North Drake
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Book 2: Chapter 27: Burdened
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 23:32:30 +0000 UTCHey, two things! First, someone sent me this video of how he imagined Grace on her throne in Gatewick, he created it with Veo3, and I must say, wow! He also allowed me to share it with you and use it. And honestly, a real-life version of Grace is quite frightening! (:
The second thing is, personally, AI art doesn’t sit quite right with me for a 'bigger' story. But thanks to your support, I was able to reach out to an artist (His name is: Kiseeki) to create some 'real cover' art for By Her Grace. We’re still only in the early planning stages, but I can already share some sketches with you here! It’s only the concept stage for now, but I really like the ideas so far!
Sketch 1 for the Book 1 and generall cover
Sketch 2 for the Book 1 and generall cover
Sketch 1 for the Book 2 cover
Sketch 2 for the Book 2 cover
So enough from me, have fun with the next chapter! (:
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Chapter 27:
Burdened
Deep in the Endless Forest stood a great tree. Its trunk stretched wide as a castle, its crown vanishing into the sky above. Around it, the air shimmered with life. Tiny glowing orbs floated between the branches. Little winged creatures, no taller than a hand, darted and sang as they danced in circles. Their laughter was soft and mischievous, and every leaf seemed to tremble in time with their joy.
These were the Pixies. To outsiders they looked like playful sprites, but everyone in the forest knew better. They were the guardians of the Tree of Eternity, its children and its swarm. They lived on its branches, drank from its fruit, and in turn, they kept the tree alive. No beast of the Endless Forrest dared to trespass here. The Pixies were small, but when angered they came like a storm. Like a plague of magic, each one carrying the strength of the wilds themselves. Even the strongest monsters feared them.
At the heart of the Tree of Eternity was a throne room unlike any other. It was not built by hand, but grown. The seat was living wood, roots twining into the ground, branches arching high above, heavy with blossoms and fruit. Moss covered its arms like green velvet. Dew clung to it like jewels, shining in the dim light.
On the throne sat Lirien, goddess of nature. Her presence filled the hall, the tree itself leaning toward her. She was tall and graceful, her gown woven of petals, leaves, and strands of silver mist. With every breath, its colors shifted, from spring’s bloom to autumn’s fire. Her hair fell in waves of ivy and wildflowers, blossoms opening and closing in rhythm with her pulse. Her eyes, green laced with gold, held both warmth and command. At her feet, grass sprouted through the floor, blooming flowers where none should grow. The air was thick with pine, rain, and earth, as if the whole world whispered her name.
Before her throne, a pool of perfect water reflected another world. Its surface was still, yet within it the human realm moved. She saw a battle raging, steel and fire clashing, blood falling like rain. She saw a young girl screaming, thrashing in terror, and an old man lifting her up, carrying her away from the fight. The vision rippled as if her sorrow touched it.
Lirien’s gaze softened. Her voice was quiet, but it carried through the chamber like the wind through trees. “Oh, child…” she whispered. “I am sorry. I have to burden you.”
Her words faded into the silence of the throne room. Around her, the Pixies stopped their play for a moment, as if listening. The tree’s branches creaked gently, blossoms falling like tears to the floor below.
Lirien lifted her hand and stretched out a finger. One of the Pixies broke from the swarm and drifted toward her, its wings glowing faintly like shards of moonlight. It settled gently on her fingertip, tilting its tiny head as if to listen. She caressed it with her thumb, her expression soft. “Fly to the mortal realm,” she whispered. “Help her. The war can no longer be prevented, and we need a champion there. A seed must be raised, before the soil is ruined.”
Her green-gold eyes dimmed with concern. “The time is ticking faster than we thought. They are moving sooner than I estimated… If only I had listened to Kaelir earlier.” She sighed, her breath stirring the flowers in her hair. “Perhaps we will need the help of the olds, even after so long, for what is coming.”
The Pixi nodded once, a soundless promise, then spread its wings. With a trail of dew and light, it fluttered toward the pool of water. The surface did not ripple when it touched. Instead, the Pixi stepped onto it as though it were solid, each footfall leaving a faint shimmer of green.
