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Book 2: Chapter 15: An Audience In Gatewick
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 12:03:58 +0000 UTCChapter 15:
An Audience In Gatewick
Grace’s slippers made barely a sound on the stone floor, but in her head, every step seemed too loud. She was walking to her throne room.
Her throne room.
It still felt wrong in a way she could not name. Or maybe not wrong—just strange. If her older self were here, Blair would be giggling like a maniac, whispering It’s finally time to be an evil empress. And looking at the place ahead… well, she would not be entirely wrong.
The double doors loomed, black wood veined with silver, and behind them lay all that obsidian, all that shadow, all that ridiculous blue mage-light. The sort of room that screamed villain’s lair in every fantasy novel she had ever read on Earth.
Yeah… this is a little over the top. But I have to admit, it’s also kind of awesome.
For half a second, she let herself enjoy that. The idea that Blair—her, but not her—was still here somewhere. Or maybe she had never been Blair at all, just Grace with a weird pre-life she could not quite shake.
Stop it. Not the time.
She stepped inside. Elyne was already there, waiting with a ring of her knights, all polished armor and perfect posture. Her maid bowed low, skirt brushing the floor, then scurried to stand by the door.
It was still a little creepy, all that darkness, the flicker of those unnatural blue flames.
Okay… no, that’s still cool. I like it.
Grace climbed the shallow dais and settled into the throne. Her feet did not quite reach the floor, so they hung, a little swing in the air, but she did not care. This was only the second time she had sat here, and it felt… natural.
Well, I’m already crazy, so what’s a little more? Power’s just seasoning at this point.
Elyne stepped forward, her gown whispering against the stone, posture so perfectly formal it could have been carved. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Are you ready for today?”
“I am well,” Grace said, letting the formality settle over her voice like a thin mask. “And yes, I am ready.”
Elyne’s eyes softened for a moment, but she only nodded, approving. “Your first visitors are emissaries from the villages in your new lands. They have been waiting since early this morning for an audience. I scheduled them for now. They were not important enough to meet immediately upon their arrival, but they should be the first matter we address today.”
Grace tilted her head slightly. “And who are they?”
“Two village chiefs, a merchant of some standing among them, and a local mage.” Elyne’s tone held the faintest note of interest. “The mage is an older man, retired from active service many years ago. He has lived in the village for decades and supports the people there. Such individuals are rare. As you know, most with the ability to work magic live in the cities, tied to guilds or serving in the army.”
Grace drummed her fingers lightly on the cold obsidian. “So… a minor noble by default, then.”
Elyne allowed herself a small smile. “You could say that. He will likely be the most politically aware of the group. The others will come with concerns about their villages, no doubt.”
Great. More people wanting me to fix things I didn’t break. Well… fine. If I’m going to keep this place, I have to own it.
She nodded once. “I am ready.”
Elyne’s satisfaction was visible in the slight lift of her chin. She clapped her hands sharply. From the far corner, the boy they had taken on as herald darted forward, bowing first to Grace, then to Elyne.
“Her Grace will see the visitors now,” Elyne told him.
“Yes, Lady Elyne.” The boy’s voice cracked halfway through the sentence, but he recovered quickly.
Elyne gestured toward the great doors. “Announce it to the knights on watch and ensure the guests are informed.”
The boy bowed again, then hurried away, two knights falling into step beside him as they left through the heavy doors.
Grace let her gaze wander around the throne room, the shadows stretching high into the arches, the glint of steel from the guards along the walls.
Alright. Let’s see what these village people think they can get from me.
--::--
Aldric Fenlow shifted in his chair, the stiffness in his back growing with each passing hour. The formal waiting chamber was warm enough, but patience had begun to wear thin. They had been here since dawn. Four hours now, at least.
Selwin Carrow had told him this was normal. In fact, the old mage claimed they were lucky to even be sitting here, which meant the meeting would probably happen today rather than weeks from now. Aldric supposed that was true, but it did little to settle his mood.
He glanced across the chamber to where Garron Thist paced like a restless hound. The man was chief of Highthollow, the small hamlet just beyond Rivermouth, and had agreed to come along as part of the delegation. Garron’s nerves were obvious, his boots wearing a faint track into the carpet as he walked back and forth.
Marlen Drosk, on the other hand, sat near the fire, tapping her fingers against her arm in quick, nervous beats. She was young, not long into her role as Rivermouth’s merchant and the wealthiest person in their village. Her father’s death the year before had thrust the business into her hands, and though she was capable, Aldric still wondered if bringing her had been wise. Then again, her position made her presence as necessary as Garron’s.
And of course, there was Selwin himself. Without him, Aldric doubted they would even have made it through the gates of Gatewick, let alone been invited inside to wait. The elderly war-mage had been a fixture in Rivermouth longer than Aldric had been alive, guiding the people with the same quiet authority he’d once used on the battlefield.
