NOVEL NEXT Book 2: Chapter 11: Gatewick’s New Order
Gatewick's New Order
The throne was cold.
Not just cold, icy, with every shift pressing the obsidian's chill straight through the thin layers of Grace's dress. She tried not to shiver, even as a numb ache settled into her bones. Maybe her grandmother chose this stone not just for its dramatic flair, but because it made every would-be ruler just a little bit uncomfortable. Or maybe it was a warning: here, you serve the throne, not the other way around. But Grace suspected it was really only for the dramatic flair; she had a hunch that her family had a thing for such things.
Gatewick's throne room was built for effect, high arches lost in gloom, walls haunted by flickering blue magic torchlights, every detail meant to amplify shadows. The throne itself sat atop a shallow dais, polished black stone jutting up like a dragon's tooth, easily three sizes too large for its new occupant. Grace's feet didn't reach the floor; they hovered a solid six inches above, leaving her feeling more like a child in her mother's office than a conquering empress.
But that didn't matter, when Grace had something, it was confidence. Confidence about the truth. And the truth was, of course, that her journey had only just begun here. The truth was, everything seemed right.
I'm the truth!
The words weren't just bravado. They shimmered behind her eyes, sparking up from memory, the echo of her old self from Earth, her voice in the light, fierce and impossible to silence.
You are not hope. You are not made for their approval. You're the prophecy. You are the fucking truth in a world of lies.
On her right stood Elyne, all poise and polish. No battle-mage robes this time, no clinking chain, just a perfectly tailored midnight-blue gown with understated silver at the cuffs, hair swept up with mathematical precision. A signet of office glittered at her throat. To the world Elyne was in every inch the cool, competent Ashford lady, ready to make a grown man confess to murder with nothing but a raised brow. To Grace, Elyne was equal parts shield, status symbol, and backup plan. She liked having her there, if only because Elyne's silent presence made everything look more official, more controlled, even when Grace felt nothing of the sort.
She let her fingers drum softly on the obsidian arm of the throne, feeling the vibration climb her forearm, a physical tether to the here and now. The knights lining the shadows were another reminder: sixty men and women in black, the Ashen Blades.
Technically hers. A personal order, born from Liliana's endless sense of pageantry. Grace hadn't even registered the full scope of it until the day before yesterday; her mind had been mashed potatoes after days without sleep, and the two-day trek to Gatewick hadn't exactly cleared the fog. It wasn't until camp was made and a certain armored figure bowed low, while greeting her, that Grace finally looked past the visors and recognized Ser Calen, her cousin, now their commander. Not strangers after all, but the same order her original six knights, previously assigned by her mother, had belonged to.
She'd need a word with Calen soon; about the order, their specialties, and a few private matters, of course. Traveling hadn't allowed for the time or privacy she needed to discuss the other tasks she'd given him. Her thoughts drifted back to the Ashford Estate; she still wanted to know what Calen had ultimately done with Rin and her gifted pet—Rhel. But that conversation would have to wait. Grace hadn't had time to process it.
There was a dark comedy to it. In her "unviable" fugue state—her own word—she'd sleepwalked past the single biggest upgrade to her political fortunes since her rebirth. "New personal knight order" was the kind of thing you should notice, not discover as an afterthought. But apparently, Grace needed things spelled out in pastry before she caught on. Well, whatever.
She eyed the armored ring at the room's edge, each figure impassive. Knight orders weren't run-of-the-mill muscle. Each one had a specialty, a mythos, a set of secrets. She'd need to test their loyalty, probe for weaknesses, maybe even find out which ones could be bribed with decent snacks or good stories. Another job for the to-do list.
The double doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. Her herald, some young boy from the castle stuff, was overdressed, and trembling, stepped forward, staff in hand. "Announcing the Mayor of Gatewick, Mayor Harlon and Ser Edgar, captain of the city guard, come to pay respects to Her Grace, Princess Imperial Grace of Ashford!"
Nice echo, she thought, as the mayor and captain made their entrance. The mayor's coat was a size too small; his hat quivered in sweaty hands. Ser Edgar looked carved from granite, but even he seemed awed. Both bowed, deep and formal.
Grace waited, silent, long enough to let them sweat. Five seconds. When she spoke, her voice was clear and careful.
"You may rise. I thank you for your service to Ashford, and now, to the Empire."
The men straightened, and she watched as relief bloomed on their faces, like a sudden thaw after a long winter.
