By Her Grace – a progressive Isekai Light Novel

The Birth Of An Empire

Liliana of Ashford had never been a woman who waited for permission. The world was shifting beneath her feet, and if she had to be the axis it spun on, so be it. Steel in her chest, maps and futures in her mind, she moved with the precision of someone who had no patience for the slow, careful games of lesser nobility. Time was a knife, and today, she was the one holding it.

The first move was simple: send Grace away. Gatewick, the crumbling jewel of her own childhood, would be her daughter's crucible. It was a test, but also a gesture, half exile, half trust. The old keep with its haunted halls and frost-bitten gardens had once been the pride of Ashford, but now it was a forgotten backwater. If Grace could rule Gatewick, she could rule anything. Because the people in Gatewick were, kindly said; special. Liliana was almost curious to see how her daughter would remake it, or herself, in the process.

In private, Liliana was forced to admit her pride in Grace. There were moments when she caught herself smiling, soft, fleeting moments she banished at once as weakness. Grace was brilliant, merciless when she needed to be, almost unsettling in her intensity for a child so young. Liliana glimpsed herself in the girl. And sometimes, she saw something altogether unfamiliar, something that felt like both a warning and a promise.

Boran was right, she thought, lips quirking in a rare moment of humor. The goddess Iras truly had her eye on the Ashford bloodline, as she'd had on Liliana herself, and all those chosen before. Sometimes she wondered if that old fossil in his violet gem had truly planned it all from the start, or if he simply liked to show off. If he hadn't failed half a millennium ago, she wouldn't be here now, building empires out of dust. But fate was a beast with sharp teeth and a long memory for debts. Today, she meant to settle one.

The glory days of Virethorn were finished. The last so-called Warrior King had died not long after Boran, centuries past, and with him, the royal line had withered, their blood grown thin and complacent. While they slumbered, Ashford endured: harsh, proud, unyielding, quietly collecting debts owed by the world. For generations, they had kept the flame. For generations, they had watched history turn, slow, inevitable, circling back to the place where power must finally be taken, not begged for.

History is a joke, she mused, told by victors and forgotten by their fools. It was time to remind the world who had written the punchline.

The summons went out in the dead of night. By noon, Valewick's great hall was crowded with the cream of Ashford nobility, their sworn allies, and the last of the old knights whose loyalties could be counted in blood rather than coin. The mood was tense, a mixture of fear, pride, and naked ambition. Liliana stood at the head of the hall, eyes hard and calculating, not bothering with suspense.

She raised every noble's status to the new imperial standard, sweeping aside the kingdom's brittle hierarchy as if clearing away cobwebs. Barons became Viscounts Imperial. Viscounts rose to Earls Imperial. Each title now bore the imperial seal. She went further, elevating those knights whose loyalty had been tested and proven to the rank of Baron Imperial. Each new baron was granted a territory in name only, lands that would be theirs if they could take and hold them for the empire. Power, in this new world, would be won, not inherited.

Clara's father, the father of her daughter's friend, who had once been nothing more than Baron of Bellgrave, now stood as Viscount Imperial. She saw his hands trembling, pride and terror in equal measure as he realized the size of the burden he'd just accepted. All around, old loyalties were rewarded, old grievances put aside, and every noble in that hall understood that their fates were now chained to the fate of the empire itself.

Liliana was not content to build only upward. She looked outward, too. The neighboring duchies with their shifting alliances and ancient grudges would not be left out of this new order. In a voice that brooked no argument, she declared Ashford the heartland of the empire, Valewick its new capital. The maps would be redrawn. Old borders would become old memories. Then, in what even her enemies would later call the masterstroke, she elevated the Duke of Velmire to King Imperial of the West—a title nearly equal to her own. Velmire's ships and gold, its hunger for trade, would feed the empire. In return, Velmire's Duke knelt in open court and swore loyalty to Liliana, swearing on steel and salt. The hall erupted in applause, some of it even genuine.