Selwin, reading the mood as easily as he read the weather, gave a soft chuckle. “Do not fret, friends. We’re fortunate. A true noble sits on the throne again in Gatewick. Under the steward, we’d have been left to rot—or worse, charged for wasting his precious time.”
Aldric grunted in agreement.
Marlen glanced at the old mage. “Master Selwin, you served under the old Lady Ashford before, didn’t you? Do you think her granddaughter is like her?”
Selwin’s eyes glinted, half amusement, half memory. “I hope not. The old Lady was… a little extreme, let us say. But she was honest, and she was just. That counts for much. Still, those were many years ago, child. My connections are not worth a single bronze now.”
Marlen looked ready to press him for more, but before she could speak, the double doors swung open. A young herald entered, flanked by two knights in full black plate. The boy looked scarcely old enough to shave, his face pale under the weight of his duty.
“May I have your names to announce you, please?” the herald asked, his voice careful, with that nervous edge of someone who knew one wrong word could cost him his post. “Her Highness will now receive you.”
Selwin stepped forward before anyone else could move, his tone calm and measured. “Village Chief Aldric Fenlow of Rivermouth. Chief Garron Thist of Highthollow. Merchant Marlen Drosk of Rivermouth. And myself, Master Selwin Carrow.”
The boy nodded quickly and gestured for them to follow. They rose, smoothing clothes, checking boots, and trailed him down a narrow stone corridor. At the end of it loomed the gates to the throne room.
Aldric stopped dead.
He had never seen doors like these. Twice the height of a man, thick black wood bound with metal that seemed to drink in the torchlight. Even standing in front of them felt heavy, as if the weight of history itself pressed down from the other side.
The two knights who had flanked them since the waiting room took their places to either side of the doors, hands resting on the hilts of black steel swords. The herald rapped the polished wood three times, the sound deep and final.
A moment later, the gates swung open.
The herald strode in first, voice clear but reverent as it carried through the vaulted space. “The people of Rivermouth and Highthollow. Village Chief Aldric Fenlow. Chief Garron Thist. Merchant Marlen Drosk. And Master Selwin Carrow. Here to give their reverence to the Princess Imperial, Lady Grace of Ashford, and to humbly request a favor regarding her own lands.”
Aldric stepped forward, and the sight stopped him in his tracks.
The hall was ancient, older than anything in Rivermouth by centuries. Not everything had burned in the great fire ten years ago, this place had endured. The black stone walls rose like cliffs, swallowing light, every surface marked with the passage of time yet unbroken.
They walked a long carpet, crimson and gold, flanked by a double row of knights in black plate. Between them, blue mage-torches guttered in iron sconces, their flames throwing shifting shadows up the high arches. The air smelled faintly of cold stone and old magic.
At the far end, just before the dais, stood Lady Elyne Marren. Everyone in Gatewick knew her name by now. Fourth Circle mage, they said. One of the most capable duelists in Ashford. Her presence alone felt like a challenge. Even her gaze, cool and unreadable, made Aldric’s spine tighten.
But then he saw the throne.
Black obsidian, carved into twisted shapes that might have been figures or beasts, the design impossible to take in at a single glance. It was less a seat and more a statement, a relic from a long-forgotten time, when Gatewick had been more than a forgotten backwater.
And seated upon it, in a blood-red dress that caught the blue torchlight, was the Princess Imperial herself.
She sat straight-backed, her small frame dwarfed by the throne, but her presence made the vast hall feel smaller. Her gaze struck him before anything else, blue eyes, piercing and unwavering. Yet there was… something else in them. In the dim light, it was impossible to tell, but Aldric could have sworn there was movement there, something alive beneath the surface, more than a trick of the flames.
She was beautiful. Unbelievably so. The kind of beauty that did not invite, but demanded.
His knees buckled before he realized it. He dropped, pressing his forehead to the carpet. Garron followed instantly, his own bow a little awkward. Marlen’s skirts rustled as she knelt low. Only Selwin went down on one knee, head bowed but eyes to the floor, an old soldier’s courtesy.
Ten seconds. Long enough for the silence to weigh like a physical thing.
Then her voice came, clear and cool.
“You may rise.”
Aldric and the others stood at her words. The whole thing felt unreal, like he had wandered into a fairy tale by accident. He was a village chief, a man of muddy boots and hard winters, and yet here he stood before the Princess Imperial of Ashford. He might have been lost in the strangeness of it, if not for Selwin stepping forward and speaking with the easy grace of a man who had spent a lifetime in courts.
“I am Master Selwin Carrow, my princess,” the old mage said, bowing deeply. “We thank you for receiving us. As a token of our gratitude, we have brought a gift from our humble villages.”
