Chapter 27:
Heir Apparent
Dusk settled softly over Ashford. The stained-glass windows caught the last of the light and scattered it in fractured reds and golds across the long stone walls. Shadows stretched behind the banners. The hearth burned low but steady.
The great hall filled slowly, with measured footsteps and murmured greetings. Cutlery was set, plates arranged, wine poured into deep cups of hammered silver. The servants moved carefully, as if the walls were listening.
At the center of the high table sat Ronan, heir of Ashford. His posture was upright, practiced. His smile was warm and steady and had just enough strain behind it to pass as sincerity. He wore formal crimson, trimmed in pale silver, and pinned at his collar was a narrow golden brooch, a coiled black wyrm pierced through the chest by a silver crown.
The Thorned Wyrm. The royal crest of Virethorn.
It was old. A symbol drawn from the founding myth of the kingdom, when the first Virethorn slew the last great dragon in these lands and built his capital where the corpse fell. Few wore it outside the Crown’s immediate household.
But Ronan wore it proudly. A quiet tribute to his mother, the King’s sister, and to the blood he believed still made him special.
No one else in the hall bore its mark. No banners of the Crown were present. Only Ashford’s silver stag flew above the stone.
Ronan didn’t seem to notice.
But Selira did.
She sat to his left, clothed in a pearl-gray gown edged in soft ocean hues. She had said little since entering the hall, only nodded in greeting, only smiled when required. She looked as if she had always belonged there.
The three noble daughters of Velmire sat beyond her, placed by rank along the high table. Lady Marissa Greensea wore muted green and silver, her voice already low with comment. Lady Kristin of Halwyn leaned close to her with a half-laugh. And Lady Angela of Veylor twirled her goblet by the stem, wide-eyed with quiet excitement.
The hall had settled now.
All but one place at the high table was filled.
To Ronan’s right, the seat remained empty, smaller than the rest, but no less carefully prepared. A red velvet cushion. Silver cutlery. A goblet untouched.
It was Grace’s place.
And she had not yet arrived
But for Ronan’s liking, things were going well.
The hall looked perfect. The nobles were seated. The wine was flowing. Even the music, played soft and distant by strings near the western wall, was appropriate, refined, forgettable.
He sat a little taller in his chair.
Selira had taken her place beside him without complaint. She hadn’t said much, but her presence alone had steadied the scene. She carried herself well. Quiet. Dignified. Fitting.
He glanced toward her and offered a small smile.
“Ashford suits you,” he said, not too loudly.
She met his eyes, smiled back politely. “You’ve been kind.”
It pleased him more than he expected. Something in his chest unknotted.
Lady Liliana had told him, “You have one week. Be a proper heir. Not a shame to our name.”
He’d taken that seriously. She didn’t give warnings twice.
Now, sitting here, beside his future bride, with the lords of Ashford at their tables, wine poured, banners flying, he felt the weight begin to lift.
This is working.
A few of the younger nobles came forward again, offering quiet words, mostly empty, but respectful. He remembered their names now: sons of barons and counts, second borns of martial houses, a few from old blood. They spoke well. They praised Selira, complimented the food, bowed just the right amount.
Ronan smiled. Nodded. Lifted his goblet to one or two.
Everything seemed to fall into place.
He didn’t notice the ones who stayed seated. He didn’t see the ones who exchanged glances. The ones who murmured behind tilted cups. The ones who looked not at him, but at the brooch on his chest, the coiled black wyrm, pierced by a silver crown.
But Selira did. She sat still, hands folded neatly in her lap, face calm. But she was watching. Not just him, not just the crowd. The room.
She saw the flash of tension in a knight’s jaw near the wall. The way one of the older lords turned slightly away when Ronan spoke. The stiffness of two women at the lower table, both of whom carried the old stag of Ashford on their sleeves, but did not raise their goblets with the others.
And the brooch.
The royal symbol, pinned openly on Ronan’s chest. The Thorned Wyrm.
Selira had seen no sign of the Crown anywhere in Ashford, not on the gates, not in the banners, not even in the finely embroidered drapes that hung above the hall. No colors of the King. No sign of his rule.
And here he sat, oblivious, wearing it with pride.
She kept her expression composed.
But for the first time since arriving, she felt a real ripple of unease beneath her skin. Ronan had no political sense. Not a drop. To say he was smart like a potato would be an insult to the poor potato.
