By Her Grace – a progressive Isekai Light Novel

Pieces In Motion

The tea was fragrant, but Selira barely tasted it.

She sat in the sun-drenched chamber near her own chambers, where the windows framed the hills with glass so clean it vanished when the light hit just right. Across from her, Lady Angela of House Veylor was laughing, gesturing with both hands as she retold some encounter with a squire who apparently didn't know how to bow. Beside her, Lady Kristin of House Halwyn blushed softly, her eyes fixed on her cup.

Selira smiled faintly. Not because she cared about the story, she didn't, but because the sound of voices helped her think.

Grace had acknowledged her. Publicly, as her future sister-in-law. No one had prompted it. The words came from Grace herself, steady and deliberate, in that unsettlingly calm voice of hers. Selira had felt the weight of it. Not exaggerated, not dramatic, just real and intentional.

But that girl… wasn't just a girl.

Selira stirred her tea, slowly. The duel had been brief, but sharp, and far more exciting than she'd expected. She remembered both names from the combatants, of course. She made a point to remember everyone's name. But it wasn't the names that stuck with her, it was the way Grace had watched. Not with a child's excitement, but with a focused stillness. Like someone evaluating pieces on a board.

It was Grace. And it wasn't. Selira still couldn't tell how much of the girl's brilliance was her own, and how much came from Elyne's grooming. Was she a prodigy? Or just a perfectly shaped puppet? Maybe both. Either way, it didn't matter.

She needed the connection. And Grace had given it.

Across the table, Kristin was now giggling softly, her voice a little more breathless. "—and then he said he thought I was the daughter of a count. Isn't that ridiculous?"

Angela leaned closer, smiling. "Well, he wasn't wrong to flirt. You do look good in blue."

Kristin hid her face behind her teacup. Selira noted the way her fingers curled. Light, hesitant. A crush, then. Probably on that baron's son from yesterday's introductions. Selira stored the detail without effort. She didn't care, but she listened.

That was what these tea sessions were for.

Marissa wasn't here. Hadn't been for days. After the brunch, after the screaming and the insults and the spell that sent her through the doors, Marissa had left the estate. Her servants packed her trunks before dawn. Her guards, silent and pale, escorted her out without a word. The daughter of Count Greensea had returned to Greenport under the quiet cover of decorum.

Selira exhaled. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.

It was better this way. That bratty, unstable mess was no longer her responsibility. But even now, she felt the echo of the risk. Marissa's father, the most powerful count in Velmire, adored his daughter. She had humiliated her publicly. Broken her charm. Bruised her pride. And sent her home.

It was a gamble, but one she didn't regret. She would never return to Velmire anyway. Not if the marriage went through. Not if Ronan remained alive, and… useful.

Selira set her cup down with a soft clink. Angela was already onto her second story; something about a hunting party and a cousin who wore embroidered boots. Kristin gasped at just the right parts. Selira smiled again. She liked this room. Not for the tea. Not for the gossip. But for the quiet it gave her thoughts to move in.

She was just lifting her cup again when a soft hand touched her shoulder and leaned close to her ear. "They are here, milady," the servant whispered.

Selira gave the faintest nod. Her expression didn't change. She set the cup down, wiped her fingers lightly on her napkin, and rose from her seat.

"Excuse me for just a moment," she said smoothly, and with practiced grace, turned and left the room.

The door to the adjoining chamber closed with a quiet click behind her. This was her private waiting room, a space meant for unannounced visitors and quick meetings.

Inside stood her battle mage, still cloaked, the hood casting his features in shadow. He inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.

Beside him stood a pale man.

Not pale in the sickly way of a noble who avoided the sun, no, this was different. His skin had the hue of driftwood bone, like something that had spent weeks in saltwater and somehow lived. His eyes were sunken, ringed with gray. He smelled faintly of brine and old iron.

He bowed when she entered, precise and low.

"Lord Garrin Stormrest," Selira said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "What a pleasant surprise. So, my message reached my father?"

