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Book 2: Chapter 13: To Be Seen
🕑 Added 2025-08-06 21:20:47 +0000 UTCChapter 13:
To Be Seen
Clara blinked.
Blood. That was the first thing she noticed, the sticky, spreading pool, bright red and horrifying, soaking into the stone floor. Grace’s hand, so small and pale, still clutched the bloody knife, her knuckles bone-white. The world had gone silent, except for the gasping, ugly sounds from the steward on his knees. His son’s body lay twisted and wrong. The boy’s eyes, she couldn’t look.
Clara hated blood. The sight of it made her legs go fizzy, her chest tight. She was six. Six-year-old girls weren’t supposed to see blood like this, weren’t supposed to watch a boy die in front of the entire hall. But… she wasn’t scared.
She remembered the bakery, back in Valewick, the knife glinting as the assassin lunged, Grace stepping in front of her without even thinking. Blood on the floor that day too, and Grace’s hands shaking as she laughed it off.
Now, the scene repeated itself, only this time, Grace stabbed someone, not the other way around. But Grace was always the strong one. She was always the one who stood in front.
Clara watched the blood, watched Grace, watched the way nobody in the hall could look away from her friend. The steward’s son—Jon, that was his name—was dead. Clara didn’t feel sorry. She felt… what? Relieved, maybe. Or satisfied. The steward had ignored her all day, hadn’t even bothered to learn her name. Hadn’t he known she mattered? Hadn’t he known she was someone? All he’d cared about was Grace, and pushing his ugly son at her.
Now the boy was dead. Clara felt a sharp, cold thrill inside. Maybe it was good. Maybe it was just. The Ashfords weren’t meant to be pushed around by commoners who forgot their place.
She glanced at Grace, expecting to see cold triumph, but Grace’s hand was trembling. For a moment, Clara saw the weight Grace carried, how hard it was, how lonely. Grace wasn’t invincible. She hurt, too. But she always, always carried the burden.
Clara moved closer, her shoes slipping a little in the blood. She tried not to shudder. Tried to hold her head up the way Grace always did. “He deserved it, Grace,” she whispered, her voice as steady as she could make it, even though she wanted to cry and scream and hide all at once. “But you don’t always have to carry this burden alone. Let me help you next time. I... I want to be strong enough to share it.”
It was true. She wanted to be strong like Grace. She wanted to be respected. She wanted everyone to see her—not just as a shadow trailing behind Grace, but as herself. Someone important. Someone unafraid.
Grace didn’t answer. But Elyne smiled, gentle for once, and placed a hand on Clara’s shoulder. “Then you’ll have to start training with us. We forgot to bring your teacher, didn’t we?”
Clara’s eyes went wide. Train with Elyne and Grace? The idea sent a little electric shock through her chest. She nodded, too hard, too fast. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” Elyne confirmed, and Clara felt a rush of gratitude so sharp it almost hurt. “Your education is under my wing now. Prepare yourself.”
Afterwards, the hall was a blur of movement. Knights barking orders, servants whisked away, the old rules thrown aside like the bloodied napkins on the floor. Clara barely noticed. Her attention stayed fixed on Grace, Grace who looked tired, and almost, for a second, sad.
Finally, Grace took Clara’s hand. Her grip was warm, firm. “Come on,” she said quietly. “Tonight, you’re staying with me.”
It was the best thing Clara had ever heard.
The rooms the steward had prepared were smaller than the grand royal apartments, but Clara didn’t care. They were hers now, because Grace had said so. That made them special. She watched Grace flop onto the bed, looking as if the world weighed twice as much as it had that morning.
Clara knew what to do. She gathered pillows and blankets, fussed with the bed until it looked just right, like the sleepovers she’d read about in storybooks. She found a comb on the dressing table, holding it up shyly. “I’ll brush your hair,” she offered. “Mother always said brushing hair is the best way to calm down.”
Grace hesitated, but let herself be pulled onto the bed. Clara worked slowly, combing out the golden curls with the kind of care she wished people had used on her.
“You were amazing today,” she said softly, not even sure if Grace could hear her. “You protected us. You always do.”
Grace’s voice was small. “Thank you, Clara. Sometimes… it’s difficult.”
