Chapter 23:
The Arrival
The morning had barely begun, a faint grayness brushing against the frosted glass of her windows, when Grace of Ashford opened her eyes. She did not rise. She lay still, breathing slow and deep, her mind curling inward, sinking into the old disciplines she had taught herself long before she was born into this world.
Meditation.
It was not prayer. It was not pleading to any god for strength or favor. It was control, pure, deliberate, and absolute. A claiming of herself, thought by thought, breath by breath. Grace had always believed, without hesitation, that she alone was the master of her story. No outside force, no god, no destiny, would ever write her fate. She would carve it with her own hands, shape it with her will, as she had since the first stirrings of her conscious mind.
And yet...
She breathed in deeply, felt the rhythm of her heartbeat slow to a measured cadence. She reached deeper, peeling back the layers of thought, the instincts, the memories carefully arranged like shelves in a library. She sought the center of herself, the blazing core where her true will should have been burning steady and proud.
But something flickered at the edges. A whisper in the silence. Not words. Not even a presence she could name. Just... a weight.
Subtle. Elusive. It slid away the moment she reached for it, leaving behind only the faintest aftertaste of something cold, something wrong.
Grace exhaled through her nose, slow and silent. She pressed deeper, straining her senses against the currents of her own soul. She would find it. She would root it out. She would crush it if she must, because no one, nothing, no parasite or fragment of the void itself, would claim even the smallest corner of what was hers.
But there was nothing. Only herself.
The meditation yielded no answer. Only frustration, tightly coiled behind the perfect serenity she wore like armor.
Something had changed in her over the past week. She knew it. She felt it in the way her emotions cooled faster now, how satisfaction tasted sharper, how dominance curled under her skin like a second breath. But she could find no foreign hand on her thoughts. No external thread weaving through her mind.
Was it simply her own evolution? Or something else, coiling patiently within her?
Grace opened her eyes and stared at the carved beams of her bedroom ceiling. For a long moment, she lay still, her hands resting lightly atop the embroidered coverlet.
No one controlled Grace of Ashford. No one.
There was a sharp, efficient knock at the door.
Grace did not flinch. She drew in a slow breath, gathering herself back into the perfect image expected of her, even here in her private sanctum.
"Enter," she said, her voice light, untroubled.
The door opened and Elyne swept in, her ever-brisk steps softened only by the velvet hush of her house shoes. She curtsied immediately, a gesture half-born of protocol, half genuine devotion.
"My Lady Grace," Elyne said, straightening. "Forgive the early intrusion. A messenger has arrived from the Citadel in Valewick."
Grace sat up in bed with fluid grace, brushing a stray curl from her forehead.
"And?" she asked, already sensing the answer.
Elyne allowed herself a smile, small, but genuine.
"Lady Selira of Velmire will arrive at the estate today."
Grace tilted her head slightly, letting the information settle.
Not unexpected.
Grace drew her knees up beneath her, tucking the embroidered blanket around herself with slow, deliberate movements. Then, with the fluid grace, she rose from the bed, the faint chill of the stone floor barely grazing her bare feet before Elyne was there, quick, careful, efficient.
Without a word, Elyne fetched the gown already laid out in anticipation: a deep, blood-red creation. No soft pastels for today. No innocent white or classic black. Blood red, the hue of legacy, of duty, of strength carried for Ashford, not in smiles but in steel.
Elyne slipped the gown over Grace’s small form with practiced hands, fastening the tiny silver clasps down her back, smoothing the rich fabric over her shoulders. She moved to the vanity, drawing a silver comb through Grace’s golden curls, weaving them into a simple, elegant braid that coiled like a coronet across the crown of her head. No ribbons, no jewels, just the stark beauty of discipline and bloodline.
Grace watched herself in the mirror as Elyne worked. Watched the girl in the reflection take shape: A daughter of Ashford. A thread in the tapestry of ancient power. A future no one yet dared to name.