But titles were only one piece of the puzzle. In the heartland, Liliana turned her attention to faith. The old churches, those twisted relics of the Schism, were declared false in Ashford's lands. Only two would remain: the Church of Dawn and the Church of Light, each a keeper of Iras's ancient flame. Still, she was careful not to fracture her empire at its birth. In Velmire, the Church of Velarion, god of water, was permitted to flourish. The empire would not splinter over dogma.

But the message was unmistakable. In Ashford, the "new" faiths were purged. The empire's state religions were the ancient ways restored, as they had been before the big schism. Iras's light would guide Ashford forward, and Liliana would see to it that no one forgot whose hand shaped their destiny.

But ambition is a ladder with no top. Liliana's gaze was already fixed beyond Virethorn. The empire was not an end, but a beginning, one piece of a larger, hungrier design. There was an order to things, and she would not misstep. The official coronation would come later, after the old kingdom's bones had been ground to dust.

For now, there was war. Real war. Ashford's armies poured out across the land, imperial banners unfurling over fields that had not seen order in a generation.

Within days, Montclair returned to Valewick, the living legend riding at the head of the First Legion. They came with iron discipline and crimson banners, nearly twenty thousand strong, their armor burnished, their faces set. There were no significant losses. The kingdom's Second Army was scattered. The heads of royal soldiers, strung on sharpened stakes, lined the camp's approach, a warning that even fools could understand.

Liliana met Montclair at the gate. The exchange was brief but heavy with the weight of shared history. Victory, loss, the knowledge that the future would be paid for in blood. Before the new court, Liliana named Montclair of Ashford as Lady Protector of the Empire, a title that was more than ceremonial. It was power, and everyone in the room understood it.

But even this was only the overture. That same day, Liliana declared an all-out war. All legions were summoned, the call to arms echoing through every mountain pass and river valley. Every noble, every imperial vassal, was commanded to raise their banners and march. There would be no neutrality, no hesitation. The wheel of fate would grind forward, and those too slow would be crushed beneath it.

And the churches were ready. More than ready. They were ravenous. The Church of Dawn and the Church of Light flung open their doors, priests and zealots surging into the streets, their words fire and blade. From the pulpit to the market square, from the barracks to the most battered villages, a new gospel was preached: the kingdom was rotten, its people made soft by a godless age. Only fire and faith could cleanse the world.

The zealots were relentless. They damned the king, the kingdom, and every soul who clung to the old ways. Their rhetoric sharpened with each passing day. Anyone outside the true faith—those who clung to broken temples, the tepid gods, or the fading comforts of the past—were named as enemies of the light, deserving neither pity nor mercy. The crowds listened, divided. Some wept, some shouted in ecstasy, others slipped away in the night, already sensing which way the wind was blowing.

The truly chilling thing, even for the oldest, hardest nobles, was how openly the churches now spoke of the old ways. Priests of Iras stood in the squares and demanded not just prayers, but sacrifice. Blood for the dawn, offerings for the Children of Light. Rituals that had lived only in half-remembered legend were now performed in daylight, sanctioned by imperial decree.

Liliana herself stood beside the high priest at the central altar, Montclair at her right, the generals at her left. With ritual calm, she drew her own blood, let it spill across ancient stone. The spectacle was as calculated as it was symbolic. A line between awe and terror. The crowd gasped, then roared their approval. She met their eyes and let them see that she was not afraid.

Her support for the church went further. She declared the return of the Inquisition, a word that sent a ripple of genuine fear through the hall. The Inquisition, once the terror of traitors and apostates, now had full authority to root out heresy, hunt disloyalty, and burn away all that threatened the empire's purity. Some loyalists murmured. Others stiffened. Liliana only smiled, cold and serene.

In that moment, the empire's foundation became something more than banners and decrees. It became a living thing, a force bound by sword and faith and fear. The old kingdom had survived on compromise and habit; the empire would be built on momentum, myth, and the will to enforce both. The message was unmistakable: become part of the new world, or be erased by it.