And then, slowly, it passed through.
The vision of the human realm deepened, and the Pixi vanished inside.
Lirien lowered her hand, her gaze heavy with sorrow. “Grow strong, child,” she murmured. “The world will need you.”
Lirien kept her eyes on the puddle. For ages, the mortal realm had been open to her. Nothing escaped her sight. But for six years now, black spots had appeared. Places she could not see.
That could mean only one thing. Her sister had awoken.
Her gaze shifted, carried across oceans and fields until it rested on a small human kingdom. Virethorn. Or rather, the new empire that had risen from it. The colors, the zealots, the cries of faith. It was like an echo from another age. A mirror of times she had lived through before.
Yes. Iras was awake. But it was not too late.
Her focus narrowed further. In a modest town inside the empire, she felt it—threads of divine interference. Her siblings? Impossible. The age of gods walking freely had long ended. And yet, something stirred.
The vision settled on a city. Gatewick. She knew every name, every settlement carved into this world. But when she tried to look closer, there it was again. The black void blocking her sight. She pushed against it, letting power trickle into the pool.
The water stilled. Then cracked like a mirror.
A face emerged.
A girl, no older than sixteen. Pale skin like porcelain. Hair that floated as if carried by unseen currents. And her eyes were vast, star-filled abysses. They were the gaze of endless night. She smiled, soft, and youthful. When she blinked, the constellations inside her gaze shifted.
“Sister,” the girl whispered.
Lirien gasped. “Elyra… what are you doing there?”
Elyra laughed. It was not joyous, but cruel. “Do you really need to ask? After everything you did?”
“You are the youngest,” Lirien said, frowning. “You could not understand.”
The endless eyes of Elyra wandered over the throne room through the shattered water. “Not any longer,” she hissed. “But I am glad I felt your prying.”
The throne room shook. The Pixis scattered in panic, their wings buzzing like storms. The air thickened, damp with the smell of moss. Elyra gasped, her face twisting as if the domain itself pressed against her.
“Iras is no longer sane,” Lirien said, standing from her throne. Her voice filled the room, every branch of the Tree of Eternity humming with power. “It was right to ban her. Right to ban the others. And you, little sister, are far too young to see the whole picture.”
The tree thrummed louder, blossoms bursting into bloom. Even stars would bend before its might.
“You smug fools,” Elyra spat. “You think yourselves so clever. You are the reason only six of us remain. But time has changed. The time of rise is coming. And with it, you will burn with the others in the thirteen hells.”
Her face contorted with pain. The connection faltered. Lirien’s domain pressed her out. With a sharp snap, the puddle cleared.
Lirien looked down, her voice soft but heavy. “There is only one truth in the universe. Once you choose a side, there is no coming back. Black and white. As Iras always said. I will grieve for you, little sister.”
The water stilled.
Lirien sat again on her throne, her thoughts burning hotter than her calm face revealed. A Pixi flew near, landing on her shoulder. She touched its wings lightly.
“Fly to the Veil,” she commanded. “Call the spirits. Neutrality ends today.”
The Pixi darted off in a streak of light.
If Iras wanted war, Lirien would answer. She would summon every spirit, call every storm, and tear apart all that Iras had ever touched.
For all the songs that named her mother of nature, the truth was simpler.
Lirien was a warmonger at heart.
--::--
The march was endless.
Mud pulled at Elen’s boots with every step, and the cold wind cut through her cloak. Around her, the remnants of the Third Army trudged forward in silence. There was no celebration nor songs, only the sound of armor clinking, leather straps groaning, and the muffled cries of the wounded carried on stretchers.
They had taken the Gate, but only for a day. The enemy’s reinforcements had come too quickly. They had been forced to abandon it, leaving behind the blood-soaked stones they had fought and died for. Victory had lasted no longer than a single sunrise.
Still, some messengers had broken through. Elen heard the Marshal mutter to one of his captains that at least Stormvale would know what had happened here. That was something, even if it felt like ashes in her mouth.