Ser Edgar stepped forward, hand pressed lightly to his sword hilt in the formal Ashford salute. "Your Grace," he said, voice deep, steady as mountain stone, "it's an honor to serve under the banner of Ashford once more. The city guard stands ready at your command, as we did for your grandmother, and her mother before her." He allowed himself a brief, proud smile. "To serve House Ashford is to serve our own blood. I thank the gods I've lived to see it restored."
Grace let the corners of her mouth twitch upward, just a hint of approval. "Your service honors your house and your city, Ser Edgar. How many guards do you keep in town?"
"Fifty, Your Grace, not counting a handful up at the castle." He glanced at the mayor, nodding in deference. "Mostly young, but disciplined. We drill every morning, rain or shine."
Grace almost smiled at that. "I'd like to see a drill soon," she said. "If Gatewick is Ashford's heart, I want to know its heartbeat."
Ser Edgar's chest puffed out. "It would be our privilege, Your Grace."
The mayor cleared his throat, shifting anxiously, then bowed again. "Your Grace, welcome. Gatewick has waited a long time for this day. The city is not what it was, we are still rebuilding, as you can see. The fire a decade ago took much, but our pride endured. Our people are stubborn, loyal, perhaps too stubborn at times." He managed a nervous chuckle.
Grace regarded him with calm interest. "How many souls in the city proper?"
"Nearly six thousand, Your Grace. Five villages in the outlying lands, north and east mostly, plus the river settlements and the farms on the southern slopes. Another thousand or so there."
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She nodded, filing it away. "And the city's income? Trade, taxes, harvests?"
The mayor's face tightened with embarrassment. "Gatewick was once a rich market. The war, and the fire, well, trade slowed. We manage, but income is meager. Most of our revenue is grain, some wool, timber from the Gatewick forest. What we do collect, we've always sent on time to the steward Harold Winthrop." His mouth twisted at the name. "He controls the lands outside the walls, the taxes from the villages and farms. We see only a small share for town upkeep."
Grace let her eyes linger on him. "And have you had trouble meeting his demands?"
The mayor hesitated. "He… can be insistent. Last autumn, when the millers' guild came up short, the steward threatened to seize the last of their winter stores. We managed to talk him down, but…" He glanced at Ser Edgar, then back at Grace, uncertain.
Grace kept her face unreadable, her voice calm. "You needn't worry about the steward's demands, at least for now. Lord Winthrop is… indisposed."
Both men blinked, confusion flickering. Ser Edgar's brows drew together, but he said nothing. The mayor nodded uncertainly.
Grace leaned forward, letting the blue torchlight catch the silver embroidery at her sleeves. "I'd like a full report, written and signed, on all taxes collected and paid to the steward in the past year. Include anything unusual, late payments, shortages, complaints. I want to understand the flow of coin."
The mayor swallowed. "Of course, Your Grace. I'll have it on your desk by Marketday."
She gave a single, sharp nod, then turned to Ser Edgar. "What of the guard's needs? Shortages? Repairs?"
Ser Edgar hesitated, pride wrestling with honesty. "We're short on shields and leather, Your Grace. Helmets, too. The fire destroyed the old armory. We patch what we can, but… it's not what it should be. Morale is good. The young lads are eager. We could do with a new fence for training, and perhaps—" he hesitated, glancing at Elyne "—guidance, if you or your people are so inclined."
Grace's lips twitched again. "I'll see what we can do. I'd like your recommendations on discipline and drill, Ser Edgar. You know this city better than anyone."
He bowed low. "It will be done."
Grace looked back to the mayor. "The villages outside, are there any problems with lawlessness, famine, anything the city should know?"
The mayor shook his head. "Some petty theft, a little poaching in the woods, but nothing grave. The villagers are… hard-working, Your Grace. Loyal, if wary. The farms were slow to recover after the fires, but last year's harvest was the best since the war. With luck, this year will be better still. And with you here…" He faltered, hope and anxiety mixing in his eyes. "With you here, Your Grace, people believe it can be better. The children—" he hesitated, almost embarrassed "—they talk about you already, Princess. They say Gatewick's luck is changing."
Grace felt a flicker of irritation, a twist in her gut at the word "luck," at the way the mayor's eyes shone as if she was already some myth walking. She wasn't here to be a story for children, or a beacon for people desperate to believe in something again. She was here to rule.
"Children always believe in luck," she said, voice dry, "but luck runs out. I expect the adults to do better. Keep the city running. Give them something real to believe in."
The mayor nodded quickly, flustered, but Ser Edgar only looked more convinced.
Grace let the silence hang. She was supposed to be the child here, but the weight in the room was hers now, and both men could feel it. She'd been given a city. She would make it hers.