And as the fires of the new faith leapt higher, and the drums of war thundered through every city and field, Liliana rode at the center of an army Ashford had not seen in centuries. Four legions—nearly one hundred thousand strong—marched for the Crown Duchy, their banners black and gold, their purpose as bright and merciless as sunrise. The birth of empire was not a matter of votes or prayers. It was a matter of will, sharpened into history's blade. And this time, she would be the one to write it.

--::--

And while everything outside was being rewritten at the speed of imperial decree, Grace was bored out of her mind.

The mayor's report had arrived on Marketday, thick with apologetic ink. She'd skimmed it twice. The numbers never got prettier on a second look. Grace squinted at the columns, searching for anything that looked like hope, or at least a hidden pile of gold. "You'd think being crowned would at least come with a chest of jewels," she muttered, flipping another page.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Across the little study table, Elyne looked just as weary. That was new, usually, when things were dull, she turned into some sort of etiquette golem, ready to lecture Grace about posture or penmanship. Not today. Today, even Elyne had the decency to look unimpressed.

Grace poked at a row of expenses. "This is tragic. Did the steward eat all the grain himself or just sell it for wine?"

Elyne pinched the bridge of her nose, half-smiling. "You have a maintenance grant from the Crown, Grace, but Gatewick's revenue is… modest. Barely enough to keep the estate running."

"A princess with a maintenance budget," Grace snorted. "Sounds like a fairytale for accountants. Am I supposed to tax the air next?"

"Don't tempt the mayor," Elyne said, deadpan. "But no. If you want to improve anything—repairs, projects, actual progress—you'll need to find new sources of income. Smuggling is discouraged."

Grace grinned. She always wondered how many rules she could break before Elyne's hair turned gray. "So, I can't just threaten the merchants with my new knight order and take their cookies?"

Elyne sighed. "You could, but then you'd need to find new merchants. And new cookies. Besides, it's not all bad. The city has potential. The books just… haven't had good news in years."

Grace let her head flop onto the ledger, arms splayed dramatically. "I am defeated by arithmetic. The steward squeezed every copper from these lands, and left us the peels."

"Welcome to noble inheritance," Elyne said, surprisingly gentle. She closed the ledger with a satisfying thump and nudged it away from Grace's face. "No one expects you to solve Gatewick overnight."

Grace let the silence hang. The fire crackled in the hearth. She felt, for a moment, very small, and very, very bored.

If I wanted to spend my days reading budget reports, I could have stayed on Earth and worked for the IRS. No, thank you. At least then, the villains wore suits and smiled for the cameras.

She straightened up, shaking off the mood. "Let's do something else. My brain is melting. I haven't left the castle in two days. If I stay here any longer, I'll start talking to the curtains."

Elyne arched an eyebrow. "Fresh air, Your Highness?"

"And exercise. You promised I could explore the city once things settled. It's as settled as it'll get." Grace rolled her shoulders, relishing the idea of moving, of doing something. "I want to see my city properly. No disguises, no hiding. Just… walk around. Meet people. Maybe buy an apple and glare at anyone who bows too much."

Elyne didn't even try to argue. She looked almost relieved. "That's a good idea. You'll make an impression, and hear what people won't put in reports. But you'll need an escort. The city is safe enough, but you are the princess."

Grace smirked. "I want Clara with me. She's probably reading herself blind in some tower, pretending not to miss home."

Elyne smiled, soft for a heartbeat. "I'll have her fetched. Do you want the full entourage, or just a few guards?"

Grace considered. "Just a few. If people see a parade, they'll all hide. Besides, if anyone tries anything, I'll let Clara bite them."

"I doubt Clara bites," Elyne said, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She moved to the door, then paused, turning back. "You'll want your hair done, I suppose?"

Grace grinned. "Obviously. I may be poor now, but I'll look like an empress while I'm at it."

Elyne left, calling for a servant to find Clara. Grace slumped back in her chair, legs dangling. So, this was ruling. Budget sheets, dry land, and barely enough coins to buy new shoes. Mother would probably laugh herself breathless if she saw me now.

