Chapter 24:
This Is My Story
The final words of welcome had been spoken, and the courtyard shifted subtly, from ceremony into court formality. The guests were still in place.
Selira stepped aside with grace and lifted one gloved hand.
Her steward stepped forward with a bow.
"By the command of House Velmire, and in honor of Lady Selira’s union with House Ashford, we present these tokens of goodwill and lasting friendship."
Servants came forward bearing gifts; silk, wine, books and other things.
As Ronan acknowledged the offerings, the noble daughters accompanying Selira stepped into view, three of them, each dressed in regional Velmire fashion.
The first, soft-spoken and pale, curtsied deeply to Ronan. Her voice barely carried. “Lord Ronan. House Halwyn thanks you for your welcome.”
Ronan bowed slightly. “You are welcome, Lady Halwyn. May Ashford bring comfort to your journey.”
The second followed, sharper eyes, steadier voice. “Lord Ronan. Lady Selira speaks highly of you. House Veylor is pleased to be received.”
Again, Ronan nodded, pleased. “You honor us by your presence.”
He was in high spirits. Grace could feel it in his posture, in the way he stood just a little taller, smiled just a little too easily. For a moment, he looked like a proper heir, surrounded by nobles, giving orders, receiving praise.
Then the third girl stepped forward.
Sea-green cloak, white-threaded hem, confident stride, no hesitation. Grace didn’t know her name, but the way she moved said everything. She was used to being seen. And heard.
She bowed to Ronan — shallow, showy — and smiled wide.
“Lord Ronan,” she said, voice bright and full of herself. “Your poise does your house credit. Not many men could pull off a formal reception with a toddler clinging to their arm.”
Ronan blinked, uncertain. He laughed politely, as if she were joking.
But she wasn’t finished.
She turned to Grace, that same sugar-sweet smile still painted across her face.
“I mean no offense, of course. She’s very well-trained. I’ve seen dogs with worse posture.”
The words landed with the weight of a thrown blade.
Grace didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
But the courtyard responded.
Selira’s head turned, just slightly and sharply, a full glance. Her expression didn’t shift, but her eyes had gone too still, too fast. Not confusion. Shock.
Behind Grace, her knights, or better the knights from her mother, adjusted, not enough to break formation, but enough that the gravel shifted beneath iron boots.
Elyne didn’t move. She didn’t have to. The air around her began to vibrate, slowly and subtly, as mana coiled from her core and began to stir the space around her. It was no spell, but a threat.
The battle-mage at Lady Selira’s side began also began drawing mana out of his core and discreetly placed a hand on Selira's back.
Clara didn’t understand. Elen didn’t react. The words had been too fast. But the court had heard them. Every steward, every attendant, every ranking mage within earshot, they had all heard.
Only Ronan and the girl in front of him, were oblivious to the scene. He stood tall, still pleased with how well everything was going. The girl, still smiling, clearly thought she had charmed someone.
Grace closed her eyes, slowly.
Just once.
Then opened them again with perfect calm.
She didn’t look at the girl. Not once.
“Brother,” she said sweetly, “may I take my leave? I believe I’ve stood long enough.”
Ronan turned, still smiling, still unaware. “Of course, Grace. Go warm yourself. You’ve done perfectly.”
Grace nodded, dipped into a curtsy that was shallower than required, but not by accident, and turned. Her cloak flared slightly as she stepped into motion. Her hands remained folded. Her pace did not quicken.
She did not look back.
But behind her, Elyne shifted, and for the first time all morning, her eyes locked not on the girl… but on Selira. A silent, heavy question hung in the frost: You brought this into our house?
Grace walked through the great doors, the stone closing behind her.
--::--
The halls of the Ashford estate were quiet, but not silent. Her boots made a soft rhythm against the stone, one that no one dared to interrupt.
The knights followed in formation, silent and exact. Grace walked quickly, not running, but with purpose, and that was enough. The others fell behind. Clara and Elen tried to keep up, confused but, their steps uneven across the stone. Grace didn’t slow. She knew they didn’t understand what had happened. That was fine. They weren’t supposed to. Not yet.