Clara nodded, gentle. “I know. But you’re not alone. You have me. And Elyne. We’ll always stand by you, no matter what.”
A soft, real smile ghosted across Grace’s lips. “I’m glad you’re here, Clara.”
Clara hugged her from behind, holding her tight. “Always, Grace.”
And she meant it. Always. She was tired of being invisible, tired of waiting for people to notice her. Grace had seen her, from the very start. Clara wouldn’t let her down. She’d get stronger, for both of them.
That night, long after the candles flickered out, Clara couldn’t sleep. Her mind ran in dizzying circles, blood on stone, Grace’s trembling hand, the feeling of being seen at last. She turned over, curling up beside Grace, who was breathing slow and deep.
“Thank you,” Clara whispered, so quietly she thought maybe it was just a thought. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Grace, half-asleep, murmured, “Everyone should see you, Clara. You’re wonderful.”
Clara’s heart clenched. She swallowed. “What if someone doesn’t want to see me?”
Grace’s answer was tired, absentminded. “Then make them see you.”
That was all. But for Clara, it was enough.
She fell asleep with a new resolve simmering inside her, fierce and bright as the morning sun. She would make them see her. She would never, ever let herself fade into the background again. Not while Grace was watching. Not while she could become something more.
And when she dreamed, she dreamed of walking beside Grace, not behind her.
--::--
Clara had never seen so many people in one place. Not even at the big fairs in Bellgrave. Stonefield’s market square was a churning sea of voices, color, and smells: roasting nuts, sharp cheese, horses, and people’s sweat. The noise pressed against her like a wall, everyone shouting, hawking, shoving, or bowing as soon as they saw the little cluster of knights in black and, at the center, Grace.
Clara walked a step behind her, just to the left. Elyne was on the other side, always perfect, always watchful, her eyes never missing a detail. The mayor was still talking. He had been talking for what felt like hours. He barely took a breath, listing names, crops, donations, market days, festivals, important families, and most of all, what an honor it was that Her Grace would walk among “her loyal people.” Clara tried to hide her smile; even Grace looked bored.
The real show, of course, was Grace. It always was. People stared, open-mouthed, the moment she stepped through the arch into the square. And when the realization hit—who she was—they went down to one knee, faces pressed almost to the ground, waiting for her command. The hush that fell was heavy and electric.
Grace gave her speech. It was short, Clara was used to that now. No fuss, no flattery. “Raise your heads. Don’t let me bother you from your business. I’m here to see the city my family defended and the people who rebuilt it.” Just like that, the spell broke, and the market erupted into cheers and applause, pride suddenly everywhere, thick as honey in the summer.
Afterwards, the mayor tried to herd them toward the best stalls. But Clara kept her eyes open for something else, a trinket, a little gift. Something only she would see.
She drifted, just a step or two away. That was when she saw the little glass animals. Tiny, bright, perfectly crafted. There was a blue bird, wings outstretched, catching the sun just so. Clara wanted it.
She hesitated, waited for the stall owner to notice. He didn’t. He was too busy talking, excitedly describing Grace’s hair to his apprentice, waving his hands, laughing. Clara waited politely. After all, she was used to waiting.
“Excuse me?” she asked, as gently as she could. Nothing.
She tried again, a little louder. Still nothing. He looked right through her, eyes sliding past her as if she were a ghost, then turned his back to greet someone with money and loud words. Clara felt the old feeling rise, a tightness in her throat, a weight in her chest. She wanted to shrink away, to go invisible again, but something inside her was hot and sharp now. She remembered Grace’s words: Make them see you.
A third time: “Sir, may I—?” But he was already talking to someone else. “Can’t you see I have a customer, kid?” he snapped, then turned back to his gossip about the princess.
Clara took a breath. Then she walked straight to the nearest knight, Ser Simon, tall as a tower in black plate, helmet tucked beneath his arm. She knew him, which made her a little bolder as she approached; Ser Simon was a friend of her family’s old knight, Ser Aldwin, though Ser Aldwin wasn’t here today.
“Ser Simon, that man deliberately insulted me before all these people. As a Lady of Bellgrave, I cannot allow such disrespect to my family’s name. Please see that he is punished as he deserves.”