The man straightened slowly, as though every movement reminded his body it no longer belonged to the sea.

"It did," he rasped, voice worn thin by salt and wind. "And your father was… deeply concerned by your message. But he is also glad—relieved, even—that the Duchess's daughter is alive."

Selira said nothing. She knew what came next. Garrin was never one to waste a journey on good news.

"He agrees with you," Garrin continued. "You were right. House Velmire must not fall behind in Ashford. We must strengthen our interests here."

Then he stopped. Deliberately. A long, theatrical pause.

Selira did not move. She would not give him the satisfaction.

She hated this man. Not for how he looked, though his corpse-pale skin and ever-damp aura made her skin crawl, and not just for how he spoke, though every word dripped with something unspoken. No, she hated him because of what he was.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Garrin Stormrest—the true firstborn of Count Stormrest, who had renounced his title, handed it to his younger brother, and carved a different path. One that placed him beside Duke Velmire as his shadow.

He was the silent executioner of Velmire. The head of its spy network. A man who preferred poison to words, and silence to any oath.

Selira kept her face still. Composed. But inwardly, she shivered.

"Your father honored your request," Garrin said at last. "He sends twenty thousand gold crowns… and one hundred men from the Trift Guard. Loyal, silent, trained. They are already en route under sealed banners."

He reached into his sleeve and produced a letter, sealed with wax and pressed with Duke Velmire's personal signet.

"And," Garrin added, holding it out between two fingers, "he sends me. To guide you, milady."

Selira took the letter without hesitation. But her fingers brushed his as she did, and the cold of his skin lingered longer than it should have. She broke the wax seal without a word and unfolded the parchment slowly, eyes scanning the familiar, looping hand of her father.

Dear my lovely daughter,

Your message left me behind with deep worries. I hope you are well, and that Ronan is to your liking.
I know you're my little genius, and when you're right, you're right. If war with the Crown is truly coming in the next few months, we need to be prepared.
I've sent an official letter to Duchess Liliana, citing the growing instability in the kingdom.
We should force the marriage earlier.
So I inform you this way, my daughter, the marriage should take place within the next few weeks. I am confident the Duchess will agree.
For your own safety, I've sent you my old friend Garrin. He will protect our — and your — interests during the coming turbulence.
Use the gold wisely. The men from the Tide Guard are an early gift. Their loyalty is yours.
And one last thing…
I've received reports about Ronan.
Try to help him see that the Crown is not his friend. We are. Velmire is his only friend.

Your Father.

Selira read the last line twice. Then once more. The air in the room felt colder, and not because of Garrin.

She folded the letter neatly and slipped it into the inner pocket of her coat. Her hands moved with practiced ease, but her mind was already racing.

So, they were pushing the marriage. That was expected. But her father had involved Liliana directly… and sent Garrin.

That wasn't just trust. That was pressure. She looked up, her expression perfectly even.

"Thank you, Lord Stormrest," she said. "Please inform your men that I'll have quarters prepared for them by sunset. And as for you…"

She gave the faintest smile.

"I trust you know how to blend in."

Garrin's expression didn't change, but his voice curled like fog.

"Of course, Lady Selira. I am already here."

--::--

Stonefield smelled of coal smoke and wet stone. Not the pleasant kind. The kind that sank into wagon wheels and boots and never quite left your coat. Built high on a plateau and boxed in by old walls, Stonefield had grown fast—too fast—and every new layer pressed against the last. It was the second-largest city in Ashford, and no one would call it beautiful. But it was sturdy, disciplined, and always ready for war.

And for merchants like Saren Holt, that was enough.

Saren stood at the upper window of his counting house, watching the muddy courtyard below. The loading crews were behind schedule again. He'd have to speak with the foreman later.

"IImbecils! When will they learn that time is gold..." He muttered to himself.

He adjusted the collar of his dark coat, custom-tailored to fit his size and status. He was a Master Trader, and that title meant something. Not granted by favor or family, but earned through guild votes, hard numbers, and decades of outmaneuvering competition.