But she felt the weight of it, too. The city, the people, the name Ashford. She was supposed to be the spark that turned all this dust into fire. No pressure, right? She let herself smile, eyes tracing the flicker of flames in the hearth. Soon enough, she'd get to see what kind of world she'd been given to rule.

And if she was lucky, maybe she'd even find something fun to break along the way.

--::--

Marketday. The best day of the week, in Liam's opinion, even better when you were off duty and the sun was out, burning the mist off Gatewick's steep streets. He walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Myra, boots clacking over worn stones, both of them grinning in spite of themselves. The city felt different now, the air sharper, the colors brighter. It was as if Gatewick itself had finally decided to wake up and see what all the noise was about.

"Myra, do you think an empire is bigger than a kingdom?" he asked suddenly, weaving past a peddler hawking honeyed nuts.

She snorted. "Of course, it is, dummy. You can hear it in the name—empire. Big, important, scary. They probably have more paperwork, too."

He made a face. "I hope not. I've had enough paperwork to last me a lifetime. But it's good, isn't it? Ashford being above everything now?" He said it quietly, but there was pride in his voice. Home had always been Ashford first, Virethorn second.

Myra just shrugged, tugging her cloak tighter as they entered the buzz of the main market square. "Better for business, I think. Everyone's buying fancy cloth now that the princess is here. The nobles from the castle want sashes, new capes, all that. I've never sewn so many gold threads in my life."

Liam grinned at her. "Maybe I'll see you sewing a dress for the princess herself one day."

"Maybe I'll be sewing up your trousers when you get them ripped, soldier boy." She rolled her eyes, but he saw the fondness beneath it.

He nearly tripped over a little boy darting past with a basket of apples. All around them, market stalls spilled onto the cobbles, farmers selling bread, cheeses, cider; a butcher's wagon with salted pork; a cart stacked high with jars of wild honey. The smells made his stomach grumble.

But today, he wasn't here for food. Today, he had a mission. He patted his coin pouch—a whole two silver coins, hard-earned and saved for half a year. "You think two silvers will get me a good dagger?" he asked Myra, lowering his voice, suddenly a little self-conscious.

She cocked her head, sizing him up with a tailor's eye. "Depends what you want it for. If it's for showing off, any old blade will do. But if you want something that'll last… well, don't get swindled. You always go soft when old man Ferren tells you a good story."

"I do not!" he protested, but he flushed a little. Old Ferren had sold him his last knife, a crooked thing with a "history," which turned out to be a kitchen knife. Still, today he was determined. "I want something real. The princess is here, right? There's going to be soldiers. I want to be ready. Maybe… join her guard. If she ever needs anyone from Gatewick."

Myra smiled at him, and for a second her eyes were soft. "You always wanted to be a hero, Liam. But don't forget, heroes come home, too. So, no charging dragons, all right?"

He grinned, a little embarrassed by her earnestness, and shoved her lightly on the shoulder. "No promises. Unless you make me a shirt with dragons on it for luck."

She laughed, the sound bright and alive above the market chatter. "Deal. If you get into the guard, I'll sew you a whole cloak of dragons."

They squeezed through a knot of townsfolk near the weapon stalls, the glint of steel catching the sun. Liam's heart beat a little faster. This was it, his first step toward something more. Maybe next year, he'd be in black armor too, the people cheering as he marched beside Princess Grace. Maybe.

He was just imagining how he'd look in an imperial breastplate when a commotion swept across the far edge of the market. Shouts and startled exclamations rippled through the crowd, the usual cheerful noise of Marketday shifting to something urgent. The mass of bodies thickened and shifted, people craning their necks, some shoving forward, others stepping quickly aside. Liam's hand tightened on Myra's wrist. "Let's see!" he breathed, and she was already dragging him, both of them fighting to slip through the press of bodies.