At his cue, Marlen stepped forward, cradling a small, polished box as if it were a relic. Aldric had thought it a fine enough offering when they left Rivermouth, but here, under the blue torchlight and in the shadow of the black throne, it suddenly felt pitiful. Still, he was grateful Marlen was here. Without her, they would have had nothing worth presenting.
Marlen glanced at Selwin for permission. He nodded once. She walked the carpet toward Lady Elyne Marren, who waited like a sentinel before the throne. Elyne took the box without a word, opened it just enough to see inside, then leaned toward the princess, murmuring something too soft for Aldric to catch. A maid appeared from the shadows, took the gift, and carried it away.
The princess tilted her head slightly, eyes on them. The motion was small, but it gave her an unsettling air, like a cat studying mice. Aldric crushed the thought before it could take root.
“I am grateful for your gift,” she said, her tone smooth, deliberate. “So, before you explain why you seek me out on such a bright day—” she paused, her gaze sliding over each of them “—why is Master Selwin the one leading this little envoy?”
For the first time since they had arrived, Selwin hesitated. “My princess,” he began, “I have served for many years as an adviser to our people, and as a mage—”
Something shifted. Aldric could not see it, but he could feel it. The air thickened, heavy and cold, as if the warmth had been drawn from the room. Selwin’s eyes widened. Elyne’s lips curved into an amused smile, her arms folding as she watched.
The others sensed it too. Garron stiffened beside him, and Marlen’s fingers gripped the hem of her sleeve.
“My princess…” Selwin faltered, his voice catching.
“Enough.”
The single word was quiet, but the cold broke like glass. Warmth seeped back into the hall. Selwin sank to one knee, breath uneven.
Aldric moved instinctively to steady him, but the old man waved him off. “I’m fine.” Slowly, he rose again, bowing his head. “I did not know, my princess. I beg your pardon. The others have no part in—”
“It’s fine.” Her tone was light now, almost dismissive. “I accept your role as speaker for this group. So, what do you want?”
Aldric was left reeling, unsure what had just passed between them. Selwin, though, looked paler than before, his voice quieter, slower, as if some of his strength had bled away in that brief, frozen moment.
“We are here,” Selwin said, “because the good people, your people, from Rivermouth and Highhollow are in need of your help…”
--::--
Grace leaned back into the obsidian, letting its cold weight anchor her as the four in front of her pressed themselves into the floor. Foreheads down, backs curved, little shapes at her feet. Only the old man, Selwin Carrow, had the gall to take a single knee instead. Elyne would have something to say about proper form. Grace didn’t care.
I don’t know if this is my older self or just me now, but gods, I do enjoy watching peasants crawl. There’s something… right about it. Maybe I’m supposed to pretend it makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I’m supposed to be benevolent. But no—stay down. Show me you know your place…
Ah, whatever.
“You may rise.”
They stood. The old man stepped forward, and that was when she saw it.
Void mana leaked from him in a slow, steady seep, thin enough most would miss it. But not her. Not with her affinity. It was like watching a heart bleed in slow motion, drop after drop falling toward the black floor. Each time one touched the stone, something tried to spread outward, a wrongness, before the obsidian drank it away like a sponge.
Fascinating. You’re rotting from the inside and you don’t even know how obvious it looks to me.
Elyne saw it too, maybe not the void itself, but the floor’s reaction. Grace caught the subtle angle of her head, the faint shift in her gaze. Of course, she noticed. Elyne always noticed.
The gift came forward in a pretty box. Grace didn’t spare it much thought, only tracking the merchant girl’s cautious steps until she stopped before Elyne. Elyne took the box without a word, glanced inside, then passed it off to a waiting maid at the edge of the room. Only then did she approach the throne, her movements unhurried, her expression unreadable. When she reached Grace, she leaned in just enough for her voice to carry only to her, sof in tone but direct in meaning, wasting no time before coming straight to the point.
“You saw it. There are reasons a core leaks. We can speak about it later—normally, it’s a private matter. But he didn’t declare a void affinity. Under Kingdom law, it was forbidden to hide one before a superior, because of how dangerous it is. I can’t say how your mother will handle that now in the Empire, but… he’s far past his peak now.”
Grace gave the smallest nod.
Translation: Handle it how I want. He is an old, tired problem with a leak. Try not to break the furniture.
Her lips almost curved. Let’s see how weak.
“I am grateful for your gift. Before you explain why you seek me out on such a bright day…” She let her gaze sweep over each of them, linger on Selwin. “…why is Master Selwin the one leading this envoy?”
And then she opened her core.
First time since her birthday. First time since the light woke. She didn’t know if it would burn or crush her. It did both.
Cold rushed through the hall, clean and sharp. White and pink particles flared in her vision and then threaded through her veins, a constellation inside skin. For a heartbeat she nearly lost it. Then the current steadied and the world slowed, every breath a separate bead on a string. She felt the room the way a planet feels its sky, the ambient mana tugged by the gravity of her core.