He wasn't a kind man, but he wasn't cruel either. Just efficient. In Stonefield, you didn't survive by being soft. He had built his business from nothing, clawed it out of undercut deals and warehouse fires and guild politics.

And he'd always hated the Valewick syndicates. They bought influence instead of earning it. They controlled the lowland markets, the grain silos, the guild routes through the valley roads, and acted like that gave them the world. But for Saren, it wasn't just politics. It was personal. He remembered being a boy, sweeping the floors in his father's little shop in Valewick. He remembered the man who used to laugh with his father over ledgers, who brought expensive wine and slick promises. A merchant from the capital. Charming. Connected.

A liar.

The partnership had been a fraud. The debts had been real. When the papers were filed and the fines hit, his father was left with nothing but shame. And in the end—nothing but a rope.

Saren never forgot the way his mother looked that day.

And that charming bastard? He was now a Master Trader of Valewick. One of the guild's top dogs. Living fat off guild favors and Crown contracts.

Saren had clawed his way up from those ashes with his own teeth. He didn't just hate the Valewick syndicates. He loathed them.

And if this little brat he'd heard so much about lately—Grace of Ashford—had even the slightest chance of shifting the balance away from them, he would take it gladly.

He glanced at the sealed letter resting on his desk. Cream paper. Immaculate handwriting. The reply from the Ashford Estate.

She had written back.

He sat down, heavy in his chair, and reached for the wine. Not the usual stock, something special. A dark glass bottle with a wax seal and gold-threaded label. He cracked it open and poured carefully into a crystal glass he rarely used.

He had done it. The first step. A single letter. But it meant everything. He wasn't just a local merchant in Stonefield anymore. She had invited him.

Grace of Ashford.

He swirled the wine, let it catch the light from the window. He knew exactly what this meant. What it could cost. If the Valewick syndicates caught wind of it, they'd come after him.

But he had a few cards left. A few secrets. And more than a few favors owed.

He was ready.

He took a sip. The wine was deep red, almost black. Dragon's Blood, was it called. Mana-infused, aged in volcanic oak. Expensive beyond reason, even for him. But worth it. The taste prickled across his tongue, heat and spice and power behind it.

He wasn't a mage. He didn't have a core. But the infusion still worked. Just enough to sharpen the senses. Help the thoughts land a little faster. Make the world feel a little more... alive. He sighed, savoring the warmth.

Too expensive for daily use, he thought. But today wasn't a daily day. He had just a week. Only one week to pull off the most important meeting of his life. So, no pressure at all.

First, he needed gifts.

Not flashy nonsense wrapped in gold foil and empty titles. Not the kind nobles flung at each other to prove they mattered. He needed something that meant something. Something deliberate.

A gift that said I understand you, not I'm trying to buy you. Subtle and precise. Because yes—of course he wanted something. Everyone always did. But only fools made that obvious from the start.

Next, intel. Real intel, not the gossip passed around trade halls. He needed the girl's real measure. Her rhythms, and of course, her cracks.

Because from where he was sitting, this wasn't some noble brat being paraded around for show. Every move she'd made—every public appearance, also the duel she staged recently, hell, even that little stunt at the Velmire banquet where she'd hijacked the room and declared the damn war—yeah, that wasn't just some precocious puppet dancing on strings.

She was building something. Power. Influence. A base.

Saren recognized the pattern. He'd lived it. Crawling out of the gutter in Valewick, surviving Stonefield's teeth, rising to Master Trader on grit and sheer spite.

She was the same. Just younger. Smaller. Dressed prettier. Silk instead of soot.

And that's what worried him.

She was a kid.

If she pulled it off, if she made it out of this chaos intact, then backing her early would be the kind of coup that made legends.

But if she fumbled? If she got eaten alive by the politics and the pressure?

He'd go down with her. The Valewick bastards would see to that.

It was a risk.

But then again… wasn't everything worth doing?

Saren smirked, finishing the last of his wine, the mana burns curling across his tongue.

Let the little wolves come sniffing.

He was already moving.