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Book 2: Chapter 23: My Clara
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 12:38:08 +0000 UTCChapter 23:
My Clara
The Barony of Bellgrave was one of the few places in Ashford that looked almost… gentle.
While most of the duchy was all mountains, jagged peaks, and hard soil, Bellgrave lay in a wide green valley where the land opened up into real fields. Wheat swayed there, tall and gold, and fruit trees bent under their own weight. To Ashford, it was a treasure. To Clara, it was simply home.
Her father, the Baron of Bellgrave, even held the title of Master of the Hunt. Once, that had meant great hunts with the Duke’s court and hounds and horns echoing in the forest. These days, with the Duke more or less a “permanent guest” at the King’s court, there were fewer hunts to organize. But that only meant more time at home with her family, something Clara was quietly grateful for.
It was a beautiful summer morning in the month of Thyros when Clara blinked awake in her little bedroom. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, painting the floorboards gold. She lay still for a heartbeat, then remembered—
Today.
Her heart leapt. Today was her birthday. She was finally turning five.
And that meant something important.
Her mother had promised that from today, she was old enough for her formal introduction into Bellgrave society. Next year, when she turned six, she would go to school for the first time. But today was the first step, the day she was allowed to mingle with the children of other nobles and richer families, to meet them properly, to be seen.
The tradition was old. Bellgrave liked its children to have a few connections before being thrown into the halls of the Preparatory Academy. A friend here, a familiar face there, it softened the first days of school. All of Clara’s brothers and sisters had gone through it, and she had dreamed of the day it would be her turn.
The Bellgrave Preparatory Academy was a point of pride for her family. Founded generations ago by one of her ancestors, it took in noble children from across the valley; baronets’ sons, knights’ daughters, even a few wealthy merchants’ heirs. For six years, from age six to twelve, its halls would shape them. After that, everyone scattered: some straight into trade, others into service, the most promising off to lyceums or noble colleges in Valewick. For Bellgrave children, there was never any question. You went through it, you endured it, and if you were lucky, you even excelled.
And Clara—today, finally, she was allowed to take her first little step toward that world.
She tumbled out of bed, her curls bouncing wildly, and padded across the floor barefoot. Excitement made her light, her smile bubbling up before she could stop it. Clara always had a kind of sunny, innocent energy about her, but today it burned extra bright.
She darted to the door, poked her head out into the hallway, and nearly collided with her maid. “Ah! Clara!” the woman laughed, catching her by the shoulders.
Clara giggled, tugging at the woman’s sleeve. “Quick, quick—I need my best dress! The one with the ribbons. Mama said today I can wear it!”
The maid sighed, but it was the fond kind of sigh, and soon Clara was standing in the middle of her room while hands tugged and fastened and smoothed. Ribbons fluttered down the skirt in cheerful little cascades. Clara spun once in the mirror and beamed at herself.
Perfect.
Without waiting to be dismissed, she scampered out into the hallway again, feet tapping against polished wood, darting down the corridor toward the smell of bread and honey. She didn’t just walk, she almost bounced with every step.
But breakfast was already full when she arrived.
Her brothers and sisters sat chattering around the table, their own plates stacked high. Nobody looked up when Clara burst into the room, dress ribbons bouncing. Not even her mother.
“Sit down, Clara,” her father said absentmindedly, already half-hidden behind a letter.
She sat. She smiled. She waited for someone to say Happy Birthday.
Nobody did.
Her plate was set, but plain. The honey pot was already half-scraped clean, and when she reached for it, her sister’s hand got there first.
Clara’s smile wobbled, but she forced it steady. Maybe later. Maybe after breakfast.
The morning passed in a haze of waiting.
Her mother had promised her a special ribbon for today, but when Clara went to ask, she was told the lady was too busy preparing for “real guests.”
Her brothers left early to play in the yard with the dogs. When Clara tried to join, they told her not to ruin her dress and shut the gate in her face.
Her father was gone before she could even ask him to walk with her. He had business, always business.
Still, Clara told herself, the introduction was later. The whole day didn’t matter, only that.
Clara was the youngest, always behind her siblings.
Her eldest brother was the pride of the family, the heir to the barony. He was talented too; at ten he had awakened an earth core and never let anyone forget it. He strutted around the estate bragging that he would become a mage, the first great one in their line in generations. In House Bellgrave, mages were rare. Their blood wasn’t like the great houses of Ashford. Her father had an earth core, yes, but it was common, solid, and nothing brilliant. That was why her brother’s awakening had been such a triumph; every guest at the estate heard about it twice, at least. Her other brothers normally stuck with him, and they were playing together; there was naturally no place for a little sister like Clara in their games. But it was ok, Clara could understand this.