It took only seconds to see the source: a line of towering knights in black armor, faces hidden by visored helms, were pushing a respectful path through the crowd. They moved like a wall of iron, their Ashford sigils gleaming in the sun, clearing space as if by gravity alone. Between them walked a woman whose cloak trailed over the dusty stones, a battle mage, the very same one who had spoken at the gates, runes shimmering faintly on her sleeves. And with her, flanked by honor, walked two girls.

Myra gripped his arm, her voice hushed but wild with wonder. "It's her. That's the princess! Here, in the market!"

She wasn't the only one to notice. The entire market seemed to pause, the shouts and bargaining and laughter sucked away as recognition dawned. One by one, men and women sank to their knees, heads bowed, the weight of tradition and pride settling on every shoulder. Liam hesitated only a heartbeat before kneeling as well, the cobblestones digging into his knee. He'd seen Princess Grace once, from a distance at the gates, but this was different. Here, she was close enough to touch, close enough to see that she was real.

He couldn't help himself; he glanced up as he knelt. She was smaller than he'd expected, young, yes, but there was something about her that pulled the eye. Golden curls fell in perfect, almost otherworldly waves, framing a face that was at once delicate and sharp. Her eyes—startlingly blue—were clear and unflinching. She wore noble traveler's clothes, but nothing too extravagant: deep blue tunic, riding boots, and a crimson cloak edged with silver. She looked both a princess and, somehow, a storybook spirit, like the fae from the old tales his mother used to whisper.

Beside her walked another girl, striking in a different way. She had a wild mane of dark curls, green eyes bright as sunlight in summer grass, and cheeks flushed with excitement. Even Myra, usually hard to impress, leaned close and murmured, "Cute," under her breath.

The hush held, hundreds of Gatewick's best and worst kneeling in a sea of bowed heads. For a moment, there was only the sound of the banners flapping in the wind and the distant cry of gulls down by the river. Then the princess spoke.

Her voice was young, but it carried, clear and sure as a bell. "Good people of Gatewick," she called, "you can rise! Don't let me keep you from your daily business." There was a pause, a murmur of uncertainty as people straightened, but Grace pressed on. "I am here only to visit my home. The city my mother, and her mother before her, have defended. The city my forefathers founded. I have come to see the people who never faltered, not even when the odds were against us. The people who rebuilt Gatewick with their own hands after barbarians burned it down."

Her words hit like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. For a breathless second, silence clung to the crowd, and then—cheers erupted. They were raw, full-throated, the kind of sound that made a boy's chest ache with pride and longing. Liam found himself shouting with them, his voice lost in a thousand others.

"She sounds like the old Lady Ashford," someone whispered nearby.

"She's so little," someone else murmured, "but she's one of us."

Amid the cheering, the mayor—red-faced and breathless—shoved his way to the front, guards in tow, to give his welcome. He looked utterly overwhelmed, bowing again and again, his words tumbling out too fast for anyone to follow. The princess only smiled, taking it all in stride, and moved on. Her gaze swept the market, lingering on the food stalls, the craftsmen's tables, the families lining the square. She listened as the mayor chattered, nodding now and then, but her attention seemed always elsewhere, taking in every color, every face, every sign of life.

Liam watched her, caught between awe and envy. She could have been frightened, or bored, or proud, but she looked curious, almost eager. Like she wanted to know them all, the people she'd been sent to rule. As she moved through the market, heads turned, vendors jostled to show their wares, children scrambled for a closer look. For the first time in years, Gatewick didn't feel forgotten. It felt… chosen.

"She really is like a fairy tale," Myra whispered, her voice soft.

Liam didn't answer. He just watched as the little princess wove her way through the market, sunlight catching on her golden hair, a hundred hopeful faces reflected in her eyes. Around her, the city seemed to glow, old wounds fading, old pride rising like dawn over stone walls. She was just a girl, but to Gatewick she was something more: a promise kept, a legend reborn, a sign that everything could finally change.

For the first time in years, Gatewick believed in tomorrow.