Selira sighed, just quietly enough not to draw notice.
He meant well. He smiled at the right people. He wore the right colors. Almost. He didn’t see the looks. The restraint. The measured silence. And he didn’t notice the brooch glowing like a flare in a hall where no one else dared wear the Crown.
She folded her hands again.This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
This was going to be more complicated than she thought.
At the center, Ronan cleared his throat and stood. A practiced gesture. He raised his goblet slightly. The hall began to still, silverware quieting, soft voices fading.
He had planned to speak. A toast. A welcome. Something about Selira’s journey and the fine gifts her house had brought.
But the doors opened before he said a word.
Not opened — burst.
The sound cracked through the great hall like a challenge. Conversations halted. Heads turned.
Six knights stepped into view, formation perfect, cloaks moving like blood and shadow. The stag of Ashford was emblazoned on their shoulders, not the standard crest, but a variation with black edging and a vertical sword behind the antlers. The mark of Liliana’s personal guard.
Not a military unit. A message.
They moved forward as one. Two by two. Slow, deliberate. The weight of their steps matched by the silence that followed them.
And in their center, walking without hurry, without doubt, came Grace.
She wore a gown of deep crimson, the color of Ashford's banners before war. Velvet trimmed in darker reds, sleeveless, cut to match the formal ducal style for girls not yet of age. Her golden curls were bound with a single silver pin. She wore no crown, no jewels.
But her presence filled the hall like smoke.
She walked as if she had been expected. As if she had written the scene herself.
A few heartbeats later came Elyne Marren, and the tone of the room shifted again.
Gone was the quiet figure of a governess. Elyne’s presence now was sharp, a blade drawn politely but without apology. She wore formal court attire: black layered robes with crimson detailing, bound with a silver belt and a fourth-circle mage sigil worked into the fabric over her chest.
Ashford’s court robes were old in design, not worn often outside of war councils and executions.
Everyone noticed.
Grace and Elyne did not rush. The knights did not break formation. The doors were left open behind them. Cold air filtered in with the last light of dusk.
Then, slowly — deliberately — the old lords of Ashford stood.
First one. Then two. Then ten.
The weight of their movements echoed more than the footsteps had.
Not one word was spoken. But the meaning was carved into the floor with every motion. This was not formality. This was allegiance. Grace was not just the daughter of the duchess. Not just a child. She was Liliana’s blood.
The young nobles near Ronan hesitated. Some shifted uncomfortably. Some stayed seated. The ones who didn’t move were the ones Ronan smiled at most.
Selira stood. She did not hesitate. She had made a mistake once already today, letting one of her girls insult Grace. She would not make a second. She rose smoothly, without flourish, and bowed her head just enough to honor rank, just short of submission.
Formal custom placed them on equal footing, two daughters of ruling houses. But Selira could read a room. Here, in Ashford, Grace was not just a noble girl. She was the future of this land.
Selira felt something cold settle in her stomach. And then she saw Ronan. Still standing. Still smiling. He looked genuinely pleased. Proud, even. As if nothing strange had happened.
He made no gesture of welcome. No bow. No nod. He just stood there, grinning at Grace like a boy who had waited too long to show off his family.
Grace didn’t look at him.
She and Elyne walked the length of the table, flanked by the six knights. Their path carved through silence. And behind them, servants scrambled to close the doors again.
The feast had not begun.
But the message already had.
Grace reached the high table in silence. She stood beside Ronan, barely at his waist in height, yet every pair of eyes in the room shifted to her.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t pause to settle herself.
She looked at Ronan.
“Brother.”
Just the word. Simple. Crisp. A nod.
Then one of the knights stepped forward, almost soundless in his motion, and pulled back the small chair prepared for her. Grace did not glance at him. She stepped smoothly to its side, but did not sit.
Selira’s eyes narrowed.
There were layers in that exchange. Too many for a girl so young. It wasn’t the word. It was the presence behind it, the posture, the measured stillness, the timing.
And then the girl spoke again.
“On behalf of my mother, the Duchess of Ashford, I welcome Lady Selira of Velmire into our household.”
The hall remained still.
Her voice was soft, but the words cut like ice. Not a child’s voice. Not nervous.Formal. Controlled. Strangely… cold.