Her sisters outshone her too.
The eldest was fifteen and already the epitome of a noble lady, perfect posture, perfect words, with perfect grace. After finishing at the Preparatory Academy she had gone to a noble college, where she immediately caught the eye of a Count’s son. Their parents were overjoyed, already spinning the match into prestige.
Clara never minded. She was fine with being mediocre. Fine with being the one no one expected brilliance from.
Her other two sisters, only five and six years older than Clara, were just as promising—beautiful, clever, both with the easy poise of young ladies preparing to step into society. They didn’t have time for a tag-along little sister. Not when their futures were being polished every day.
Clara’s parents only ever cared about prestige. About alliances, connections, status. For them, Clara was too young, too small, too unimportant to factor into those schemes.
But Clara didn’t care.
She cared only about the bright side of life, the things that were beautiful.
She loved wandering the grounds of Bellgrave, listening to the birds, trailing her fingers through the tall grass that swayed like golden oceans. She loved the orchard in late summer, the smell of pears ripening in the sun. She loved the quiet streams that curved through the valley, sparkling when the sky was clear.
Bellgrave was beautiful. And Clara loved it with her whole heart.
She loved her family too, her parents, her sisters, her brother. Even if they were too busy to see her. Even if they were always carrying too much on their shoulders to notice the small girl who trailed at the edges.
She told herself it was fine. That they were important, and she was young, and her turn would come later.
Yes, she told herself, today was her turn.
The day flew by quickly.
Clara spent the bright hours in the places where she always felt welcome. She slipped into the kitchens, her ribbons swishing against her skirt, and the staff greeted her with wide smiles. The old chef, flour still on his apron, grinned when he saw her.
“Ah, Lady Clara!” he boomed, bowing comically low. “A happy birthday to you! And don’t you look fine today?”
Clara giggled, cheeks pink, and twirled once to show off her ribbons. For a moment, her heart felt light. Here, at least, someone noticed her. She thanked him shyly, then excused herself before her dress caught any flour or grease.
Outside, she wandered through the orchard. The evening air was warm, the branches heavy with fruit. Birds darted between the leaves, and Clara watched them with quiet joy. The birds had always been her friends; they never ignored her, never turned away. She hummed softly to herself, pretending the little sparrows were clapping for her.
Later, her mother found her among the trees. For the first time that day, she bent to kiss Clara’s forehead. “Happy birthday, my dear,” she said, smoothing a ribbon into her curls.
Clara’s eyes shone. At last.
Her mother even brought her a gift: the promised ribbon, pale blue silk, tied carefully into Clara’s hair. Clara’s smile felt so wide it almost hurt.
“And there is good news today,” her mother added, her tone bright.
Clara leaned forward eagerly. “Good news?”
“Yes. We have guests tonight. Count Blackfield’s household has come with their son, and he has proposed to your sister.”
“Oh.”
Clara blinked, the warmth in her chest stumbling.
But she forced her smile back quickly. “That’s… wonderful, Mama.”
She was happy, she told herself. Truly happy for her sister. So, she walked back with her mother, her steps small, careful not to trip on the hem of her dress.
By the time they returned, the estate was already busy with guests. Torches lit the courtyard, music played faintly, and families in fine clothes swept through the halls. Noble children clung to their parents’ sleeves or clustered together, whispering and laughing. Clara’s heart skipped, this was it. Her introduction.
Her chance.
But as soon as they entered, everything was swept aside by the announcement. Her sister’s betrothal was all anyone spoke of. Adults circled her parents, congratulating, praising, smiling until their faces creased. Even the children buzzed about it, asking her sisters endless questions, squealing at the mention of a Count’s son.
Clara stood small among the noise, her blue ribbon neat in her hair, her hands clasped tightly together. She waited for someone to ask her name, to smile at her, to notice.
Nobody did.
The other children glanced at her once or twice, then turned back to their games. They already had their groups. Clara tried to step closer once, but the circle closed naturally without her. She flushed, retreating to the edge of the room.
Clara was shy girl at heart, and no one cared to draw her out.
Her smile trembled. She tried to keep it in place anyway. She told herself she was fine. That it didn’t matter if the evening wasn’t hers, because at least her sister was happy.
But when she sat down quietly on a bench in the corner, alone, she felt the weight of it pressing heavy against her chest.
Today was supposed to be her turn. Instead, it belonged to someone else.
Then her father came. She hadn’t expected him to. He was always busy, always gone before she could catch him, always with papers and meetings and guests. But now he stood before her, tall and proud, his hand heavy and warm as it patted her shoulder.