Elen wrapped her arms tighter around herself. She had stopped crying hours ago. Her first breakdown, as humiliating as it felt, had passed. She knew she couldn’t afford to lose herself again. She had to be strong. She repeated the words in her mind with every step. Be strong.
But strength didn’t stop the questions from circling in her head.
Wasn’t this all supposed to be one kingdom? Hadn’t they all sworn to the same crown? Why had knights and soldiers from Ashford, Velmire, Virethorn and Stormvale been killing each other like sworn enemies?
She had overheard enough from the older soldiers to understand now. Ashford and Velmire had broken away. They had built their own empire. A self-proclaimed empire.
It was madness.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to Ashford. To the Ashford Estate, to the courtyard, to the people she had left behind. Clara. Grace. Even her mother. Were they safe? Did they know what was happening out here?
She pressed her teeth into her lip. Thinking about it only made her chest ache.
The memory of Faren and Jarl came back with brutal clarity. Faren’s easy grin, always cracking some joke to break tension. Jarl’s steady hand on her shoulder, always patient, always guiding. They had been her friends. Friends she thought she’d have for years. Now they were gone.
And it wasn’t fair.
She blinked hard, swallowing down the sting in her eyes. She couldn’t break again. Not now.
At least she had one thing to hold onto: she was no longer just a lost girl wandering the woods. She was a squire now. Marshal Dareth had given her his emblem, and from the moment she accepted it, she belonged to his household. Even the grizzled veterans didn’t question her presence anymore.
The emblem felt heavy on her chest as it swung with her steps.
“Keep up, Elen,” Dareth’s voice rumbled ahead of her. He didn’t sound unkind, just matter-of-fact, the same way he gave orders to men twice her size.
“I am,” she muttered back, pushing her legs to move faster.
The march dragged on until the sun dipped low. At last, shapes rose ahead through the haze—a fort of the Crown Duchy. Its walls were plain stone, its banner a little frayed, but to the men it looked like salvation.
A cheer broke out, raw and unsteady at first, then louder, swelling until voices shook the air. Men laughed and wept, some dropping to their knees in relief. They shouted to the heavens, throwing helmets into the air.
Elen’s throat tightened. She couldn’t stop her own tears this time. Not for herself, but for Faren and Jarl. They had spoken so often about bringing her to their village in the heartlands, showing her their homes, their families. They would never get the chance. But she could. She would. She would tell their families what had happened. She owed them that much.
When the gates opened, the garrison inside gaped in shock. Survivors poured through the doors, weary but alive, and then the Marshal himself followed, towering, grim-faced, his armor still blood-streaked.
“It’s the Marshal,” someone whispered. “But he’s—he’s dead. They said he fell in Ashford!”
The disbelief turned to awe. Soldiers pressed to salute, to touch his arm, as if making sure he was real. Elen saw their expressions, saw the way their eyes widened when they realized the reports had been wrong.
It felt strange to walk beside him.
The fort welcomed them in. Men slumped against walls, drinking water like starved beasts. Medics rushed to the wounded. The smell of cooking drifted from the kitchens, and for the first time in days, the air felt less like death.
They would spend the night here. After that, the Marshal said, they would part ways. Some would return home, some to the capital, others wherever their paths took them.
Elen didn’t know which path was hers yet.
But for now, she had food in front of her, real food, not stale bread or battlefield rations. A hall with high rafters and long tables. Soldiers spoke in low voices, sharing memories, sharing grief, some laughing shakily to mask it.
No one looked twice at her anymore. She sat at the Marshal’s side, his emblem clear on her chest. His squire. That was enough for them.
She took a bite of stew, warm and salty, and closed her eyes for a moment. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t peace. But it was the first time in a week she felt something close to human again.
The hall was loud.
After the meal, the men began to drink. Someone had brought out a lute, and soon laughter and rough singing filled the air. Tankards clashed together, stew bowls were scraped clean, and the long tables shook under the weight of tired men trying to feel alive again.
