he came back.
The first thing he saw was to carriages in front of the boutique.
Well and now some self-important noble with too much money, is visiting. He thought bitter. just what I was missing today.
His gaze swept the entrance. Two guards stood outside, swords at their hips, eyes steady. They didn’t move, but their presence shifted the air, quiet, heavy, watching. Not the kind of presence meant to protect. The kind meant to remind.
Of course. Not just nobles, ‘important’ ones. The kind who needed a security detail to shop for perfume and hairpins.
Leon clenched his jaw. Just what his day needed. A parade of perfumed little monsters with too many coins and not enough leash.
He stepped past the guards without bowing, ignoring the slight shift in their posture as he pushed open the door. The enchantment chimed softly behind him. Too softly. It made his scowl deepen.
Inside, everything was warm and fragrant. Overheated. Suffocating.
The air was thick with rose oil and powdered citrus. The kind of scent meant to disguise the price of the thing it clung to.
Leon didn’t slow.
He barely glanced at the rows of silk gloves or the mirrored displays. His hands were still stained with sealing wax from that morning’s deliveries, and his coat reeked faintly of sulfur from the alchemical stove. He didn’t care.
He worked here. That was enough.
Or it should have been.
He was halfway to the rear alcove when he saw her.
Small, maybe six or seven, standing before a glass case of enchanted hair clasps. Her fingers hovered inches from a pink pearl ornament that cost more than Leon’s monthly stipend. She didn’t look noble. Not exactly. Just... composed.
Too composed.
Something about the stillness of her hand set his teeth on edge.
Pink pearl.
Fifth-tier enchantment.
And her hand was already reaching.
He didn’t think. He just barked it out.
Leon’s mouth moved before he could stop it.
“You should only touch something you can afford, little kid.”
It wasn’t cruel. Not really. Just tired. Dry. Defensive.
A reflex from too many mornings being treated like furniture by people who called themselves cultured.
But this time… the room changed.
Not with sound. With silence.
The little girl – the one closest to the display – froze.
Her hand retracted instantly, like he’d struck her. Her face turned beet red and her lips began to quiver.
The taller one turned. Sharply.
And the third…
The third lowered her head just slightly. Enough that her ribbon fell across one cheek and her face tilted out of view.
Leon didn’t see her expression.
But he felt it.
The tension in the room didn’t rise. It lowered. Like something watching had finally decided to breathe in.
When she spoke, her voice was soft. Unhurried.
“Don’t worry, Clara. I’ll handle this.”
Her voice was too calm. Too measured.
Leon didn’t flinch. He couldn’t. Not with the way the air had gone tight. Not with the way the smallest one spoke like she owned the floorboards beneath her feet.
Still, he hadn’t seen anything special yet. She was just another over-dressed brat playing noble, and in the back of the shop – he could hear voices. A woman’s voice, older, deliberate. His mistress. Lady Callaire.
Which meant the girls were just guests. Or relatives. Maybe companions.
But not clients. Not important.
Certainly not the kind of people he needed to treat with caution. So, when the girl straightened – so damn gracefully – and began to walk toward him, he didn’t step aside.
Instead, he crossed his arms and said, “Oh, you’ll handle it, will you?”
She stopped in front of him. Not close. Not confrontational.
Just near enough to force him to look down.
She was tiny. Five, maybe six. Her hair braided; ribbon neat. Her cheeks still pink from the cold. And her expression... Her expression was polite. Utterly polite.
It made the back of his neck prickle.
“I think,” she said, enunciating each syllable like she’d practiced it in front of a mirror, “that you don’t know who you’re speaking to. And you made my companion here…” she pointed, with careful grace, toward the trembling girl beside her, “…uncomfortable.”
Leon rolled his eyes.
“Oh, I know exactly who I’m talking to,” he snapped. “Another spoiled tag-along who thinks the world should bow just because her nanny’s holding the coin purse.”
Behind her, this Clara girl inhaled sharply.
The tall one stepped forward, fists clenched, eyes narrowing.
But the girl in front of him raised her hand. A small gesture. Barely more than a flutter of her fingers.
And they stilled. Her eyes never left Leon’s.
“And yet,” she murmured, “here you are, speaking down to someone who hasn't even raised her voice. That says more about you, doesn’t it?”
Leon’s mouth opened – some retort, some defense – but stopped short.
Because her eyes… They didn’t match the rest of her. Too calm. Too cold.
And in the center of her irises – just for a breath, just for a blink – there shimmered a trace of pink. A shimmer like heat behind frosted glass.
His thoughts faltered. His pulse jumped. And something inside him snapped.
“Little...” he snarled, stepping forward, teeth bared. “You... !”
His hand moved before his mind caught up. A raised fist. A reaction, not a decision.
It came down with the wild, clumsy force of someone who’d never struck a noble in his life but suddenly wanted to.
But the little girl didn’t flinch. She didn’t even move.
Her friend did.
The taller girl lunged, instinct faster than thought, throwing herself between them. Her arms up, her stance wide. Leon’s fist collided with her shoulder, not where it was aimed, and the force knocked her sideways into the brooch table. A spray of polished silver and velvet trays hit the floor with a series of sharp, musical clinks.
Clara screamed.
The little girl stepped back one pace. Only one.
And still… she didn’t blink.