“Good news,” he said.
Clara’s heart jumped. Yes. Finally. Today was her birthday, after all. He remembered.
Her father smiled. “I’ve arranged for you to go to the Ashford Estate next year. The Duchess’s daughter is close to your age. Normally she would have only private tutors, but I used my influence as Master of the Hunt. I convinced her governess that a little girl should have friends. And I told her I had such a cute little daughter…”
His voice kept going, explaining, justifying, but Clara didn’t hear it.
All she heard was one thing: she wouldn’t go to Bellgrave Preparatory Academy next year.
Not like her brothers. Not like her sisters. Not like every Bellgrave child before her.
She stared up at him, her throat tight. “Why?” The word slipped out small and sharp. “Why would you send me away? Far away…? Don’t you want me here?”
Her father laughed lightly, as if it were obvious. “It’s not exile, Clara. It’s an honor. You’ll grow beside the Duchess’s daughter. You’ll make connections none of your siblings ever could. This is the greatest opportunity I could give you.”
But Clara didn’t feel honored. She felt cold.
Her chest clenched, her small fingers twisting into the ribbons of her dress. She looked at the floor. The blue ribbon her mother had tied into her hair suddenly felt heavy, like it wasn’t hers at all.
She couldn’t understand it fully. But something inside her shifted.
She had always told herself she was fine being small, fine being overlooked. But now—on the very day that was supposed to be hers—her father had already planned to send her away.
Was she not wanted here?
Was she not enough?
The words twisted inside her chest, heavy and shapeless. She pressed her lips together and smiled anyway, because that was what Clara always did. But this time the smile hurt.
This day wasn’t hers. Maybe it never would be.
Clara watched the other children. They were laughing, smiling, radiant with joy. Her father’s voice droned on somewhere above her, but the words no longer reached her. She didn’t hear him, didn’t care.
Her gaze drifted back to the courtyard. Their laughter stabbed at her chest. And for the first time in her small life, Clara felt it, not sadness, not even envy, but disgust.
“Was this always so…?” she whispered.
And then everything stopped.
The scene froze. Children’s laughter hung in the air like glass about to shatter. Music died mid-note. Even the torches stood perfectly still, flames frozen into painted shapes.
And Clara heard it.
“Yes,” a voice breathed beside her, low and steady, close enough to stir the hairs at her ear. “It was always like this, Clara.”
She blinked, and she was no longer five, no longer a child in ribbons at her birthday feast. She was herself, a year older, and she knew it with sudden clarity. A flash of memory struck her like lightning: the pain, the collapse, her body burning.
And she turned.
The one who spoke stood beside her.
A girl—no older than sixteen—yet wrong in ways Clara couldn’t name. Her skin was pale as porcelain, her hair drifting as though pulled by invisible tides. Her eyes… vast, star-filled abysses, each glance an open sky of endless night.
She smiled with the softness of youth, but the smile lingered too long, and when she blinked, the constellations in her gaze shifted.
Her gown shimmered like woven starlight, folding and refolding in impossible geometry, long, then short, then long again, never the same shape twice. To look at her was to feel close, yet impossibly far away, as if the space between stretched into infinity.
Clara’s breath caught. Her small body stiffened.
The girl smiled again. “Don’t worry, little Clara. You’re not alone in this world. My sister and I care about you.”
The words wrapped around her strangely. A promise and a threat.
“You… care about me?” Clara’s voice cracked. “Who are you? And… why?”
The girl’s smile brightened, too sharp, almost predatory. “The world is changing, Clara. Everyone is choosing their place in what’s to come. And I chose you—because you’re close to my sister’s daughter. And because I saw you.”
She tilted her head. “Oh, but forgive me. I should have introduced myself.” She winked.
“I’m Elyra. The little sister of Iras.”
Clara froze.
Her mouth moved before her mind caught up. “You’re—the goddess Elyra? Sister of Iras? Then… your sister’s daughter—who—? Why me? How is the world changing? What does it mean, I’m the future—?”
Questions tumbled out of her, clumsy, desperate, all at once.
Elyra laughed. The sound was warm, almost girlish, but her teeth glinted too sharp, canines long like a predator’s. The wrongness made Clara’s stomach twist, yet… a calmness spread through her too, a strange serenity that felt even more dangerous.
The goddess lowered herself to the ground, sitting cross-legged as if they were simply two girls speaking.
“You know,” Elyra said, grinning sheepishly, “I’m the only one who can talk to humans like this. Not to brag, but space is my domain. I can… bend things. Do whatever I want.”
Clara swallowed hard.