Elen sat stiffly among them, her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t understand it. They had lost so many brothers, and yet they celebrated. Was this how soldiers endured? She wasn’t sure she wanted to learn.
She stood quietly, slipping her chair back. The Marshal noticed at once. He gave her a single nod, murmuring low so only she could hear. “Find yourself a quiet corner to sleep, girl. We leave at first light.”
Elen dipped her head. “Yes, Marshal.”
She stepped out into the cool night, breathing in the silence with relief. The air smelled of smoke from the torches on the walls, mixed with damp earth and grass. It was calmer here, away from the noise, the grief dressed up as laughter.
She climbed the stairs to the fort’s wall, boots tapping lightly on the stone. The view stretched wide—rolling fields washed silver by moonlight. A gentle wind brushed her cheek, carrying with it the faint rustle of crops swaying far below.
Her thoughts tangled as she leaned on the battlements.
She had lost so much in only a week. Friends. Certainty. The safety of Ashford…
But why? Was it because her mother had returned to the Ashford Estate and pulled her away from Clara? Because Grace’s cold distance had left her doubting her place there? Or was it because of Lirien?
The goddess had warned her. Lirien had whispered that she would die if she stayed. And Elen had run. She had obeyed.
A future in Ashford had been waiting for her—training, honor, perhaps even knighthood. She could have had it. But now… she pressed her lips together. No. She had seen too much with her own eyes. She had heard the soldiers’ talk of betrayal in the battle against the Beastkin, of Ashford and Velmire breaking away, of a new empire rising in blood.
This was not the Ashford she was raised in.
Her chest tightened. When had it all begun to twist into this?
She lifted her gaze and… froze.
Out in the fields, a small green shimmer drifted through the night. At first, she thought it a firefly, but it was too bright, and far too steady. It floated lazily, weaving left and right as though it were following a song only it could hear.
The longer she watched, the more her breath slowed. Something about the light was… comforting. It didn’t feel dangerous. Instead it drew her in, holding her eyes like a warm flame on a cold night.
It moved closer. Slowly, gracefully, always just out of reach. When it reached the base of the wall, it rose higher, climbing the air until it hovered level with her face.
Elen leaned forward, her hands gripping the stone. Her heart fluttered.
This was no firefly. The shimmer thinned and stretched, and for a fleeting moment she saw outlines—arms, wings, a tiny face. A little person? That couldn’t be right.
Her head felt fuzzy.
The light circled her playfully, never quite letting her look straight at it. Whenever she turned her head, it slipped to the edge of her vision, always teasing, always just out of reach. She blinked hard, but the more she tried, the more it giggled. A faint, silvery sound, like bells on the wind.
“Wh-what are you…” Elen murmured.
The light drew close again. She felt it brush against her cheek, cool and wet like dew. Her eyes widened. Had it… kissed her?
Heat rushed to her face. “Wait… no, that’s—”
Another giggle cut her off. The shimmer darted down, tapping the tip of her nose before vanishing behind her shoulder. She spun, too slow, her braid whipping across her back. Nothing.
Then, again, right beside her. Another kiss, this time at her temple.
Her breath caught.
“Stop—stop that!” she stammered, reaching out a hand. Her fingers closed on empty air.
The light twirled above her palm, spinning faster, until it burst in a spray of green sparks that rained over her like falling leaves. She gasped as they touched her skin, tingling, seeping into her arms. Her mana core shivered in answer.
Her knees buckled. She sank down to the stone floor, clutching her chest.
“W-what… what are you doing to me…” she whispered, though her voice was weak.
The green glow dimmed to a soft halo. The green light giggled one last time, circling her head like a crown before settling onto her shoulder. Its tiny weight was almost nothing, but she felt it. It was warm and alive.
Elen’s vision blurred. Her body sagged against the wall.
The last thing she heard before darkness claimed her was that cheeky little laugh, full of mischief, like it had gotten exactly what it wanted.
Comments
Bunny
Some lovely art!
Myna
Really the video is something else, I just want now a movie lol
Snow2Reaper
Can't wait for the new covers :)
