By Her Grace – a progressive Isekai Light Novel

They Were The Bad Guys

Rhel didn't know how long he had been down here.

There was no sun. No moon. Just damp stone, the stink of blood and wet iron, and the slow burn of torches that never seemed to go out but never gave enough light to see more than the bars.

They had taken him to the fortress first, the towering black heart of Valewick, its walls breathing smoke and magic. Then they had taken him down.

Floor by floor. One iron stairwell after another. Third, maybe fourth level. No way to know. No way to ask.

He didn't speak their tongue. Not more than a few words; Water. Food. Kneel. Move.

His cell was narrow, barely enough to sit against the wall without brushing the cold. The straw smelled like mold. The stone bit into his back. Every time someone screamed, the sound echoed down through the floor above, and Rhel counted heartbeats until silence returned.

He got food every day. Always the same. Dry bread. A dented cup of water. Sometimes broth.

That was it. No questions. No guards speaking to him. Just silence and screams.

He had seen the others, other Beastkin dragged down, locked in cages, some taken away and never returned. And some… returned in pieces.

One day, he saw the guards toss a body back into a cell. It was a Pantherkin boy. Young. The ears were gone. So were the fingers. The smell that came after was thick with copper.

The next morning, the corpse was gone.

No one spoke of it.

His neighbor was another Wolfkin, older, scarred, gray in the fur on his head and hoarse in the voice. They didn't talk much. Not until Rhel spoke first.

"What are they doing to us?" he asked one night, his voice low, throat raw from silence.

The old one didn't answer for a while. Then finally:

"They're not just killing us," he rasped. "They're using us."

Rhel swallowed. He didn't want to ask. But he asked anyway.

"For what?"

The silence stretched.

"To summon demons," the old Wolfkin said. "From the Thirteen Hells."

Rhel didn't sleep that night.

--::--

The map room in the royal castle of Virethorn was quiet but for the tapping of fingertips on old oak.

Rain slid down the tall stained-glass windows, muting the spring light to dull gray. Above the long table, dozens of carved wooden tokens marked troop placements, some clustered near the western coast, others newly moved toward the east.

Marshal Dareth stood in full ceremonial uniform, though his gauntlets rested on the table beside him, a rare concession to the tension in his shoulders.

"The Second Army has left Fort Hyrell," he said. "If they make good pace, they'll reach the Ashford duchy within the week."

The king, a tall, broad-shouldered man wrapped in layers of navy velvet and silver trim, stood beside the window, not looking at the map.

He was silent for a moment too long before answering.

"And you think that's a mistake."

Dareth didn't flinch. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The king turned slowly. His hair, streaked with gray, was neatly combed, and his face bore none of the regal sharpness most painters favored. He looked tired. Honest. Like someone who remembered names, not titles.

"She asked for support," the king said, quiet. "And from the reports we have, the Beastkin are massing in numbers we can't ignore."

"I don't doubt that," Dareth replied. "But everything about the request is strange. The timing. The wording. Her tone."

"She's a duchess at war," the king said.

"She's a duchess we haven't heard from in five years," Dareth corrected. "And suddenly she sends one message, precise, polite, well-routed, and all intelligence out of the eastern duchy goes dark? That's not war. That's control."

The king exhaled and stepped away from the window, rubbing his brow.

"It was a mistake," he murmured. "Leaving her alone for this long. Letting her rule Ashford without checks. But after what happened with Merick…"

He shook his head.

"I didn't want to punish her. Not after taking her husband."

"You were being kind," Dareth said.

"I was being hopeful," the king said softly. "She was young. Brilliant. But young. I thought grief would temper her. Not harden her."

They both looked back at the map, where small iron pieces now marked the vanguard's crossing into Ashford land.

"She's been planning something," Dareth said. "I don't know what. But I can feel it in the silence."

The king's eyes lingered on the Ashford marker, the sigil of the stag still engraved beneath its lacquered surface. He reached out as if to move it, then stopped short.