“It is a celebratory occasion,” Grace said, gaze moving to Selira for the first time.“But…”
A pause. She tilted her head slightly.
“Lady Elyne. Could you?”
No one moved. No one thought she had overstepped. Not the way she said it.
Selira watched it happen, watched the silent recognition ripple down the table like a wave of cold water. Every older nobleman. Every matron. Every true lord of Ashford present. They saw the tone. They saw the words. They saw Liliana again, not in flesh, but in this girl’s posture, her precision.
Ronan chuckled awkwardly beside her. “Right. Yes, go on—” He gestured, uncertain, and sat down with a little shrug.
Selira didn’t look at him.
Elyne Marren stepped forward.
Her boots clicked once on the stone, and then silence returned. Everyone knew the name. Everyone knew the house. Marren was old, its holdings small now, but the bloodline ancient. And Elyne… Elyne had been a prodigy before she was Grace’s governess. At nineteen, she is now a fourth-circle war mage, an enforcer and the voice of the duchess in all but title.
She stood beside Grace now.
“A few minutes ago,” Elyne said, voice sharp and clean, “we received a message from the Valewick Citadel.”
No one moved. Not a cough. Not the clink of a cup.
“The beastkin tribes have crossed the eastern range. Hostile intent. Numbers unclear.”
A rustle. A breath caught near the back of the hall.
Elyne continued.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashford, will not tolerate this breach. As of this hour, the duchy declares a state of war.”
The words struck like hammers.
Even Selira felt it, that pressure behind the lungs, that sudden change in temperature when formality became command.
Elyne’s tone did not rise.
“On behalf of the Duchess, I, Lady Elyne Marren, guardian of Lady Grace of Ashford, hereby call upon the sworn lords of Ashford.”
She paused.
“The duchess calls.”
Silence rippled outward, deepening until the quiet itself was a declaration.
Elyne’s voice, when it broke the hush, was clear and decisive.
“And I ask you: Will you answer?”
For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly and deliberately, the older lords stood. They rose not merely from custom but with clear purpose, their eyes fixed intently upon Grace. The silence lingered, expectant.
Then one lord spoke, his voice firm and steady:
“Ashford answers the call. As it always answers.”
The rest nodded in silent agreement. The message was unmistakable: the duchy stood ready, its loyalty pledged openly—not only to Liliana, but now also to Grace in the absence of the Duchess.
Selira watched carefully, noting the subtle shifts in their expressions. This wasn’t merely politeness. The lords were answering a deeper summons, something rooted in Ashford’s very history and memory.
Then someone spoke quietly, just loud enough to be heard: “Beastkin.”
The word settled heavily over the gathering, bringing old, unresolved feelings to the surface. Faces grew harder. The silence became heavier, filled with meaning but no sound. No one moved to sit again, not knights, nor servants, nor retainers.
Only Ronan remained seated. Selira glanced at him, noticing his confusion and sudden discomfort. He looked uncertain, out of place.
She understood clearly now. The lords weren’t simply responding to a young noble girl’s presence. They were responding to Grace as Liliana’s heir, the living representation of her authority.
Ashford had chosen its future, and it wasn’t Ronan.
Selira’s eyes found him again, and what she saw made her skin tighten.
He looked pale. Not just tired, drained. Like a man who’d walked into a room expecting applause and found a funeral.
His fingers were still on his goblet, but he hadn’t moved. His mouth was slightly open. His face, unreadable. A boy in a place that no longer belonged to him.
Selira said nothing. She didn’t move. She didn’t even breathe too deeply.
Because she understood now.
Grace hadn’t just entered. She hadn’t just dressed for power or walked like she was her mother’s echo.
She had become something else in this moment. A symbol, a weight, a presence that filled the room not in spite of her youth, but because of it.
They had accepted her. Not as a child.
As Liliana’s heir.
Selira swallowed once, quietly.
The scene had been perfect. Choreographed. Like a stage play dressed in red velvet and silence.
But it was also real.
That was the frightening part.
No one moved to continue. No one reached for their goblets or broke the silence with polite conversation. Servants stood frozen at the edges, trays still in hand. Lords and ladies exchanged uncertain glances, waiting for some signal that would never come.
Grace simply stood, poised and motionless, eyes clear, expression unreadable. Beside her, Ronan sat with growing discomfort, the reality of his position finally settling over him.
And just like that, the banquet ended before it began.