The knight’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t hesitate. He walked straight to the stall, yanked the merchant off his feet, and slapped him hard enough that blood sprayed on the cobblestones. The market froze. Elyne just arched an eyebrow, as if watching the weather change. The mayor looked like he might faint and stopped mid-sentence.
Ser Simon’s voice boomed out: “For insulting the honor of Lady Clara of Bellgrave, daughter of a Viscount Imperial, I arrest you for disrespect until the court can judge your offense.”
Clara stood, shaking, as everyone watched. Not just the stall owner, but everyone, Grace, the mayor, every vendor, every child hiding behind a mother’s skirt. The market was hers, for a heartbeat. She wasn’t a shadow. She wasn’t an afterthought.
She caught Grace’s eye, her heart thudding fearfully, uncertain what Grace would think of all this. But Grace just nodded, her lips quirking in something almost like approval, almost like amusement, a glint of mischief in her blue eyes. The merchant was dragged away. The lesson was clear: in this new world, Clara did not have to stay invisible.
The mayor rushed up, breathless, trying to smooth things over. Clara didn’t even listen. She felt a strange satisfaction, powerful and dangerous. She had done what Grace said. She had made them see her.
Grace drew closer, expression unreadable. “Happy now?”
Clara nodded, not trusting her voice. She wasn’t sure if she was happy. She just knew she’d never forget the feeling.
Grace shrugged. “Don’t expect knights to solve everything for you. But you did what you had to.”
“I won’t be invisible anymore,” Clara said. She surprised herself with the certainty in her voice.
Grace’s eyes flashed, a flicker of something like pride. “Good. Don’t.”
They finished the market together, heads turning, vendors stumbling to offer her sweets or bows. Clara felt the attention on her, burning and bright. She wouldn’t shrink from it.
When the day finally ended and they were back in their rooms, Clara’s thoughts wouldn’t settle. She found herself at Grace’s door, peeking in.
“Are you mad at me?” she whispered.
Grace just smirked, rolling her eyes. “Why would I be? Just don’t get used to knights doing your dirty work.”
Clara smiled, small and fierce. “Will you always see me, Grace?”
Grace didn’t hesitate. “If you’re worth seeing. If not—make yourself worth it.”
Clara promised herself she would.
--::--
Clara closed the door to her room. Finally, blessed silence. Grace flopped back onto the faintly scratchy armchair and let her feet dangle, arms crossed, eyes half-closed against the dying light. What a day… Marketday, of all things. As if the gods themselves needed to name a day just to warn her that peasants would be out in droves. She should’ve expected the circus.
Really, Grace, what did you think would happen? An intimate stroll with the common folk, everyone quietly minding their own potatoes? Idiotic.
She let her head tip back against the chair. Clingy mayor, swarming townsfolk, that endless parade of "Yes, Your Grace! Welcome, Your Grace! Would you like a turnip, Your Grace?" Her mouth curled in a little grin.
Not that the mayor didn’t try hard enough to become her personal shadow, she’d half expected him to hold her hand at one point. At least she managed to improvise a speech. Just channel something from a light novel, a little Earthly charm, whatever. "Beloved people, steadfast hearts, blah blah… let’s all cheer for ourselves." That trick never failed to get a crowd going. Sometimes she wondered if Earth novels had trained her more for this job than all those tedious etiquette lessons ever could.
It had been her first real look at the commoners in this world, up close and unvarnished. Not just courtiers or terrified servants, but actual people, farmers, shopkeepers, children running in half-mended clothes. They stared at her like she was some fairy out of legend. Then dropped to their knees as soon as she got within ten feet. At least they knew to behave. Frankly, it was satisfying, finally, some recognition, even if it was mostly awe and fear. Not that she minded. Fear was a perfectly healthy response, all things considered. Keeps people sharp.
Still, all that bowing… First, it shocked her. Then it felt… right. Fitting. After all, what was the point of power if not to be noticed? Grace stretched, bones cracking, then snorted softly. But with recognition came the endless cycle of speeches and pleasantries. What a hassle. Earth had its downsides, but at least she could skip assemblies by faking a stomachache. Here, there was nowhere to hide. It was always ‘more, more, more, Your Grace.’