Elyne followed behind Grace, but she gave space. That was smart.
Grace didn’t want comfort.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
The insult itself, the girl’s words, barely mattered now. It was the setting, the audience, and the failure. That girl had spoken down to her like a child. Like someone irrelevant. And she’d done it out loud, during a formal reception, with every pair of eyes in the courtyard watching.
But worse?
Ronan had laughed, not cruelly and not mockingly, but this dumbwit of a brother simply hadn’t noticed.
And Selira had looked. Had understood, but had done… nothing.
You all stood there, Grace thought, and let her speak like that. Let her act like I didn’t matter.
Her fingers curled slightly under the folds of her cloak.
She was the daughter of House Ashford. The only living child of the ruling Duchess. And more than that, she was herself, and that should have been enough.
This is my story, she thought. Mine. You don’t get to ignore me in my own scene.
They had ruined the frame. Stolen the spotlight. Treated her like a background character in her own narrative.
It wasn’t the insult that burned. It was the displacement.
The doors to the eastern reception hall came into view. She didn’t slow her pace.
The doors opened without effort. One of the knights moved ahead to do it, but Grace didn’t look at him. She simply walked through. After her, the knight closed the door again. The other knights took up positions in the room.
The eastern reception hall was quiet, as it had been that morning. Soft light pooled through the tall windows, brushing over carved furniture and silk-upholstered chairs. A tray of untouched tea still sat on the far table. It hadn’t been cleared.
Good.
She stepped into the center of the room and unfastened the silver clasp at her throat. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders and fell in a soft heap on the floor. She didn’t pick it up. No one dared to.
Without a word, she crossed the room and sat on the long velvet sofa beneath the window. The one with the carved lion’s feet. Her legs didn’t quite reach the ground, but that didn’t matter.
She sat back. Silent. Centered. Her hands folded on her lap.
The insult still rang in her memory. The tone. The dismissiveness.
That girl…
She didn’t know who she was speaking to.
But Grace did.
She was Grace of Ashford. Daughter of Liliana. The only child of the Duchess. The only one who mattered.
And they had all watched.
Selira, who had known what was happening and said nothing.
Ronan, who had smiled like a fool and let her be mocked.
The girl, that soft-spoken snake who thought cleverness was the same as power.
You all let it happen.
That was the part that stuck.
Not the insult.
The failure to stop it.
Grace’s lips curled slightly. Not into a smile, something colder.
I’ll get it back. All of it. Every look they gave me, every word left unsaid. Every breath of silence that let her talk.
She changed her posture; instead of slouching, she settled down. Like a queen who had just claimed the room for herself, even though no one else had claimed it. They thought she was just a child.
They wouldn’t think that for much longer.
The air in the hall had settled.
Not warm. Not comfortable. Just… still.
Grace didn’t move from her place on the velvet sofa. The world could shift around her, that was fine. She had already claimed the space.
She heard the soft creak of the door open.
Elyne entered first, quiet as ever. She walked across the room without a word, and with a smooth, practiced motion, she bent and lifted the silver-gray cloak from the floor. She folded it carefully, without rush, and laid it over the arm of the nearest chair. Then she took her place behind Grace’s left side, not hovering. Just present.
Elen came next. Her boots made no sound on the floor. She didn’t look at the windows, or the walls, or the servants who lingered at the edge of the room. She looked at Grace, once, and then sat on a bench nearby, hands folded in her lap, eyes forward.
Then Clara arrived, she stepped in too fast, saw the room, and froze.
Her eyes moved from Elyne, to Elen, to Grace, and stayed there.
“…Grace?” she said softly.
No answer.
Clara hesitated in the doorway. Something had shifted. She couldn’t name it, but she felt it, like stepping into a room where something had died, even if everything still looked the same.
She took a few steps forward, then stopped, wringing her hands in her sleeves.
“I didn’t… I mean, that girl didn’t mean it, right? She was just talking. She didn’t…”
Her voice trailed off under the weight of Grace’s silence.