She shifted slightly, hands folded in her lap. "If there are disputes or issues, bring them to me. I want to know my people, not just the numbers on a ledger. And as for the steward—" She let herself grin, all teeth. "I'll deal with him personally. You needn't worry about him interfering again."
The mayor paled, but nodded. Ser Edgar just inclined his head, the barest flicker of relief in his eyes.
Grace rose from the throne or at least slid forward enough for her toes to touch the floor. "You may go, for now. Thank you for your candor. We'll speak again soon."
The two men bowed, deeper this time, then backed away and retreated through the great doors, the herald scurrying after them.
Grace slumped back against the cold obsidian. While Elyne leaned in, voice quiet, with pride shining in her eyes. "Well done, Grace."
--::--
The thick doors of the castle keep boomed shut behind them, echoing down the long stone corridor. Ser Edgar and Mayor Harlon found themselves in a hush that felt somehow heavier than the audience itself. Beyond the portcullis, a handful of town guards snapped to attention—boys, really, most not much older than Harlon's own sons—arrayed stiffly to escort them back to the town proper. The formality struck Harlon as almost surreal after the strange, chilly grandeur of the throne room.
Edgar nodded to the guards and set a steady pace down the winding path, his long stride easy despite his age. The spring air outside was sharp and bracing, a world away from the shadow-drenched cold of the keep. Harlon hurried to keep up, hands twisting his hat as he glanced over his shoulder at the castle one last time.
For a while, neither man spoke. They descended through the gate, out beneath the Ashford banner, then into the winding streets of Gatewick, where a few townsfolk peered from windows, eyes wide with curiosity. The two men walked in silence until the castle was hidden behind them and the clatter of their guards' boots had faded to the rhythm of ordinary life.
Finally, Harlon broke the quiet, voice low and uncertain. "That was… something else, Edgar. Not what I expected at all."
Ser Edgar grunted, his weathered face hard to read. "No, not what I expected either. She's… young, but she's not a child. Did you see the way she watched us? That little one reminded me of the old Lady Ashford, gods rest her. But colder. Colder, and something else, like she's looking at you and through you both at once."
The mayor nodded, absently running a hand over his thinning hair. "Aye. I nearly tripped over my own tongue. I thought maybe she'd want parades, sweet cakes, a show for the town. Instead, she's already asking about taxes, lands, and reports." He hesitated, glancing at Edgar. "Did you see the way she listened? Not just polite, like the other highborn, she was weighing every word, like a merchant at market. It unsettled me."
Edgar allowed himself a thin, almost approving smile. "That's the old Ashford way. Old Lady Ashford was like that in her prime. Didn't waste time on flattery or fools."
They walked past the edge of the green, heading toward the lower streets where more villagers gathered, some pretending to sweep doorsteps or tend market stalls but really listening, always listening for news.
The mayor sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't complain. The town's not seen a real ruler in over a decade. Still, did you notice the knights? Armed to the teeth. She's got more steel behind her than I could muster if I emptied the whole guardhouse twice over. The townsfolk will talk."
Ser Edgar's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "They'll talk, but they'll sleep easier, too. With the kingdom and Ashford at each other's throats, and beastkin lurking across the wilds… I can't fault Lady Liliana for sending a proper force. But still—" He shook his head, voice dropping. "There's power in that throne room now, and it's not just the swords at her side. There's something brewing, Harlon. You feel it, too?"
Harlon nodded grimly. "It's not just the empire, or the war, or even the Ashfords. It's her. She's—" He struggled for words. "—she's a signal. Like a bell tolling in the night. Gatewick won't be left on the edge anymore, not with the princess back. Not with the duchess calling herself empress. Change is coming."
The silence stretched between them as they walked, the castle shrinking behind a bend in the road. The guards who accompanied them peeled away to patrol the main square, leaving the two men alone at last.
Edgar stopped at the base of a battered statue, a knight of old, sword lifted in a salute that had weathered both war and neglect. He turned, voice low. "You heard what she said about the steward? Gods know what he did, but she's not afraid to take the reins. That's a warning if I ever heard one."
The mayor's brow furrowed. "We'll have to find out the story from the castle staff. See if the steward's sons make any trouble in town. For now, best to keep the peace, keep the council on her good side."
Ser Edgar grunted in agreement. "We'll watch and wait, and make sure Gatewick's ready for whatever happens next."
They stood a moment longer, gazes turning northward where, in the distance, the new imperial banners still fluttered at the keep. The new era had begun, and neither man doubted that the little girl on the obsidian throne would play a larger part in their lives than either had ever expected.
Finally, they parted ways with a silent nod, each man returning to his own duties, hearts heavy with questions and the weight of change pressing close behind.