Chapter 47 Grace- POV
GRACE POV
The air in the Great Hall of Drakmor didn’t smell of incense and royalty anymore. It smelled of sour sweat, spilled wine, and the frantic, biting scent of fear.
I stood in the shadows of the gallery, my hand resting on the pommel of my new officer’s saber, watching the vultures pick at the carcass of a kingdom. Below me, the Council was screaming. Again.
"The Merchant Guild has closed the North Port!" Lord Halloway bellowed, his face a shade of purple that matched his velvet doublet. "They refuse to offload the grain until the 'Shadow Tax' is abolished. The city is three days away from a bread riot, and you lot are arguing over seat precedence?"
"The Shadow Tax is the only thing funding the city guard!" Duchess Valerius shrieked back, slamming a jeweled fist onto the mahogany table. "Without the King’s personal treasury—which, I might remind you, vanished with that beast—we are insolvent! I will not have my house foot the bill for the rebellion’s incompetence!"
I narrowed my eyes. Fools. All of them. They had spent twenty years whispering about how much better they could run the realm than a Drake, and now that the throne sat empty, they were drowning in the shallow end of the pool.
The political landscape was a shattered mirror. The "United Hearts" rebellion had fractured the moment the common enemy was gone. Half the noble houses wanted a Republic; the other half wanted to crown themselves. And in the vacuum of power, the kingdom was rotting from the inside out.
"Grace," a cool, dry voice drifted from behind me.
I didn't turn. "Leo. Have you found the Core Stone yet? Or are you still playing with your scrolls?"
The former butler stepped into the light, looking tired. The scholarly arrogance he’d worn in the forest had been replaced by the harried look of a man trying to hold back a dam with his bare hands.
"The Stone is lost, or destroyed," Leo sighed, leaning against the cold stone railing. "But that is the least of our concerns. The rumors are spreading, Grace. The commoners aren't celebrating the King’s death anymore. They’re calling it a 'Sacrilege.' They see the empty markets and the rising prices, and they whisper that the Dragon kept the weather fair and the borders safe. Yesterday, someone painted a violet eye on the palace gates."
"Dissenters will be hanged," I said, my voice like a serrated blade.
"You can't hang a whole city, child," Leo countered. "The scandals are leaking. People are asking why the King’s personal maid—you—is now wearing a Commander’s mantle. They’re asking about Elena. They’re asking why her parents’ bodies were buried in unmarked graves without a Heart’s Rites."
I felt a twinge of something—not guilt, but a sharp, annoying irritation. "They died for the cause. Elena was a casualty of her own weakness."
"Is she?" Leo’s eyes turned toward the windows, toward the dark smudge on the horizon that was the Forbidden Forest. "The Merchant Guild isn't just striking; they’re scared. They say the caravans won't go near the Borderlands anymore. They claim the monsters aren't attacking—they’re waiting. They say the woods are breathing."
"The forest burned for three days, Leo. Nothing survived that."
"Then why do I feel like we’re being watched?" he whispered.
Below us, a fight broke out between two minor lords. One had pulled a dagger, and the city guards stood by, looking at each other, unsure of whose orders to follow. The madness was absolute. Without a King to anchor the magic, the weather was turning erratic, the food was rotting in the fields, and the nobility was more interested in reclaiming ancient family lands than feeding the starving masses.
I looked at the empty throne. It looked cold. It looked small.
I had killed my family and betrayed my blood for this "freedom," but as I listened to the chaotic roar of the council, I realized we hadn't liberated the kingdom. We had just unchained the wolves.
"Double the patrols," I commanded, turning to leave. "And tell the Guild if they don't open the ports, I’ll burn their warehouses with them inside. We have a coronation to prepare for. I don't care which of these idiots sits in that chair, as long as one of them does."
But as I walked through the vaulted corridors, the silence of the palace felt heavy. The shadows seemed longer than they should be.
Leo was right about one thing: the forest was quiet. Too quiet. And in the back of my mind, I kept seeing Elena’s face—not the broken girl I hit, but the girl who had survived every trial I ever threw at her.
"She’s dead," I hissed to the empty hallway.
But for the first time in my life, I didn't believe my own lie.
The capital was no longer a city of stone and light; it had become a hunting ground.
When Xavier "died," the invisible pressure that had kept the wild at bay for centuries—the King’s Breath, the mages called it—evaporated. The Great Boundary, a shimmering line of ancient magic that separated the civilized world from the primordial dark, didn’t just fail. It shattered like glass.
Now, when the sun dipped below the horizon, the citizens of Drakmor didn’t light lamps for comfort. They barred their doors and prayed to gods they had long forgotten.
The screams started shortly after twilight. Without the King to anchor the land’s defenses, the "Border-Breakers" were no longer confined to the Forbidden Forest.
The Shadow-Stalkers: Lean, multi-limbed beasts that could scale the smooth marble walls of the noble villas. They didn't want gold; they wanted warmth, dragging screaming servants into the gutters.
The Sky-Rippers: Great leathery drakes, cousins to the King but devoid of his soul, perched on the spires of the Cathedral, their weight snapping the ancient gargoyles as they dove to pluck horses—and riders—directly off the cobblestones.
The Rot-Mist: A thick, violet fog that began to roll in from the sewers, carrying the chattering whispers of the three-eyed skitterers. It didn't kill instantly, but it drove men to a panicked madness.