Two days of calm made me cocky. Note to self. Opening is not the same as casting. This is the whole tide, not a teacup.
She pushed not much, just enough to test.
The droplets of Selwin’s void leak stopped just above the floor, quivering like gnats in glass. Grace curled two fingers on the throne’s arm and they drifted to her, obedient as iron filings. Pressure spread. The old man’s aura creaked like a door. His core tried to pull shut. It was too small. Lower second circle, if that. He had far passed his prime.
His eyes found hers. Panic sat there, naked and old. He understood the two problems at once. He had come to a new House without disclosure. It wasn’t any longer the household of the old Lady Ashford, no one knew him here. And the princess on the black throne could reach in and touch the same darkness rotting him from within.
Like an ant trying to hold back a boot. Can you feel me in your bones, old man? Can you feel how easily I could crush what’s left of you?
“My princess…” His voice cracked.
But Grace was done, she let it go. The droplets dropped, the cold retreated. Grace had opened her core for the first time since awakening her Light mana, partly out of curiosity and partly to see how it would react alongside her Void affinity. Selwin, with his leaking Void core, was the perfect “test subject.” Once she confirmed her control and felt how her new core worked, the purpose was served.
She had no real interest in destroying him. Elyne had already implied that he was far past his prime and not a real threat, so Grace saw no point in pushing further. It was a calculated, almost clinical choice.
“Enough.”
The word cut the moment like a thread.
How villain of me, testing my core on a subject. Tehehe...
…
…
Gods, where did that thought come from again?
Am I six and already in my edgy phase? Bahh, calm Grace, calm…
Selwin swayed, tried to make excuses. She didn’t care. She’d gotten what she wanted out of him, so she tried to focus back to the main topic.
“It is fine,” she said aloud, as if nothing had happened. “I accept you as speaker for this group. What do you want of me?”
Aldric, the taller villager, took a step back, heartbeat loud enough she could almost hear it. Garron stared at the floor like it might sprout teeth. The merchant woman kept her eyes low.
Selwin’s voice was quieter now, stripped of the weight it carried moments ago. “We are here because the good people of Rivermouth and Highhollow, your people, need your help.”
Grace rested her fingers lightly on the obsidian.
“Good. Now tell me your little problem,” she said, voice smooth but faintly bored. “Let’s see if I’m in the mood to solve it…”
Selwin straightened as much as his age would allow. “Your Grace… for some time now, there has been a great draft to the army. Many young and strong men have vanished from our villages over the past months. They were our guards, our hunters, our workers. Without them…” He hesitated. “We are exposed.”
Grace nodded faintly.
Selwin continued, his voice a shade quieter. “But that is not our only trouble. Merchants have been plagued by a band of outlaws. They’ve taken to hiding in the old woods on the outskirts of Gatewick, raiding caravans, killing those who resist.”
And the steward just let this happen? No wonder the books look like a bad joke.
“As if this were not enough,” Selwin said grimly, “there are whispers of a beast. Something wild, that comes at night to take the cattle. No one has seen it clearly… but the tracks are not like any wolf or bear. Our people are afraid, Your Grace. We humbly beg for your help.”
Grace’s gaze slid to Elyne. She didn’t move much, just tilted her head ever so slightly.
Translation again: Do as you think you should.
Oh, she got it. Gatewick was a test. Elyne was here to watch her make the call, to see whether she could run a city without someone holding her hand.
Fine, then. Let’s make it interesting.
Grace shifted her attention back to the four villagers, her expression unreadable. “I’ve heard your plea.”
Relief flickered in their faces, until she added, “And I’ll handle it myself.”
The air in the hall seemed to dip a degree. Aldric blinked, Garron’s mouth opened slightly, and Marlen’s hands tightened together. Even Selwin looked caught off guard.
“You… will?” Marlen asked carefully.
“Of course,” Grace said, letting a smile curl at the edge of her lips. “A good field day is exactly what I need.”
Fresh air, a few bandits to break, maybe a monster to dissect… sounds like better entertainment than another week of paperwork.
They didn’t look reassured. Panic crept in at the edges of their expressions, not fear for themselves, but for what might happen when she decided to ‘help.’
“You may return to your villages for now,” she said, her tone final. “I’ll send word when I’m ready to deal with your… problems.”
She flicked her fingers, and the herald stepped forward to escort them out.
As the heavy doors shut behind them, Grace leaned back in the throne, her smile sharpening.
Bandits, beasts, and missing men. Every day it feels more like I’m in an RPG. She let the thought linger, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. And it’s true… I’m the freaking main character.
Comments
John O'Connor
The repeated dialogue seems to have become habit.
Pseudo
Grace keeps finding more toys to break…