When Elyne finished, she rested her hands lightly on Grace’s shoulders, not possessive, not overbearing, but grounding. There was a quiet pride in her reflection, one she tried and failed to fully mask.
"You must be ready, my Lady," Elyne said softly. "The others will be waiting. You should meet them first, Clara and Elen are to stand with you today."
Grace nodded once.
"And afterward?" she asked.
"You are to join your brother," Elyne said, smoothing the last invisible wrinkle from Grace’s gown. "Lord Ronan and his retinue will be assembled in the front hall. Together, you will greet Lady Selira upon her arrival. As the highest-ranking blood present, it is your place."
--::--
A little later, at the eastern wing. It was quieter than the grand halls, its corridors narrower, its light softer where the morning sun spilled through the tall windows. Grace walked at a measured pace, her blood-red gown whispering against the polished floors, Elyne half a step behind her.
The small hall ahead had been prepared carefully, but not for ceremony. It was a gathering of necessity, quiet, efficient, guarded.
Six knights stood posted along the walls, their armor muted, their tabards marked not just with Ashford’s stag, but with the crimson braid that signaled personal assignment to Duchess Liliana herself. They were not household guards. They were hers, left behind to ensure Grace’s safety while the Duchess conducted more pressing matters at the Valewick Citadel.
Their presence here was a message in itself. Even in her absence, Liliana’s hand remained wrapped around Grace.
Grace crossed the threshold without hesitation. She took in the room with a glance.
Clara waited near the center, bright and anxious, her cream and green gown arranged perfectly. Her steward and her family’s old knight flanked her, visible symbols of her minor household status.
Elen stood apart, in Ashford crimson, her posture sharp and spare. No retainers hovered at her side. She carried herself like a soldier waiting for orders, not a young noble lady.
Grace paused briefly, letting the weight of the moment settle over them.
Their small gathering moved like a court, but no one would call it that.
Beyond the eastern wing, the estate buzzed with quiet tension. War preparations, whispered of but not fully seen, thickened the air. Grace had sensed it: the new urgency among the servants, the tightened patrols, the muted messages passing between captains and stewards.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
But information was scarce.
Without Corax at her side constantly, without the flow of whispered secrets through shadowed halls, she could see only pieces of the pattern forming around her. Training, study, the cultivation of her small circle, these had consumed her days.
And the dungeons — her private diversions there — had consumed the rest.
Whatever plans her mother wove at Valewick at the grand Citadel of Ashford, Grace had only glimpses. But for now, that was enough.
She stepped forward.
Clara curtsied at once, her smile bright and nervous. Elen bowed, her movements short and sharp.
Grace returned a small nod, perfectly measured.
At her back, Elyne stepped forward and spoke quietly, as if sealing the morning’s order of battle.
"My Lady Grace," she said, "everything is in place. You will meet Lord Ronan in the front hall. Together, you will receive Lady Selira."
Grace let her gaze sweep the room once more, the knights, the servants, Clara’s retainers, Elen’s silent loyalty.
It was not a court. Not yet. But the loom had tightened.
"Let us go," Grace said.
Without needing further words, her group formed around her. Elyne at her side. Clara and her retainers falling in behind. Elen, silent and steady, taking the rear.
Together, they moved down the eastern corridors, toward the front of the estate, where Ronan waited.
--::--
The front hall of Ashford's estate was already alive with movement when Grace arrived. Banners hung high along the stone walls, the crest of Ashford rampant against silver and crimson fields. The great iron doors stood open, letting in the chill of morning air and the muted clatter of arriving retainers beyond the main courtyard.
Ronan stood at the center of the hall, surrounded by a small knot of nobles, young lords and firstborn sons from Ashford’s loyal houses. Men who, not long ago, had pledged themselves to Alaric or Cedric. Men who now shifted their allegiance, quietly but unmistakably, to the last heir standing.
Grace slowed her steps, her gaze sharp beneath the surface.
It was expected. The duchy bled, and the sharks circled. That was the way of things.
She recognized the faces: the overeager smiles, the thin politeness stretched over ambition. Pieces already in motion, already angling for favor.