“Come down, Clara,” Elyra coaxed, patting the ground beside her. “I’ll answer your questions. You’re young, but I’ve seen your future. I need you, if we’re going to win the storm that’s coming.”
Her abyssal eyes softened.
“And I promise you this—one day, everyone will see you. No one will ever dare look past you again.”
--::--
Grace finally reached her castle after what felt like the longest, dumbest day in history.
Her feet hurt, her curls stuck to the back of her neck, and she was starving. Ugh. What a hassle.
Her knights bowed out quickly and executed themselves, dragging the two prisoners she had “decorated” from the market fight down toward the dungeon. She waved them off without a thought, half wondering if she should head straight to her room and collapse. Or eat something. Or find Elyne and demand to know why her governess had suddenly ghosted her. Honestly, she could do all three.
But as soon as she stepped through the keep doors, she froze.
The air inside was wrong.
Not just a little wrong, not “someone spilled a potion” wrong. Every single mote of mana in the halls, every drifting speck of light she usually ignored, was rushing in one direction. Pulled, dragged, like a river toward a whirlpool.
Grace’s pulse spiked.
What the fuck.
That wasn’t normal. That wasn’t even “oops a mage sneezed” level. That was the kind of thing you read about in the margins of grimoires, the footnotes where the author helpfully added: and then everyone died.
Her feet were already moving before her brain had caught up. She quickened her pace down the corridor, skirts swishing angrily at her ankles. Someone should have told her. No, scratch that, someone should have run to her. She was the princess, for gods’ sake.
By the time she reached the main hallway, a crowd had already gathered. Maids, retainers, even a few guards, all huddled together with the same wide-eyed expressions. They kept their distance from a single door at the end of the hall, like it was cursed.
“Princess!” one maid gasped when she spotted Grace. “Please, you mustn’t, it could be dangerous—”
Another wrung her hands, stammering, “Lady Elyne ordered us to keep everyone out—”
Grace didn’t slow. She didn’t even blink. “Yeah? Good luck with that.”
They scattered out of her way like grass before fire.
Her hand hit the latch, and she shoved the door open.
The scream hit her first. High and raw, scraping through her bones.
Then the light.
The chamber blazed so bright her eyes watered. Specks of light mana danced like fireflies, thick enough for anyone to see. For Grace, aligned to Light, it was blinding. The air shimmered, cut sharp against her skin.
And tangled through it all were silvery distortions that bent the room like heat haze. Space mana. The kind she usually only glimpsed faintly clinging to Elyne’s aura. Now it was everywhere, spilling across the chamber in shifting patterns that made Grace’s stomach lurch if she looked too long.
Her first thought was Elyne. Something had happened to her.
But Elyne was there, alive, bent low over a girl convulsing on the floor. Her braid stuck to her sweat-soaked face, her hand pressed firm against the child’s chest. Runes swirled above her in tight, desperate sequence. Another figure—an old man, hunched and grim—was working beside her, their runes weaving together.
And in the middle of it all, screaming and thrashing, was Clara.
Grace froze in the doorway. For a moment her brain refused to accept what her eyes were telling her. Clara.
Her Clara.
The sweet little girl with curly hair who followed her around like a puppy. Who smiled too wide and tried too hard. Who worshipped her like she was the sun.
Clara was on the ground, ribbons torn, eyes shut tight in agony, her small body arching as if something inside her was trying to tear its way free. Shattered mana pearls littered the floor like broken eggshells. Each one glowed too bright, spilling uncontrolled radiance.
Grace’s mouth went dry.
A maid near the door reached for her sleeve, panic plain on her face, probably to drag her out. Grace slapped the hand away without looking, the sound sharp and angry.
“Don’t touch me,” she muttered, low and lethal.
Her gaze darted back to Clara. She could see it now, the knot of mana condensing around her chest, thick and ugly. Clara was forming a core. Or trying to. No, worse. She was choking on too much. Far, far too much.
And Elyne and the old man—whoever he was—were trying to shove it out of her before it killed her.
Grace’s legs twitched. She could help. She had to help. Light mana bent to her easily. She could bleed some of the overflow, ease the weight. She stepped forward, breath fast, already drawing her core open.
But then Clara stopped screaming.
The silence was almost worse than the noise.
Her small body stilled, suddenly rigid. Her eyes snapped open.
Grace’s heart tripped.
They weren’t Clara’s eyes anymore.
Black, endless black, with white dots burning in them. Stars. Galaxies. A whole sky folded into two tiny orbs. Looking into them made Grace’s chest feel hollow, like she was falling into something that had no bottom.
Elyne and the old man froze mid-rune. Their hands shook. Their faces drained pale.
