By Her Grace – a progressive Isekai Light Novel

The Silence That Hurt

The ceiling above her was painted in goldleaf spirals, old patterns set into the plaster centuries ago, back when the Ashford Estate still fancied itself graceful. Grace didn't blink as she stared up at it from her bed, the covers draped loosely around her like a discarded robe.

The candlelight flickered low. The letters were gone.

She'd written to Lady Callaire first. Allowing visitation under direct supervision, her words just measured enough to seem generous, while reminding the woman of her station.

Why is she so eager to protect a commoner? Grace mused, brows twitching slightly.

Leon's no son of hers. Just a street rat she polished and called an apprentice.

There was something off about it. Not the request, that was expected. But the urgency. The tone.

She seems like an old hag wrapped in to expensive cloths, Grace thought. Running her boutique like it's her own kingdom. Too much pride. Too much calm. Well... I'll see.

Her fingers idly traced a curl in her hair as she exhaled.

If she plays it straight, I'll let her leave with her dignity. If she plays games…The thought finished itself in silence.

The second response had taken longer. Saren Holt, a merchant from Stonefield, grain, tools, leathers. Small man. Big words.

To Her Grace, Lady Grace of Ashford, rightful heir and steward...

Her fingers had twitched at that phrasing. Rightful heir.

Not "in absence of," not "on behalf of." Just… heir. Bold. Risky. And technically wrong. Ronan was still the appointed heir by royal decree, signed and sealed and official recognized by her mother. But Holt had written as if that didn't matter anymore. As if the future already belonged to her. Grace almost smiled. He was taking a side before the succession war even began. She liked that. She needed more of that.

Because the truth was, she didn't have much. Elyne was loyal, yes, but her guardian and she still belonged to her mother. Clara and Elen were sweet, earnest, and sharp in their own ways, but they were still just children, just girls who clung to her like stars to a dying sun. At least Clara. And the six knights stationed they followed her everywhere since a few weeks? They just followed orders. Not her.

She needed retainers, people who chose her, not because of duty or blood, but because they saw what was coming and wanted to stand at her side when it arrived. Maybe Saren Holt was just a clever rat. Or maybe he was one of the first. Either way, she'd invited him. And she was curious to see what kind of spine he kept under all his words.

Grace closed her eyes.

Her thoughts refused to quiet, swirling in slow, deliberate circles. Corax hovered somewhere in the room—silent, unseen—but she could feel him. Like a presence stitched into the edges of her awareness, always just close enough to be noticed, never quite speaking.

The last few weeks had been… something else. That was the only way she could frame it. She had learned things, about power, about the world, about herself, and she wasn't sure if she even wanted to.

Who was I? she thought. Not here. Not in this bed, not in this estate. Back then on Earth.

A plain, muddy-brown-eyed girl. A silent nerd who never raised her hand. The cool kid online at 3 a.m., glowing screen, keyboard under her fingers, lost in games and theories and stupid dreams. She sighed.

That life felt like a fading dream now. Not painful. Not distant. Just… disconnected. Like she'd been cut from it and drifted too far to swim back. There was more behind it. She knew that. She felt that.

Too many things were tangled inside her now; Void, divine spark, altered memories. And deep down, Grace had come to a conclusion she didn't like.

It was an illusion that I chose this path.

She hadn't. No, someone or better something had set the fuse. And she had simply lit it.

Not into Nirvana, she thought with a bitter curve of her lips. Into Nyras.

So, then the question remained. Why was she here? In this world that bent around her like it had been waiting. Why her? Why this body, this title, this power? Why the Void? Why the spark? Why gods and spirits and monsters that whispered like they knew her name before she even spoke it?

Why is the whole damn universe fucking with me?

She came to no conclusion.

The thoughts spiraled, twisted, collapsed into themselves. There was no answer. No voice from the stars. Just silence. But in that silence, something settled, a kind of certainty.

Maybe it didn't matter why.

Maybe someone had guided her, nudged her, whispered into her mind, pulled at the fragile threads of a miserable life until she broke and threw herself into the dark.

If that was true, if something had orchestrated her death, her shift, her rebirth, then fine.

At least she'd been important enough to be noticed.

And if the world had bent for her—if some god, or void-born parasite, or ancient echo of will had decided she was worth interfering with—then that only confirmed one thing.