What actually amused her was Clara. Sweet, shy Clara, except today she hadn’t been shy at all. No, today she’d marched right up to Ser Simon and demanded justice, full of righteous anger and more than a little wounded pride.
Who knew she had it in her? Did I miss something these last weeks? Grace frowned at the ceiling. Probably. I’ve been a little self-centered. For good reason, obviously, and I can’t babysit every emotional detour. Still…
She let the thought hang, a little uneasy. Did I… influence Clara? She tried to picture Clara’s face, bright and intense, her little hands fisted at her sides as she called for the merchant’s arrest. That’s a normal noble reaction, isn’t it? Elyne didn’t say a word, just gave her the eyebrow. If it bothered her, she’d have stepped in. Besides, it was the sort of thing a proper daughter of the Empire would do. Maybe my old, edgier self would’ve worried about moral decline or something. Now? I just hope Clara doesn’t get too carried away with power. One of us should have a conscience. Or at least pretend.
She looked at her boots, scuffed and dusty after the market. Still, it’s convenient. If Clara can stand on her own, that’s less to worry about. I’ve got enough on my plate. And if she’s picking up a little ruthlessness… well, better than getting trampled. She frowned, and then smirked. But, speaking of consequences… I really ought to check on the dungeon. That merchant from today, the whole steward’s family, the steward himself… At this rate, we’re going to fill every cell in Gatewick. Maybe next week we’ll start offering tours: ‘See the greatest collection of idiots and traitors in the East! Half price for children!’
Grace yawned, stretching again. No, really. I should at least make sure no one’s dying unnecessarily. That’s paperwork I don’t want. Or maybe I’ll just let them stew a little longer. Keeps people guessing.
Her eyes drifted shut. Whatever. Not a pressing matter tonight. They can wait. After all, tomorrow’s another day for empire-building. Or, gods forbid, another speech.
Grace watched the last spill of sunset over Gatewick’s rooftops, her arms folded tight across her chest. The view from this room was good, higher than her chambers back in the Ashford Estate, less cluttered with rose gardens and marble, more honest. The horizon bled gold into purple, city shadows stretching, the world outside falling away. She let herself enjoy it for a heartbeat, then sighed.
She turned away, shutting the window, feeling the day’s exhaustion pressing against her eyelids. If she closed them, she could still hear the clangor of the market crowd, the nervous scraping of the mayor’s voice, the relentless nattering of merchants all jostling for her gaze. Marketday, indeed. Next time, she swore, she’d send Elyne and Clara alone and claim a “delicate stomach” or something. Surely that was a thing princesses did.
But there were more pressing matters tonight, and she knew Corax was waiting. She could feel his presence, that flicker of strangeness at the edge of her mind, a shadow slithering under her skin, as familiar as her own heartbeat.
She didn’t bother pretending otherwise. “Corax, you can come out now. We’re alone, aren’t we?”
The air in the room thickened, reality bending with that now-familiar twist. He didn’t “arrive,” not in any physical sense. He revealed himself: an orb of oily shadow, violet threads lacing through his form, like a living bruise on the world. He drifted to her shoulder, humming softly, his presence a strange, comforting itch.
“Aye, little one.” The voice, as ever, was gravelly and ancient, words twisted in that old, lilting accent that had grown only more pronounced as their bond deepened. “Alone enough, unless ye count the rats in the walls—though I’d wager they’ve got better manners than the mayor, eh?” He pulsed, amusement vibrating through the ether. “Humans do know how to make a market lively. Was a right spectacle, that.”
Grace rolled her eyes, half-exasperated, half-amused despite herself. Only you would call a stampede of peasants a spectacle. She leaned her head back, letting the tension drain from her shoulders. “I’m more interested in the other spectacle. The spark inside me. Did you feel it, when I awakened my Light mana?”
The amusement drained from Corax’s form. He hovered closer, his orb dimming, violet shadows pulling tighter around his core. “That I did, lass. Felt the bond shiver sharp as a knife-edge. Like somethin’ tryin’ to cut us loose, but couldn’t manage it—not while my essence’s woven round yer soul.” He paused, his voice dropping lower. “Divine business, that is. Dangerous business.”