And Clara grinned.
Not the shy smile Grace knew. Not the hesitant curve of lips that begged for approval. This was wide. Predatory. Cruel. A grin that promised death.
“You are exactly what I was looking for, human,” she said.
The voice was Clara’s and not Clara’s, layered and wrong.
Before Grace could even think, Clara’s hand shot forward, straight into the old man’s chest.
His scream shattered the air.
“Lord Weran!” Elyne gasped, but she didn’t move. She looked frozen, horrified.
Grace staggered back a step, mind blank with disbelief.
The old man convulsed, body lit from within. Grace could see it—all that wild mana stuffed inside Clara, too much for her small body—pouring into him instead. His skin glowed like molten glass. His mouth opened in a wordless cry.
He gurgled, twitched, twisted, but he couldn’t fight it. The flood was too much.
Then something inside him cracked. Loud and final.
He collapsed like a puppet cut from strings.
And at the same moment Clara dropped too, limp and small on the floor, her star-filled eyes shutting.
The chamber reeked of burnt mana and fear.
Grace’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. What the actual fuck was that.
Her thoughts spun wild. Clara had just—what? Been possessed? Corrupted? Chosen? And Weran, was that his name? He was just gone. Snuffed out in front of her like nothing.
Grace’s lips twitched.
Really want Nyras to traumatize me for life or what?
Or maybe the world wanted to entertain her. Because honestly? That was insane. Crazy. Terrifying. And kind of… cool. Her best friend, sweet, soft Clara who always smiled like a kicked puppy, had just opened her eyes like some cosmic horror and vaporized a mage without even standing up. Like a bad anime power-up scene, except it was real, messy, bloody real.
And a part of Grace loved it.
She hated herself for it, but her chest buzzed with the wrong kind of excitement. The kind that whispered this world might finally stop being boring. That maybe she wasn’t the only freak here. That maybe Clara was hers not just because she adored her, but because she was terrifying, because she was special.
Grace pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh. It would sound hysterical if she let it out, too sharp, too high, but the urge burned anyway.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Clara wasn’t supposed to be the monster. Grace was. That was her role. The little villainess. The one who flipped the board.
So why did it feel so good seeing Clara shine with something darker?
Elyne finally moved. She scrambled to Clara’s side, hands frantic but precise as she checked for breath, for pulse, for signs of life.
“She’s alive,” Elyne whispered, voice shaking. “Unconscious, but alive. The fire is still there… but quieter. She needs rest.”
Alive.
Grace swallowed, but it didn’t settle. Alive or not, what had just looked out at her through Clara’s eyes wasn’t the six-year-old girl everyone knew. And Elyne was acting like this was just another healing case. Like Grace was supposed to walk out and pretend nothing happened.
Elyne looked up then, meeting Grace’s eyes.
“Grace,” she said softly. Too soft, like she was trying not to spook a horse. “Do me a favor. Can you manage the rest of the day alone?”
Grace blinked. Her brain caught on the words like they were in another language. “…What?”
Elyne’s face was pale, drawn tight, but her voice was steady. “I need to stay with her. I can’t leave. Not after this.”
Grace stared. Her jaw clenched. All day it had been her running cleanup duty, babysitting other people’s disasters, dragged from one mess to another without a say. And now Elyne—perfect, unshakable Elyne—was telling her to just… go amuse herself. While she stayed behind to fuss over Clara.
My Clara.
The burn behind Grace’s eyes flared hot, her throat knotting with something she refused to name. Her voice came out flat, clipped. “Yeah. Of course. I know when I’m being kicked out.”
She spun before Elyne could answer, curls snapping over her shoulder, and yanked the door shut harder than she meant to.
The corridor outside froze. Maids and guards who had been pressed against the walls waiting for news stared at her now, wide-eyed, pale. As if she carried the disaster in her hands. As if she had answers.
She didn’t give them one look. Not one.
Her boots rang against the stone as she stormed away, each strike echoing sharp enough to hurt.
Her thoughts wouldn’t stop.
Grace bit down on her lip until the copper taste hit her tongue. She should be horrified. She should be breaking down in some noble little panic.
But the truth twisted wrong inside her.
Part of her was thrilled.
This world never gave her a break, but maybe that was fine. Maybe she didn’t want peace, or normal, or the dumb sunshine protagonist route. Maybe this was better.
Clara wasn’t just Clara anymore.
And that thought made Grace’s pulse race in a way that was equal parts sick and addictive.
Comments
Snow2Reaper
Poor old guy. Got more than he bargained for. Also surely losing their healer won't come back to bite them hmm.