None of them mattered, because Ronan’s face lit up the moment, he saw her.
He broke from the circle without hesitation, his steps long and sure. His voice carried across the hall, rough with something almost like relief.
"Grace!"
She felt something stir inside her, not calculation, not strategy. Something warmer. Thicker.
Before she could think, she moved — quick, light — running the last few steps and springing into his arms.
Ronan caught her easily, lifting her from the ground in a laughing embrace.
"You’ve grown," he said, voice low and fierce.
Grace clung to him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his coat.
And inside her, something twisted. The thought hit her like a knife, fast, sharp, wrong.
Gods, I hate his fucking face.
Her fingers clenched tighter in the fabric of his coat before she caught herself, the small body locked in a hug that should have felt warm, should have felt pure.
He looks so fucking weak. Like a kicked dog, begging for scraps.
The thought made her stomach turn. Made something black and sweet stir in the pit of her soul.
Why is he so... disgusting? Why is he so... mine?
The contradiction twisted like broken glass inside her.
She wanted to shove him away.
She wanted to tear him apart.
She wanted to bury her hands in his ribs and rip out the weakness by force, to mold him into something useful, something worthy of the blood he carried.
It would be so easy to make him bleed. So easy to carve away the soft, pathetic pieces.
The darkness inside her laughed, soft and sick, like a lullaby sung by a butcher.
But then another thought cut through.
It would be more fun to watch them bleed... the ones who dare to lay a hand on him. On my brother.
I should let bleed everyone who dares to take something from me.
The two instincts warred in her chest — tearing, snarling, whispering — until her mind snapped shut around them with brutal precision.
No.
She forced her hands to relax, forced her breathing into neat, even lines. Outwardly, she was flawless, the smiling little sister, bright and golden.
Inside, the shadows coiled tighter, purring.
Not today.
And then the moment vanished.
Grace stepped back, smoothing the front of her gown with careful fingers, as if adjusting a stray thread. Her smile remained in place, sweet and composed. Her posture shifted naturally into the quiet dignity expected of a daughter of Ashford.
Ronan, oblivious to the chaos that had flickered behind her eyes, chuckled softly and offered his arm.
Grace took it without hesitation.
Around them, the hall froze into polite astonishment. Elyne blinked. Clara gasped. Elen stiffened.
Grace ignored them.
"You look stronger," he said, smiling.
"And you," she said quietly, tilting her head, "look more tired."
He chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair in a familiar, careless gesture.
"Responsibility is heavy," he admitted. "But it’s easier to carry when you have good company."
Grace allowed herself a smile, small, soft, carefully weighted.
Together, they turned toward the grand entrance where the retainers waited, where the knights had formed their ranks, where the crimson and silver banners of Ashford snapped in the rising breeze.
Before they crossed into the frost-bright morning, Elyne stepped forward silently.
Without a word, she unfolded an elegant cloak — silver-gray lined with pale silk — and draped it carefully around Grace’s small shoulders. The cloak fastened at the collarbone with a polished silver clasp worked into the shape of Ashford’s stag.
It was lighter than a true winter coat, but heavy enough to mark status, and practical enough to shield against the morning chill.
Grace said nothing as Elyne fastened the clasp, smoothing the cloak’s folds with quick, sure fingers. She simply accepted it, tilting her head slightly to allow the final adjustments, as if the silver-gray mantle had been part of her all along.
Proper.
Grace always knew how to be proper when the world was watching.
Wrapped now in Ashford's muted colors — crimson underneath, silver above — she stepped forward beside Ronan, toward the awaiting court, toward Lady Selira’s arrival.
--::--
The courtyard stretched before them, cold and ordered. Banners hung high along the stone walls, the crest of Ashford rampant against silver and crimson fields. The great iron gates stood open, letting in the chill of morning air and the faint clatter of approaching retainers beyond the outer walls.
The colors of Ashford hung heavy above them — crimson and silver, blood and iron — ancient and unyielding.