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"He wasn't always like that, you know," he said softly. "Merick."

Marshal Dareth glanced at him, but said nothing.

The king's voice was quieter now, not a ruler's, but a man remembering something heavy.

"When we were younger, he was my squire, the only one who ever laughed when I fell off my horse. He was the one who stole books from the archives and swore he'd write a better ending to every one of them. He wanted to be a hero, once."

Dareth stayed silent.

"But something changed in him," the king went on. "After my sister died. Before the marriage with Liliana. We started hearing whispers. Disappearances. People vanishing in the lower districts near the old crafts district. Rituals in basements. Symbols we couldn't decipher."

He looked up at the Marshal, his eyes dull with regret.

"Unholy things. Dark prayers and rituals. Something we couldn't ignore. Two years passed, and in the end, every trace led to Merick."

Dareth's jaw tightened. The king continued, slower now.

"He kidnapped people, Dareth. Innocents. Did things to them. I read the reports. I saw the bodies. We had no choice."

"And Liliana?"

"I hoped she wasn't involved. I still hope. But I couldn't prove it either way. She never spoke of it. Never defended him. Never condemned him. Just… withdrew. Took the duchy and went silent."

He stepped back from the table, hands behind his back.

"I couldn't execute Merick. Not without sparking rebellion. But I couldn't release him either."

He looked out the window again.

"So, we buried him in silence. And I hoped… she'd forgive me."

His voice dropped to almost a whisper.

"Maybe that was the mistake."

Marshal Dareth exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. He looked not at the map, but at the man beside it.

"You were different once," he said quietly. "You remember those history lessons? When Ashford wasn't just a duchy with black walls and proud blood?"

The king didn't respond. But Dareth continued anyway.

"Don't forget, old friend… it was your ancestor who led the charge to put down the Scorn. And who was it they faced? Boran of Ashford. That name carved into every damn statue east of the river."

His voice grew firmer, not in accusation, but in memory. Dareth turned to him then, not as Marshal, but as the man who'd stood beside him since they were boys.

"They called it purification," Dareth said, his voice low, almost bitter. "But the old records, the ones they tried to burn? Those don't tell the story of proud resistance. They speak of blood. Of sacrifices. Of men and women treated like livestock. Of rites older than the gods we now pray to. And now you tell me this with Merick?"

He looked at the king, eyes grim.

"They weren't misunderstood heroes, Your Majesty. They weren't the noble founders we dress up in marble."

A pause.

"They were the bad guys."

The king's expression was heavy with shadow, but he waved the concern away with a slow motion.

"That was a long time ago. It has been five hundred years since Boran the Madman fell—and with him, my ancestor who struck the final blow."

Dareth frowned.

"They remember," he said. "They always remember."

The king stepped away from the window again, pacing slowly toward the map table.

"The duchies intermarried. Their blood is mixed. Their customs reshaped. Look at Merick's own son, Ronan. Polite. Loyal. Hardly the makings of a dark cultist."

He dragged a hand over his face.

"But… the other sons."

His brow furrowed, weariness returning.

"To die like that. Both of them. In Stormvale." He shook his head. "It's a mess. A headache."

He looked at Dareth again, but this time with something brittle behind his eyes.

"I keep thinking we missed something. That someone played the board before we even sat down."

The king sat down slowly, easing into the chair as though the weight of history pressed against his spine.

"Maybe she's bitter," he said at last. "But she's still a noblewoman. From a line that's stood for centuries. I knew her personally, Dareth. She was brilliant, proud—yes—but not a maniac. Not cruel without reason."

Marshal Dareth nodded slowly; his jaw still set hard.

"I know. And I believe that," he said. "But even the best people break when they're cornered. And this…" He gestured vaguely at the table, at the missing scouts, at the dead lines of intelligence. "This stinks of a trap."

The king didn't argue, then he rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

"If it is," he said quietly, "then it's more important than ever that we protect Ronan."

