By Her Grace – a progressive Isekai Light Novel

Selira's Dilemma

Selira sat elegantly, posture flawless, in the opulent drawing room of her new mansion. Sunlight poured through tall arched windows, glinting off polished glassware and gilded trim. The sofas were upholstered in velvet, the rugs thick and lush, every detail screaming wealth and permanence.

Across from her, Lady Angela of House Veylor leaned forward, bracelets chiming as she gestured animatedly. "It really is beautiful, Selira. The light in this room—it's so bright compared to the old estates in Velmire. A noblewoman could get used to mornings here."

Lady Kristin of House Halwyn gave a softer smile, eyes traveling up to the carved ceiling beams. "It's perfect for you. Truly. Valewick is colder than I imagined, but this mansion makes it feel warmer. My father would faint if he saw how much detail was carved into the fireplace alone."

They had brought their wedding gifts today, gifts that would have been presented at the ceremony, had there been time to prepare. Angela had gifted a gilded mirror, Kristin a delicate set of gemstone hairpins. Thoughtful, extravagant enough to be proper, and both presented with genuine care.

Selira inclined her head, her tone gracious. "I thank you both. Your families have been most generous."

She folded her hands in her lap, the picture of poise. Inwardly, her mind moved elsewhere.

Ronan had stopped visiting. Two whole days without a knock on her door, without another clumsy attempt at reconciliation, without flowers or poorly written poems shoved into her hand. For once, she had peace in her own home. She should have been relieved. And she was, partly. Yet… it was not like him. He had been desperate to win her back, pathetic as his efforts were. To vanish so abruptly? It was strange, even for him.

She had asked Garrin Stormrest, who was preparing to leave for Velmire. Garrin claimed he would "look into it" before leaving. Selira disliked that man deeply, but he was useful, and loyal, too. She could tolerate men like that.

She exhaled softly, setting the thought aside as Angela and Kristin's chatter filled the room.

"And of course," Angela said, eyes sparkling, "you're now the future Duchess of Ashford. That's certain. And when Ronan inherits, well… it is possible he could be Emperor one day, isn't it?"

Kristin nodded quickly, her cheeks pink. "It's exciting, Selira. Truly. To think we're here with you at the start of it all."

Selira gave them a faint smile. She appreciated these two, more than she cared to admit aloud. Their laughter and chatter created a mood, a little sphere of warmth where her thoughts could breathe. It was the best time for her to think about important things without interruption.

The conversation drifted toward their new accommodations, and both Angela and Kristin seemed delighted with the mansions Selira had arranged for them. Smaller homes than her own, certainly, but still in the noble district, if just on the border. The Valewick noble district was hideously expensive, every townhouse costing as much as an estate back in Velmire, but both girls were satisfied. Better than being quartered in the drafty guest wing of the Ashford estate.

Besides, Valewick was alive in a way the Ashford Estate had never been. Here, the city thrummed with culture—bars spilling with music, orchestras in gilded halls, theaters on every corner, whole streets lined with boutiques, markets overflowing with imported luxuries. This was where power and wealth truly mingled.

Selira let their chatter wash over her, using it to fuel her own thoughts.

She needed to use this moment. The upheaval in Ashford was dangerous for some, but for her, it was an opportunity. Since Liliana had declared Ashford an empire, nothing remained as it had been. The old churches were rising again, stretching their influence now that the kingdom's authority was fractured. And the newly formed Inquisition… that was an unknown force, one she would have to measure carefully.

Still, Selira's position wasn't weak. Formally, she was daughter-in-law to the Empress. That title carried much needed weight for her. She was also, technically, among the highest-ranking nobles of the new empire, especially now that Ashford had severed itself from the kingdom. All of this meant she had a chance to carve something out for herself while the world shifted.

Maybe Ronan's absence wasn't so bad after all.

She made a mental note: she needed to invite envoys from the Church of Velarion, and from the Churches of Dawn and Light as well. Valewick had always been firmly in the hands of the Church of Iras, but if she could tilt that balance—if she could arrange a foothold for Velarion here—it would grant her immense influence not only in Valewick but also back in Velmire. After all, both churches preached the same tale: Velarion had been the only brother who truly stood with Iras. Their doctrines weren't opposed. A skilled hand could unite them, or at least set them side by side.

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And if she, as a prominent figure, openly lent her support to Velarion…

But she needed certainties first.

Angela and Kristin had drifted into a lighter topic, talking about a new pastry shop that had opened just off Market Street. They laughed over which sweets they would try first, their voices bubbling with excitement.

Selira barely heard them. Her thoughts turned instead to her private strength. She had brought retainers and soldiers from Velmire, yes, but there were also the one hundred men her father had "gifted" her. From the Trift Guard, they were elite soldiers; silent and loyal. A force not to be underestimated.

Why not use them? A careful deployment could earn her favors among Valewick's nobility. If she quietly provided soldiers to struggling houses—men for security, for trade convoys, for private disputes—they would owe her. And debts were the truest coin in politics.

