By Her Grace – a progressive Isekai Light Novel

Breaking Points

Everything was dark around him.

Ronan's head throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache, as though the street itself had risen up and struck him. He groaned, trying to move, but his arms refused to answer. A rope, rough and tight, was digging into his wrists. He twisted uselessly, but all he felt was the burning numbness of blood starved from his hands.

Slowly, fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. The market. The tavern. The messenger's face. The chase through the alleys. His certainty that this time, finally, he had him. Then the corner, the shadows—and the sudden explosion of pain.

The traitor.

Ronan clenched his teeth. That man was the reason everything had gone wrong. The false report. The charge. Steve's death. His own disgrace. Everything in his life had collapsed because of him. He had followed with nothing but fury driving his steps, and now… here he was.

Fear crept in, cold and slow. Where was he? A cellar? A warehouse? He forced his eyes open but found only blackness. No windows, no hint of light. The air smelled of old stone, damp and close. He shifted again, and the rope bit deeper. His shoulders screamed from being pulled too far back.

"Why me," he whispered, breath shuddering. His own voice sounded strange, hollow. "Why always me…"

He tried to move his hands again, but they were numb blocks of flesh, heavy and useless. The pins and needles burned as he flexed his fingers. It had to have been hours since they tied him like this.

Ronan swallowed hard. He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but his throat was raw and dry. Panic pressed at his chest. He forced himself to breathe; slow, steady, one breath at a time. If he lost control now, he was finished.

The sound of a door scraping open made him freeze. A crack of faint lantern-light spilled into the blackness, burning his eyes. Footsteps followed, they were measured, and calm.

Someone was here.

Ronan's heart pounded, loud in his ears. He turned his head toward the sound, blinking through the haze, straining to see who stepped into the room.

"Are you awake?"

The voice was rough, low, like gravel grinding against stone.

Ronan stiffened. He tried to focus his eyes, but the lantern was turned too low to illuminate anything beyond the vague silhouette of a man. All he could make out was dark leather, a presence broad-shouldered and steady.

For a heartbeat, Ronan considered pretending he was still unconscious. But his dry throat betrayed him with a croak. "…Yes." He swallowed. "Who are you?"

The man ignored the question. He bent down, setting a small clay jar of water and a chunk of bread on the ground before Ronan. Then he snapped his fingers.

Ronan froze. He couldn't see mana, not like the mages did, but the sensation was unmistakable; the ripple in the air, the shift of pressure that brushed against his skin. In the same instant, the rope binding his wrists slithered apart and fell to the ground in coils.

Ronan flexed his arms with a hiss. His legs and ankles were still bound, but he didn't move. He had seen enough to know—whoever this man was, he wielded power Ronan couldn't hope to resist. Wrestling him down and running was out of the question.

Instead, he seized the jar and drank greedily. The water was stale, metallic, but it felt like life itself as it poured down his throat. He gasped for breath between gulps, then tore off a piece of bread and chewed, not caring about the dryness that scraped his tongue.

The man stood there, silent, watching. Ronan could feel his eyes on him, heavy, and measuring.

At last, the voice came again. "We can make a deal. One that frees you, and restores your reputation in the kingdom."

Ronan froze mid-bite. The kingdom. His mind reeled. Was this man from Virethorn? Or perhaps… worse?

He forced himself to speak slowly. "And what deal… do we need to make?"

The man leaned forward slightly, and in the dim glow, Ronan saw it—the sudden flash of white teeth as he grinned. Until now, his face had been swallowed by darkness. But that grin cut through like fangs, sharp and unnatural.

"You see," the man said softly, "it's not so bad at all. We both have the same inconvenience. You simply have to bring your wife to us, and we will dispose of her. In return, you gain her dowry, her influence… and, of course, your reputation restored. We have proof, as you already suspect, that the fault on the battlefield was never yours."

Ronan choked on his own breath, coughing until the bread caught in his throat burned down. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Selira. They wanted him to betray her? To deliver her into their hands?

"Why?" His voice cracked. "Why her?"

The man chuckled, low and dry, the sound echoing off the damp stone walls.

"Because you married her. Wasn't she Alaric's betrothed? And then she would have been Cedric's, after Alaric died? Luckily for you, both met their end at nearly the same time. Only you remained in the end." His tone curled with amusement. "Aren't you sick of getting the scraps your older brothers left behind?"

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Ronan's breath caught. He said nothing.

But the words cut. Yes, it was true. After Alaric's and Cedric's death, everything had unraveled. He'd been torn away from the capital, from the warmth and ease of courtly life. Forced to leave behind the salons, the music, the art he loved. No one cared what he wanted. He had returned to Ashford, not as Ronan the courtier, but as Ronan the last surviving son.

He had inherited their duties, their weight, their burdens, and the cold, endless stares of everyone who compared him to them and found him lacking. Liliana had expected him to marry Selira, to take the match his brothers would have taken. It wasn't a marriage of love. It had been obligation. Expectation. And now Selira, with her beauty and her sharp eyes, treated him with nothing but disdain, as if he was an embarrassment chained to her side.

Ronan clenched his fists weakly against the ropes on his legs. "…You want to kill her because she married me? The spare… and not my brothers?"

The man tilted his head. For a moment his grin widened, sharp as a blade. "Are you an id—" He stopped himself, cutting the word short. Then, with deliberate calm, he said: "No. It is because it is necessary that Selira is no Ashford. After your brothers died, we assumed she would never marry into the house. Yet here we are, aren't we?"

Ronan's throat went dry.

The man leaned closer, his voice heavy. "So. What do you say? We can free you. Not only from these shackles…" His hand flicked lazily at the ropes binding Ronan's legs. "…but from your fate as a spare. A nobody, forever living in their shadow."