She was the main character after all.

And she would tear this world apart if she had to. She would unravel every hand that tried to puppet her, carve down every being that thought it could use her, burn every name that whispered hers without permission.

God or void, light or shadow, it didn't matter. If they wanted her, they could come and try. But she'd make damn sure they left in pieces.

Her breath slowed.

The weight of it all settled over her again, like a second blanket, heavy and warm and final. Corax remained silent in the dark, pulsing faintly from his perch in the far corner, watching but not speaking.

Grace let her eyes fall shut. The world didn't need her answer. Not tonight.

She slept without dreams.

--::--

The next day was Tidewake. The day after court.

Normally, she would be sitting in her courses by now; judicial theory, etiquette, magical history, whatever topic Master Ardan deemed vital that week. But today… nothing.

Elyne, ever watchful, had left this day open for her after yesterday.

"You're still a child," she had said, brushing Grace's curls back from her brow like she always did when trying to mother and not command. "Even you shouldn't overdo it."

And for once, Grace hadn't argued. So, when she finally stirred, sunlight was already cutting across the floor in warm, lazy lines. It was already late morning. No knocks at her door, no urgent summons for her, and no hovering servants.

Mercy.

She pushed off the covers slowly, limbs heavy with the weight of sleep and something softer—reluctance, maybe. Her hair was a tousled mess. Her throat dry. Her eyes sluggish. It took a full minute before she even sat up.

Groggy, silent, bare-footed, she crossed the room and pulled open one of her more "practical" wardrobes, still lined with silks and fine stitching, but simpler in design. Fewer layers. Fewer buttons. Less of a statement. She dressed without summoning help.

The yawn came halfway through lacing her boots. The kind of yawn that shook her shoulders and stretched her arms too wide to look dignified. Not that it mattered. No one was watching.

She picked up the letters she'd written the night before, neatly sealed, perfectly signed. One for Lady Callaire. One for Saren Holt.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Then she stepped to her door, letters in hand, and reached for the handle.

Grace opened the door, only to find Ser Calen standing there; straight-backed, silver-trimmed cloak, scar on his jaw catching the morning light, hair tied with a ribbon too neat for this 'early' in the day. Tall, composed, helm tucked under his arm like a formality he didn't need. He was her cousin, at least technically.

She nodded once and pressed the sealed envelopes into his waiting hands without a word.

Then she turned and walked off down the hall, slightly tousled, entirely unbothered.

The double doors to her private dining room stood open, and a maid was already waiting inside, young, stiff, her eyes low. Grace didn't acknowledge her. The girl had probably been standing there half the day for this exact moment. Grace didn't care, she just sat down.

And, like clockwork, the maid moved into motion, plates, bowls, steam, porcelain laid in practiced order. Her usual breakfast: lightly toasted grain bread, eggs with pink salt, sliced peach, dark tea steeped to the exact minute.

Sometimes it was really nice being a rich little brat. Grace smirked faintly to herself, leaned back, and reached for the tea. She was halfway through her second bite when Ser Calen reappeared in the doorway, letters gone, gloves tucked behind his belt.

"Will you be going out today, milady?" he asked, voice calm and clipped. "If so, I'll fetch the others."

Grace took a slow sip of tea before answering.

She thought for a moment, not about his question, but about where the others might be. Elyne was likely already deep in the ledgers again, managing the estate with that cool precision Grace had come to rely on. They had a deal, the two of them. Elyne would still handle the day-to-day affairs, sign the orders, meet the staff and merchants and minor nobles. In return, Grace would keep to her side of the agreement; lessons, lectures, practice drills, and enough noble behavior to pass for a future Duchess.

In exchange, Elyne had promised something far more valuable: full access. Over the coming weeks, she would teach Grace how the entire estate functioned, where the gold flowed, which names mattered, how power moved beneath polished floors. Grace would even be allowed to make decisions herself as long as she didn't make any catastrophic mistakes.

It was a fair deal, at least for now.

Grace's gaze drifted toward the soft clink of porcelain, her thoughts sliding to other matters, Elen, for one. Her mother Ser Alis Trivelle had returned a few days ago. And yet Elen had said nothing.

No mention of her arrival. No word about the dispute with Ser Morlan on the training grounds, the one that had ended before Grace's court.