Her lips curved slightly. Yes. She would not wait for power to come to her. She would build it piece by piece, soldier by soldier, favor by favor.

The girls' laughter rang like silver bells in the background. Selira let it continue, her thoughts sharpening in the quiet it gave her.

The empire was shifting. And she would shift with it.

But the most pressing factor was the new ruler over Valewick. Liliana was marching west with her ever-growing army, leaving behind her aunt—Lady Montclair of Ashford—as Lady Protector of the Empire. Montclair now held the city, backed by the First Legion itself, veterans hardened by war, their presence bolstering Valewick's ordinary garrison.

Selira exhaled softly, gaze fixed on the rim of her teacup. She needed to meet Montclair. To formally introduce herself and secure a bond.

But how?

Montclair was old nobility; strict, formal, and bound by the weight of their traditions. In such circles, appearances decided everything. If Selira came across as weak, Montclair might dismiss her entirely, even advise to Liliana that she was unfit, and should be cut off. The risk was real.

Yet influence required risk. Without Montclair's acknowledgment, Selira couldn't form real power in Valewick.

Her mind turned, and another possibility surfaced. She already had a thread into the Ashford line—Grace. The girl had left an impression on her in their brief encounters. Grace was sharp, unnervingly so, and carried herself with a composure far beyond her years. And now, with the open backing of her mother, she was no longer just a mere child. Even if she didn't yet realize it herself, Grace was already becoming a force in her own right. Forming a bond with her might be easier, and perhaps even more effective.

Then Selira had an idea: she could combine the bonding with both. After all, she needed only an introduction to Lady Montclair, and she could also use this to form a deeper bond with her sister-in-law, Grace.

Selira made a mental note to write to Lady Montclair soon, to invite her formally to a ball. A chance to display her wealth, her standing, and her elegance, while placing herself on Montclair's stage in the most favorable light. Yes. She needed to organize a ball.

Selira sighed softly as her thoughts drifted back to the chatter of Angela and Kristin, their voices dancing from one triviality to another. She set her teacup down with careful grace and straightened.

"We need to organize a ball, ladies," she said, her tone even but decisive. "And you know what? I think you both are best suited to help me with it. What do you think?"

Angela's eyes lit up at once, delight sparkling across her face. "Truly? I would love nothing more!"

Kristin clapped her hands together, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Of course, Selira. We'll make it magnificent—people will remember it for months."

For a brief moment, Selira allowed herself a faint smile at their eagerness. Yes, they would create a good atmosphere and distract the lesser nobles with frills and details, while she gave the event a sharper, political tone.

But before she could speak again, the door opened and a servant stepped in, bowing low.

Selira's heart sank at the thought it might be Ronan come knocking again, but the servant only carried a sealed scroll.

"Milady, a message," he said, offering it with both hands.

She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, scanning the words.

Her expression cooled.

It was an announcement—an imperial one.

The Duke, Merick of Ashford—now posthumously declared Emperor—had been executed in Virethorn. Shamelessly. Like a common thief, paraded and cut down in the open square by that damned king of theirs. That old bastard. That cowardly, stinking, gods-forsaken—

Selira inhaled through her nose, forcing composure back over her features as she read an entire paragraph of insults against the King of Virethorn. The tone of this announcement was truly something special… but to Selira, the weakness of Virethorn revealed itself yet again. To execute a rival so publicly, so crudely, it was a confession of fear dressed as bravado.

The scroll went on. Lady Protector Montclair had declared a week of mourning in Valewick. Every member of House Ashford present in the city—herself included now—was required to attend a grieving ceremony tomorrow. A display of unity and resolve.

Selira folded the parchment carefully, though her mind raced.

This was not entirely unexpected. War had been declared the moment Liliana raised her banners. The Crown would answer in blood. But still—this timing—Merick's death thrown into the open like some street execution.

It twisted her stomach.

And worse: there went her ball. Plans scattered before they could take shape.

But not everything was lost.

She would meet Montclair at the ceremony. Not on her terms, no, but it would still be an introduction, a moment to stand beside her as family. A chance to take measure, and to be measured in turn.

Selira closed her eyes for a beat, then straightened again, her mask of elegance sliding back into place.

"So," she murmured, half to herself, half to the girls watching with curiosity. "It seems fate has set another stage first."

And then it struck her.

She needed her gods-damned husband to attend as well. If she appeared at a family mourning ceremony alone, while Ronan hid in some corner like a child, what would that look like? A wife without her husband. A stranger in the Ashford line.

This damn imbecile.

Her jaw tightened until her teeth ached. She had worked so carefully, turning over every thread of advantage in her mind, and now everything hinged on Ronan. He had vanished for days, and she couldn't even say where. Garrin had promised to look into it, but that wasn't enough—she needed Ronan at her side tomorrow, standing where he belonged.

Selira groaned softly, anger curling in her chest like a snake.

Today's plans were finished. No ball, no soft beginnings of her schemes. The entire day would now be consumed by one humiliating task: hunting down her own husband before he dragged her standing into the dirt.