The grin returned, teeth flashing like fangs in the lantern's glow.

"All it costs you is one woman."

--::--

Grace sat in the high-backed chair like it had always been hers. The mayor's office was bigger than expected, a polished oak desk, tall windows with heavy curtains, the faint smell of ink and candle wax clinging to the air. It was a place meant to make someone feel important.

Mayor Harlon, however, looked like he wanted to disappear into the grain of his own desk. He wrung his hands and gave her a nervous smile.

"I'm so sorry you have to deal with this, my Princess…"

Grace flicked her wrist, dismissive. "It's fine. Sometimes everyone needs a good walk. And I'm glad I made it in time to our scheduled meeting, Mayor Harlon."

His smile faltered. He had probably expected her governess at her side, Elyne doing the talking, her looming presence making everything proper. Instead, he'd been greeted by her; a little girl strolling in with two knights, a corpse, a half-dead guardsman, and two prisoners like she'd just brought groceries from the market. And her Governess was nowhere in sight.

Grace crossed her legs at the knee with practiced ease and rested her chin on one hand. "So, Mayor Harlon," she said sweetly, "shall we begin?"

He cleared his throat, fingers twitching over the neat stacks of parchment. "Yes, of course, Your Highness. I had intended… well, Lady Elyne and I were going to—"

"Compare the ledgers, check the accounts," Grace interrupted smoothly. "Yes. That is still the plan. Only I will be the one reading them, since my Governess seems delayed. You don't mind, do you?"

Harlon hesitated just a fraction too long. "N-no, of course not, Your Highness."

Grace smiled faintly. A soft little thing, it was polite, and perfect. But inside her head, she rolled her eyes hard enough to rattle.

He doesn't think I can do it. Just because I'm small. Maybe I should just get rid of him too, the expansion of my dungeon is already planned so… at least mentally. Well, whatever.

The silence stretched. Harlon coughed. "Well… the books are in order here." He slid the ledgers across the desk as if placing a sacred relic. "You'll see all transactions recorded, the tariffs collected, the grain shipments…"

Grace flipped the first ledger open without waiting for him to finish, the weighty book thumping softly on the desk. Neat columns. Clean numbers. For a moment she almost smirked.

Neat. Almost too neat. Like a student copying from the smart kid next to him.

She traced one small finger down the margin, already spotting the rhythm—weekly collections, payments in and out. The pattern was there, clear as a melody.

"Mm," she murmured. "This part looks good."

Harlon's shoulders loosened a little.

Her eyes flicked up to him. "For now."

He stiffened again.

Grace hid her grin behind her hand. Gods, he's easy. A little pressure and he looks ready to faint. Don't faint mayor! Noooo…

She leaned back in her chair, tapping the edge of the ledger with one nail. "Mayor Harlon, tell me… do you think Gatewick's people are happy right now?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "Happy…? Your Highness, I… the harvest has been steady, and the tariffs—"

"That wasn't the question."

His mouth opened, then shut again.

Grace let her eyes narrow just a fraction, enough for him to notice. If I were my mother, I'd crush him here. Smile, and make him beg for his position. Should I? No. Not yet. Better to see how long it takes before he shows his true colors.

She tapped the book again. "We'll come back to that. For now, walk me through these tariffs. Slowly, so even a little girl can understand."

The way he paled was almost funny. There. That's right. If they insist on treating me like a child, I'll play the part. And when they least expect it—snap.

Grace propped her cheek on her fist again, smiling faintly as the mayor scrambled for his words.

This was already more entertaining than she thought it would be.

--::--

Clara screamed.

It felt like her whole body was on fire, flames licking through her veins, tearing her apart from the inside. The pain was nothing she had ever known before, like her very skin and bones were being burned away.

"Hold her down!" Elyne's voice cut through the haze, sharp and steady. She was already pressing Clara against the floor, her palm flat against Clara's chest as magic runes flared into the air above them, glowing in harsh, shifting patterns.

"Everything is fine—you almost did it, Clara!" Elyne urged, though her tone carried no softness, only urgency.

Around them, the room was chaos. Maids stood at the ready, pale-faced and trembling, but holding position. At the bark of an order, two bolted from the chamber—"Bring me more mana pearls! And someone fetch Lord Weran, now!"—their footsteps fading fast down the corridor.

The world around Clara blurred, nothing but noise and heat and pain. Why? Why today? Why now?

This morning had started so well. She'd been in the garden with Ser Aldwin, her house knight. Everyone they passed had greeted her kindly. They had recognized her. Seen her. For once she wasn't invisible, wasn't the overlooked shadow of someone else's story. She had smiled all morning, wanting to thank Grace later—Grace, her friend, who had supported her when she felt lonely, when she felt small and insignificant. Grace, who had made her feel real.

She had been so happy when the maid came with the message: Lady Grace had finished her audience and was walking to the city hall. The maid had asked Clara to join her. She remembered beaming, her heart light.

And then everything had gone wrong.

Still in the garden, her vision had twisted, gone hazy. The air grew heavy. Her body overheated until her knees buckled beneath her. Ser Aldwin had caught her before she hit the ground, shouting her name, and then shouting for help.

She could barely remember what came after. The blur of Elyne running toward her, the flash of runes forming overhead, Aldwin's frantic voice fading as everything inside her turned molten.

The pain doubled, and Clara screamed again. Her back arched, but Elyne's hand pressed her firmly down, forcing her still.

"Calm, Clara. You must calm." Elyne's voice was cold, commanding, even as beads of sweat trickled down her temple. "I need to extract the surplus mana from your body before it tears you apart."

Another rune ignited above her, searing bright, and one of the pearls at Elyne's side burst into a glow. It flared, absorbing some of the overflow, then fell dim and cracked onto the floor with a faint ping.

And still the fire inside Clara burned.