Why didn't she say anything? Grace wondered, not with suspicion, but with mild curiosity. But it didn't bother Grace. Not really.

She just… noted.

Elen was probably with her mother today, anyway, out of the picture for now. That left little to consider. Grace sighed softly into her teacup, her mind already shifting.

Clara.

Clara was likely at her manor. Alone, now that Ser Trivelle had claimed Elen back. It wasn't that far, still within the estate grounds, still under her shadow, but it felt distant this morning.

Grace leaned her elbow on the table, the soft clink of her cup forgotten as a new thought settled.

I promised I'd look after her. That I'd make sure Bellgrave was safe. That the Beastkin wouldn't get anywhere near her family or the city. I said I'd handle it. And I haven't even checked. Not once.

She had meant it, too. At the time.

But that was before assassins, court sessions, Void breaks, divine sparks, and the whole other stuff. The promise had just slipped her mind. And now, for some reason she couldn't entirely explain, she felt... guilty?

Why do I feel guilty? Grace frowned slightly, not liking the sensation. It wasn't sharp, like shame or regret. Just persistent. Annoying.

She sighed again, this time with more irritation.

How bothersome.

She stood, pushing the plate aside. "Let's go," she muttered, mostly to herself.

If Clara was alone today, then it was time to look in on her. After all, it wasn't like Grace had anything else scheduled.

--::--

She didn't take a carriage.

It was only a twenty-five-minute walk from her quarters to Clara's manor, weaving through the estate's older stone wings and past the outer wall gardens. She didn't feel like sitting. Not today. The air was too crisp, the sunlight too warm, and the idea of being sealed into a rolling box with armored silence made her skin itch.

Of course, she wasn't alone.

Four knights followed, two ahead, two behind. One of them was Ser Calen, ever dutiful, ever watching. Grace had told them she didn't need them. Told them it was just a visit. But they'd insisted.

"You're not to leave your chambers alone, milady," Calen had said with that maddening calm. "Not without Lady Marren present, or her explicit permission."

Grace hadn't argued. But she hadn't waited for approval either.

Now they marched with her like a mobile frame, heavy boots against soft paths, shadows cutting through the bloom of spring as the estate slowly unfurled around them.

Old walls passed by, stone corridors laced with ivy, towers built centuries ago when Ashford was still fighting wars on horseback. A small garden wing spilled into view, all winding paths and arched branches just beginning to flush green. Birds chirped in the canopy overhead, and the light broke through in delicate angles that caught on her curls as she walked.

It was beautiful, she admitted. The kind of day nobles always wrote poems about. A gentle kind of peace.

It should've annoyed her.

But it didn't.

As Clara's mansion came into view, Grace lifted a hand without speaking. A simple gesture, sharp and final.

Her knights hesitated. One of them opened his mouth in protest, but Ser Calen gave a quiet shake of his head, and the rest fell back, slowly, reluctantly. They didn't leave, of course. They wouldn't. But they gave her space.

That was enough.

The Bellgrave manor wasn't large, nothing grand or ostentatious. Just a squat, weathered stone house nestled near the edge of the outer gardens, flanked by an old orchard and a pair of crumbling statues that had long since lost their faces. It had once belonged to a knight, or so the story went. Some retired war hero who sold the place to Clara's parents for a pittance and a title.

It showed, not rich or pristine, but solid and quietly honest in a way that didn't beg for attention. It had a kind of tired flair to it that didn't beg for attention.

Grace slowed her steps.

The orchard behind the house was blooming now, soft white blossoms scattered like snowflakes along the path. Birds chirped. Wind carried the scent of damp wood and new life. It was almost calming.

And then she saw her.

Clara.

The girl stood beneath one of the trees, basket in hand, picking tiny sprigs from the lower branches. She hadn't noticed Grace yet.

And she was crying.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind Grace was used to—the wailing, sniffling, hiccupping storm of emotion that Clara usually carried like a flag. No.

These were silent tears. Just falling, unannounced, as she moved with slow, careful hands through the orchard.

Grace froze. She stood at the wooden gate, hand resting on its worn edge, watching without meaning to.

Didn't I want to break her? she thought, the question slow and sick in her chest. Didn't I want her to fall apart, to cling to me so tightly she forgot how to breathe without permission?

This should've been perfect, and yet it hurt more than she expected. Something in her chest clenched, something raw and uncomfortable.