Dareth looked at him, brow creasing.

"So that my cousin can inherit the duchy later," the king continued, his voice heavy. "So that when this is over—whatever this is—Ashford still belongs to the royal bloodline. To someone we can trust."

Dareth gave a short nod, quiet and solemn.

"I'll see to it personally."

They didn't speak again for a while. Only the rain spoke for them, tapping gently against the stained glass, as the game moved forward one silent piece at a time.

--:--

The cold out here bit deeper than it did in Valewick.

The wind came off the peaks in sharp waves, heavy with frost and the iron tang of war. Flags snapped hard against the sky, and the banners of House Ashford hung stiff over the forward camp, black and silver, antlers proud, untouched by snow.

Ronan stood at the edge of the ridgeline; his cloak pulled tight against his shoulders. Below, the terrain dropped sharply into the frozen valley where their scouts reported the Beastkin had started regrouping.

The Ursin were pushing. Slowly, but relentlessly. Heavy infantry. Siege beasts. Lines of claw and bone and fury. They moved like old ice, slow, unyielding, inevitable.

But they were beginning to lose altitude.

Not much. But Ronan could feel it, in the tone of reports, the speed of their response, the tightening of their ranks. The push was weakening.

He should've felt encouraged. Instead, he just felt grim.

He had not fought yet. Not really. Not with a blade in hand. His role had been command, riding between camps, issuing orders, studying maps and terrain. He had men beneath him. A column of four hundred, with another two trailing in reserve.

He wore a sword his father had gifted him, steel forged in the Ashford forge, engraved with their crest just beneath the crossguard. It wasn't ceremonial. It was meant to be used.

And Ronan knew how to use it. He'd trained. He'd drilled. He'd passed every test set before him in the capital. But he hadn't drawn it in battle. Not once. The others didn't say anything aloud. No one dared. But he saw it.

In the way they saluted a beat too fast. In the way they called him "my lord" with just a little too much polish. In the way their gazes slid past him when orders were given, always looking for someone more proven, more bloody.

They called him a coward. Maybe not to his face, but in their silence.

And the worst part?

He couldn't even blame them.

It wasn't his fault he wasn't one of his brothers. He hadn't been groomed for command. Alaric was the heir. Cedric the warrior. Ronan was the spare, the third son sent to banquets, to court dinners, to watch and learn and not embarrass anyone.

He had never gone to war. Never had to risk his life for his name.

And yes—he was afraid.

But he also wanted to prove himself. Desperately. Not just for Ashford. For himself. For something that felt like more than a placeholder in someone else's legacy.

It was a difficult place to stand, at the front of a line, you hadn't yet bled for.

His thoughts turned, unbidden, back to Ashford. To the letter he had received the night before.

Attack on the duchess's daughter. Survived. Wounded. Assassins killed.

Grace.

He had never known her well. Barely spoken to her. A girl born after his exile to the capital, since his uncle, the king, took care of him. Too young, and far too distant.

But still his sister. Still Ashford. Still… his. His jaw tightened.

He needed her.

Whatever storm was brewing back home, he wasn't there to shield her.

But maybe, out here, he could do something else.

A rider approached through the flurries, hooves muffled in snow, banner half-folded against the wind. One of the king's messengers, highland livery, fast and direct.

Ronan turned as the man dismounted and bowed sharply.

"My lord Ronan," the messenger said, breath visible in the cold. "Word from Virethorn."

Ronan broke the seal with gloved fingers, eyes scanning the brief note written in the king's own hand, not by a scribe, but with his careful, deliberate script.

"The Second Army will arrive within the week. You are to hold position. Coordinate as needed. Protect the border. Protect Ashford. Protect your Kingdom."

Ronan lowered the letter, the wax still warm in his palm.

The Crown was sending soldiers; help, or oversight. He couldn't tell which. But one thing was certain, whatever happened next, he wouldn't be watching from the back of the column anymore.

Not this time.