Grace’s lips quirked, sardonic. Dangerous, but not boring. Finally, something worth my attention. She tapped her fingers against the window frame, impatient. “I remember you told me the divine spark comes from Iras.” She smirked.
He hovered in a rare pause. "Yea I told ye the divine spark comes from Iras, but ye waved it off last time. Put her on your list—"
"Yeah, yeah, the List. Don’t get me started. She stays there." Right next to half the pantheon, and three-quarters of my own problems.
Corax’s orb spun in place, a nervous tic. “Pushy tonight, aren’t ye? That’s good. Means yer head’s still on straight.” He lingered, as if steeling himself. “That spark’s no ordinary magic, lass. Back in the old war-days, it marked folk as avatars, warriors o’ the gods, tools in their squabbles. Bigger wars than anything this age remembers.”
Grace raised an eyebrow, boredom fading into curiosity. “Which wars, exactly? The histories here are just songs and fairy tales. I want facts, Corax. Not another bedtime story.”
He hesitated, violet shadows flickering. “Can’t give ye all of it. Forbidden, y’see. The gods don’t take kindly to mortals pokin’ at secrets. But…” His voice dropped even lower, thick with warning and mischief. “With us as we are, maybe the old rules bite less hard. The pantheon’s changed over the ages. More gods once, aye. The ones who lost the last great war—locked away, each in their own hell. Thirteen Hells for thirteen fallen gods. The fightin’, well, it was for faith, belief, the right to shape the world an’ folk’s fate.”
So, same as it ever was. Everyone clawing for a slice of the future. She could feel a headache stirring already. “So, you’re telling me the gods fought over who gets to be in charge. That’s it? Just another divine slap-fight?”
Corax pulsed, like a sigh. “Aye. Only difference bein’ when gods fight, the world splits. Realms break, souls shatter, the Veil burns. That’s the history they don’t put in books.”
Grace leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Nyras made this world. And the Veil. And the Void and the Hells were just… there already?”
A long silence, then Corax let out a low, hoarse laugh. “Ah, the old books lied pretty, didn’t they? Nyras, she made the mortal realm an’ the Veil, true enough. But the Hells came after, cages for losin’ gods. The Void’s older than all of us, a hunger that’s never full. The real histories, well, there’s truth in every story, but most get twisted on the way down.”
Grace pressed two fingers to her temple, headache blooming. Something inside her wanted to end this conversation, but she ignored the nagging feeling. “But Nyras is dead. Isn’t she? That’s what every priest and history lesson says. The sacrifice. The sun, the rivers, all that.”
Corax laughed again, a shivery, almost-human sound. “Aye, they weren’t all lies. Everything’s got a bit o’ truth in it, innit.”
Grace opened her mouth to retort, but the words never made it out. White-hot light exploded behind her eyes, violent, searing, a lance of agony through her skull. What the fuck…
Her thoughts splintered. Pain like a hot spike drove through her mind. Blood spilled warm and sudden from her nose, running down her lip. She dropped to her knees, palms slapping the cold floor. Dimly, she heard Corax’s voice, far away and ragged:
“Oh—she’s not dead, lil’ one. Not like ye think Nyras is—wait, stop—!”
A wave of something crashed through her, a burning pressure, an ancient pulse of light hammering at the inside of her skull, peeling her consciousness apart. She saw flashes: a world made and remade, gods screaming in the void, chains of light and shadow, a sun beating like a living heart, something vast and awake—two eyes, hovering in front of her, floating inside an unending universe. Eyes as big as stars, endless, and timeless, whole galaxies swirling as iris. For a fraction of a second, those eyes met hers, impossibly distant and yet intimate as a whisper. And in that moment, Grace saw surprise flicker within the celestial gaze, an ancient, incomprehensible being, startled by her presence.
Her vision twisted. The room fell away. She felt Corax’s shadowy tendrils pouring out of his orb, wrapping around her, trying desperately to patch the cracks, to stem the flood of leaking light.
His voice sounded distant, half-awe, half-despair. “Ah. So that’s why it’s forbidden, eh?”
And the world went black.