Knights lined the stone path in double formation, their armor polished to a dull gleam, visors lowered. Servants stood further back, heads bowed, hands clasped neatly. Every eye, whether seen or unseen, watched the meeting unfold.
Grace stood at Ronan’s side, her small hand resting lightly against his offered arm.
Perfect posture. Perfect composure.
The world watched her. She watched back.
The first carriage appeared, black lacquered wood with silver filigree, pulled by a matched team of deep-chested horses. Behind it, a procession of lesser carriages and mounted escorts fanned out, banners of Velmire trailing in the cold wind.
Grace narrowed her eyes slightly.
The arrival was calculated, just enough splendor to honor Ashford, but not enough to overshadow it.
Smart… or cautious.
The lead carriage rolled to a halt before the main steps. Footmen in Velmire livery leapt down, unfolding embroidered steps. A knight barked a low order. The door swung open.
Grace tilted her head, watching with cold precision.
Lady Selira stepped down.
She wore a deep blue traveling cloak lined with white fur, the colors of her house muted for the journey. Beneath it, glimpses of silk caught the light. Her hair, dark and glossy, was braided high and pinned with silver combs.
She moved with the elegance expected of a highborn daughter, poised, smooth, practiced.
But it was her eyes that caught Grace’s attention.
Clear. Sharp. Measuring. Not cowed. Not naive.
Grace’s fingers tightened fractionally against Ronan’s arm before she released the tension.
Pretty enough to charm fools, Grace thought, her mind already weaving, but clever enough to know where she stands.
Selira faced them without flinching. Her cloak stirred faintly around her boots, but her stance was firm. Behind her composure, Grace could see it, the tension crackling, hidden but real.
You’re afraid, Grace thought, her gaze narrowing. Even if you don't show it yet.
Not of them. Not of Ronan. Not of the ceremony.
Afraid of what she did not yet understand. Afraid, perhaps, of the weight of Ashford pressing down like a sleeping beast, still at rest, but stirring.
Grace could feel it too, the estate itself watching, the stones, the halls, the blood-soaked soil beneath the floors.
Waiting. Judging.
The horns sounded once, sharp and ceremonial.
Lady Selira of Velmire crossed the courtyard with measured steps, halting at a precise distance.
She curtsied deeply; the bow required of any noble guest seeking entry into an ancient house. Selira’s posture was perfect. No trembling hands. No darting eyes. Controlled. Polished. Rehearsed. Exactly as expected.
"My lord Ronan. My lady Grace," Selira said, her voice clear across the stones. "I, Selira of Velmire, come in honor and service, and place myself under the hospitality of House Ashford."
Formal. Proper. The exact words demanded by tradition.
Ronan bowed deeply in return; his voice steady.
"Lady Selira of Velmire," he answered, "we welcome you into our house, and into the bonds we shall forge together."
Grace stepped forward at her appointed time, feeling every eye on her.
She dipped into a flawless curtsy, deeper than mere obligation demanded. When she rose, her smile was warm, her voice sweet and clear.
"Lady Selira of Velmire," she said, echoing the ritual words, "we welcome you to our hearth and hall. May your days here bring honor to us both, and may loyalty be the bond we share."
The ritual was complete.
The words echoed briefly in the morning air, binding, final.
The witnesses would see only the perfection: the courtesies traded, the alliances hinted at, the ancient forms preserved.
None of them would hear the real thoughts coiling behind Grace’s careful smile.
Grace let her gaze linger a fraction longer than propriety allowed.
She watched Selira — proud, polished, aware — and the thing twisted inside her.
Pretty little thing, she mused, sweet and vicious at once. I wonder how loud you'll scream when the chains tighten around your pretty neck.
Her fingers flexed once, hidden in the folds of her gown.
No one noticed. No one heard the darkness breathing beneath her ribcage.
The moment passed.
Grace stepped back into her role as if it had never cracked, her hand resting lightly on Ronan’s arm once more, her face calm, angelic, untouchable.