Why does it hurt to see her like this?

She had seen Clara cry dozens of times, but never like this—never so quietly. Somehow, the silence hit harder. Grace didn't move; she just stood there, watching, frozen and unsure why it unsettled her so deeply.

--::--

Clara felt alone.

The kind of alone that crept in slowly, filling the spaces between hours and soft footsteps and quiet meals. Her parents and siblings were all back in Bellgrave, far beyond the Ashford Estate walls. The last time she had seen them was at the banquet, when Ronan had returned from the capital and Grace was introduced into society. They'd smiled, waved, made promises. Then they were gone.

And so much had happened since.

She still had Ser Aldwin, her family's old knight. He was kind, careful, always there to help her with laces she couldn't reach or parchment she couldn't quite phrase. But he wasn't family. He wasn't a friend, either. Just a steady presence with no real warmth to offer.

Then came Grace.

Her first real friend.

Or at least… Clara had thought so.

Grace was everything Clara wasn't; powerful, beautiful, terrifying, brilliant. She moved like she belonged to a different world, like her steps carved paths in stone just by existing. Clara had always known she was just a baron's daughter, someone small and lucky to even be near the flame. But Grace had protected her, twice. The last time, with her life. Clara hadn't forgotten. She couldn't forget.

And yet, since that day… Grace had barely looked at her. She was busy now; an important girl who was managing the estate, holding court, always buried in whatever lessons Elyne threw at her. There was always something. Always someone else who needed her more.

Clara understood.

But it still hurt.

Then there was Elen. Her second friend. Strong, determined, always training, always striving. Clara admired her. And she'd tried to help her, to give her a place to breathe when things were hard. But Elen's mother had other thoughts. A knight's daughter, raised in a noble house? Unacceptable. Dangerous. She said that Clara only wanted to claim her, to make her a future servant. A retainer.

But that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all. Clara had just wanted to help. Now Elen wasn't allowed to visit anymore. And Clara was alone again.

No friends. No family. No one.

Just the sound of her own breath, and the sting of spring wind on her cheeks as the tears slipped silently down.

Clara looked out over the hills beyond the orchard, blinking through the haze of her own tears.

Behind the rows of blooming trees, past the winding stone path and the low stone wall, the land opened wide. Gentle green fields stretched out like a sea, rippling in the spring breeze. And far beyond that—just barely visible through the light mist—stood Valewick.

The big old city.

Its tall stone towers rose above the haze like sentinels, clustered around the dark spires of the citadel at its heart. Even from here, it looked huge, powerful, like something pulled from a storybook and dropped into the real world.

Clara stared at it, quiet and unmoving.

It always calmed her, this view. Something about the size of it, the distance, the way the world kept turning out there no matter how small she felt in her own shoes. She bit down gently on her lower lip, grounding herself with the pressure. Her hands still held the basket, half-filled with tiny sprigs she wasn't sure she'd use.

Everything felt heavier today.

So, she watched the city. Let the wind pull at her hair and the silence settle again.

Even if just for a moment… it made her feel a little less like she was disappearing.

And then, without warning, someone hugged her from behind. Clara froze. The arms were small, delicate, wrapping around her with quiet certainty. They didn't shake. They didn't hesitate. She felt the warmth of the touch sink into her skin like sunlight through the clouds. No words came, neither from her nor from whoever held her. She didn't need them. The basket slipped from her fingers and fell to the grass, forgotten. Clara bit her lip again, harder this time, and closed her eyes. The pain in her chest swelled, not sharp, but full, like something she'd been holding in had finally cracked. The arms loosened slowly. She turned.

And there she was.

Grace.

Her best friend, standing there with wind in her hair and that unreadable stillness in her eyes. The curls around her face caught the light like gold, and her gaze, deep blue with just a shimmer of pink—met Clara's with something almost too much to bear. There was no smile. No dramatic entrance. Just presence. Real and undeniable. Clara stared at her, heart caught between rising and breaking. And in that one breathless moment, all the loneliness, all the doubt, all the aching quiet of the last few days... disappeared.

Grace tilted her head, just slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you have time for me today?"

Clara's breath caught. Her eyes filled again, this time not with sorrow, but something gentler. She gave the smallest nod, lips trembling, and answered with a quiet whimper.

"Yes."