Grace didn’t turn her head. She didn’t glare.
The message was clear.
Clara lowered her head slightly and moved to sit beside Elen, her back straighter than usual.
No one else spoke.
Grace let the silence linger a little longer, then closed her eyes again. Just for a moment.
And smiled.
“Elyne,” she said, voice soft, perfectly steady. “Who was that girl?”
Elyne didn’t pause.
“Lady Marissa Greensea,” she said. “Daughter of Count Greensea, of Greenport. House Greensea controls the second-largest port in Velmire and oversees three merchant fleets. She’s fifteen. Unbetrothed. Rumored to be close to the Duke’s third nephew. First time outside her duchy.”
She finished the sentence and waited.
Grace’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Let her speak again.”
Elyne inclined her head.
Clara shifted on the bench. “Grace… um… what do you mean?”
Grace looked at her. Nothing cruel. Just a look, still and precise.
Clara’s words trailed off. She lowered her gaze and said nothing more.
The room was silent again.
Elyne remained quiet for a moment longer. Then, slowly, she stepped forward, just enough to be noticed. Her voice was low. Careful.
“You did nothing wrong, Grace.”
Grace didn’t look up. “I know.”
Elyne hesitated.
She wasn’t supposed to say more. She knew better. But there was something in the air, something small and sharp, and it pricked at her in a place she rarely let feel. She had been Grace’s governess for three years now. She had taught her how to read, how to curtsy, how to hold a fork and a lie with equal precision. And still, more than anything, she had wanted to keep her safe. She had wanted Grace to have a good childhood. One untouched by politics, by the venom, by eyes that saw only bloodlines and not the girl behind them.
“You held your head higher than most grown nobles would have,” Elyne said softly. “Your mother would be proud.”
Grace still didn’t move or answered. But her fingers curled, slightly, against the velvet.
Outside, the estate moved, servants preparing the banquet, guards shifting posts, the faint echo of orders drifting through the stone. But inside this room, everything had stilled.
Elyne didn’t speak further.
Elen hadn’t moved. She sat like a drawn blade, her eyes following nothing, her expression unreadable. And Clara stared at her hands. She hadn’t fidgeted before. Now she did.
Grace let it breathe.
Just a little longer.
Let them feel it. Let them remember this room the next time they hear laughter in a courtyard.
Finally, Grace spoke again.
“She’s not dangerous,” she said simply.
Clara looked up, surprised.
“She isn’t?”
“No,” Grace said. “She’s arrogant. Untrained. The daughter of a man who thinks fleets are the same as power. But that doesn’t make her dangerous.”
A pause.
“But Selira,” she continued, “Selira let it happen. That makes her interesting.”
Elyne’s expression didn’t change, but Grace could feel the weight behind her silence.
“I want to know if it was deliberate,” Grace said. “Or lazy. Find out.”
“As you wish,” Elyne replied.
There was no ceremony in it, no drama, just confirmation.
Grace’s attention shifted; her gaze moved slowly to the six knights stationed around the chamber.
They hadn’t spoken once. They had stood at her side through the courtyard, through the walk back, through the moment she dropped her cloak on the stone and sat like the world had narrowed to a point. And they hadn’t left. She studied them a moment longer, then spoke.
“Are you only here for today?” she asked. “Just a formal escort from my mother?”
There was no accusation in her voice.
One of the knights stepped forward, the one with a faded scar along his jaw, silver-threaded Ashford markings on his collar. He bowed low, deeper than necessary for a child.
“No, my lady,” he said. “We have sworn oath to Lady Liliana of Ashford, and through her, to you. We are not guests. We are your guard. Her Grace Lady Liliana commands that you be protected in all things, at all times.”
His voice was even. It holds no performance, no warmth, only loyalty, hard and real.
Grace nodded once, slowly.
Then leaned back slightly into the cushions, folding her hands again in her lap.
“Send my mother my thanks,” she said. “For thinking so far ahead.”
The knight bowed again, deeper this time.
“As you wish, Lady Grace.”
And that was enough.