The tall girl groaned, curling onto her side, one hand clutching her shoulder.
And Leon… Leon stood frozen. His hand still raised. His breathing loud.
The weight of what he’d just done crashing over him in pieces he couldn’t quite hold all at once.
Behind them, a voice cracked through the air like lightning.
“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!”
A furious woman ran over. Her boots struck the floor like hammers, and in the same breath the front door burst open.
The guards were already moving – drawn by the shout, by the scream, by the tension that had snapped like a taut string inside the boutique. They didn’t ask questions. Two surged forward. Leon didn’t have time to breathe, let alone speak. Rough hands grabbed his arms. Forced him down. Face-first onto the polished floor.
“Wait –!” he gasped, his cheek pressed to stone, vision spinning. “I didn’t – I didn’t mean –!” He barely got the words out before the first fist found his ribs.
Then the second.
Pain bloomed hot and sick and sharp. He choked on it. The world shrank.
One of the guards drove a knee into his back. Another twisted his arm until something cracked. Leon didn’t know why he’d raised his fist.
He didn’t know what had come over him. The girl hadn’t done anything.
Not really.
But her voice. Her eyes. The way she’d looked at him. Like she saw through his skin, through his thoughts, down to the weakest part of him and smiled. It was like a command. Like she wanted him to attack.
And now he was on the floor, bleeding into the seams between polished stone tiles.
He tried again: “I didn’t… please!”
But another blow knocked the words from his mouth.
--::--
Across the room, Elyne knelt beside Elen, her face pale with fury and worry.
“Easy… easy,” she whispered, her voice taut with control as she pulled the girl upright, one hand checking her shoulder, the other brushing hair from her eyes. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
Elen gritted her teeth, pale but steady, her breathing sharp and fast.
Clara stood frozen in place. Her hands clutched to her mouth. Her eyes wide with shock and something deeper – something like guilt.
And Grace…Grace stood still. Exactly where she had been.
Her hands folded neatly in front of her.
Her head tilted slightly, like a girl watching a scene she’d already read once in a book.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. She watched.
Watched as Lady Callaire rushed in from the back, her composure cracked for the first time in years.
“Leon! What in all the thirteen hells have you done?!” she gasped, dropping to her knees beside him, her hands moving over his face, his ribs, his collarbone. “You fool, you fool!”
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He lay crumpled beneath the guards, barely breathing, his face swelling under fresh bruises, one eye bloodshot, lip split.
“Get off him—get off him now!” Callaire snapped, voice cracking.
The guards obeyed, but slowly. Reluctantly. They’d seen enough nobles slighted to know when someone deserved the beating.
Elyne rose, turning sharply. Her gaze swept the room with cold authority.
“Clara,” she said, voice steadier now, “what happened?”
“I – I…” Clara looked at Grace. “I touched something. And then… he said I couldn’t… and Grace – Grace said –”
“She said she’d handle it,” Elen muttered, standing now with Elyne’s help. “And he tried to punch her.” Elyne’s expression shifted, just enough. A muscle twitched at her jaw.
Lady Callaire spun on her heel, fury in her voice.
“You think this is how we treat customers? You think this – this – is how apprentices behave?! Do you have any idea who you just laid hands on?”
Leon didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
And Grace… Grace still hadn’t moved.
Not until she did.
She stepped forward, quiet, unhurried, almost delicate in her grace.
The room was loud with movement. With voices. With panic and rising tempers. The guards were speaking to Elyne. Lady Callaire was trying to force Leon to respond. Clara had begun to cry again.
No one noticed her pass behind the guards.
No one noticed her kneel.
Except him.
Leon blinked, slow, painful. His good eye struggled to focus.
And then, a shadow passed over him. Small. Sharp. Familiar.
She leaned in close. Her lips near his ear.
And whispered: “They will burn you…”
A pause. Delicate. Measured.
“…for attempting to hit the Duchess’s daughter.”
She giggled softly. Not loud. Not cruel. Just… entertained.
Then she stood. Smoothed her dress. And walked – slowly, lightly – toward Clara.
The crying girl didn’t even see her until small arms wrapped gently around her. Grace pressed her cheek to Clara’s shoulder and held her. Like the perfect friend. The perfect noble girl. The perfect child. And Clara sobbed into her ribboned braid.
No one saw Grace’s eyes flicker. No one heard the echo of her giggle lingering behind her like a spider’s thread in the air.
Only Leon.
And for the first time, he understood. Not the words. Not the threat. But the weight behind it.
They will burn you.
The phrase looped in his skull, again and again, until it became more than words. Until it became smell. Until he could almost feel the fire curling around his limbs, eating through his lungs, his skin blackening before the pain could even register.
Not now. Not here. But soon. Somewhere in a dungeon. Somewhere dark, with chains too tight and eyes that never left him.
Burning.
And no one would stop it.
Because the girl in the ribbon would never have to ask for it.
She would just have to watch.
His breath stuttered. His ribs ached. He tried to move – but another sharp jolt landed in his side.
The guards hadn’t finished. One of them kicked him again, hard and fast, low in the stomach. The breath fled his lungs in a single, ragged sound. His vision swam.
The colors of the boutique blurred, red silk, white gloves, the black hem of a child’s coat.
And pink. The last thing he saw was pink. Not on her dress. In her eyes.
And then…
Darkness.