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Book 2: Chapter 31: Fractured Identities
🕑 Added 2025-09-25 06:07:52 +0000 UTCChapter 31:
Fractured Identities
Grace followed Aldric and Selwin into the hall. The place looked exactly like some set piece from the Viking movies she had seen in her old life, except less glorious. Tables and benches were pushed into a rough U-shape, a firepit smoldered weakly in the middle, and the smoke clung to the rafters instead of drifting out. A few villagers were still asleep in the corner, bundled in rough blankets.
So, this is where they live, eat, and decide the fate of their village... All in one sweaty box. Sure, cozy… yea. And of course, it smells like wet wool, smoke, sweat and something that should have been scrubbed off the floor yesterday…
She wrinkled her nose but kept her face smooth, the mask of a princess. Outside, polite and calm. Inside, she was already counting the seconds until they moved somewhere less disgusting. Being born into Ashford nobility was a blessing compared to this, and still, even that had never matched her standards from Earth. Streaming from my bedroom, whining about how the world was broken. At least I had Wi-Fi and deodorant back then. Now I get goats outside the window and damp villagers coughing by the fire. Lovely.
And of course, that thought about her old life brought back the itch that had been bugging her for days now. If you can meet yourself and talk to yourself, then it is not yourself, because you are yourself, right? The question had come up after meeting herself—or better, Grace Blair—again on the road to Gatewick, staring into her own sneering, broken reflection. So, was she really Grace Blair in the first place? Because that Blair could talk, and act, and sneer exactly like Grace remembered she was when she still lived on Earth. But if she really was me, then why haunt me at all? How could she even act on her own? And what was the point of showing up, when I already know what I am?
The thought had followed her like a shadow ever since meeting “herself” again. And now, walking through this smoke-choked hall that looked like something out of a cheap medieval reenactment, it hit her harder than before. Maybe I was never Blair at all. Maybe I’ve only ever been Grace… just Grace. Just like I—
She cut the thought off. It was hard to finish. Every time she pushed too far down that path, her head started to ache and her chest felt heavy, like thinking too much was a weight she could not carry. What was unsettling because, it was like the second time something was filtering her thoughts. Maybe I should stop assuming anything. It is not like one, but several celestial bastards haven’t already tried to mess with my head. So why not assume “Grace Blair” was just one of them too? Some god’s toy, wearing my face to get a reaction out of me.
She sighed inwardly. Bah. And now my mood’s ruined. Great. That is just what I needed after such a “pleasant” ride stuck in a box with Rin. What a shame.
They moved through the main hall into a smaller room at the back. The office was cramped, the air stale, with shelves sagging under stacks of papers. Dust clung to the corners, and the old desk looked like it had been patched too many times to count. Ser Calen and three knights followed, two positioning themselves outside the door while Calen and another posted inside, silent and watchful. Armor scraped softly as they settled.
Aldric hesitated, clearly embarrassed, and gestured toward a chair. “I am sorry, my princess. We did not expect you here…”
Grace smiled, light and easy, the way they expected her to. “No worries. I am not here for a tea party.” Her tone was soft, kind even, though inside she was back into the present and already bored. Why would I sit in that lopsided chair when there is a perfectly good desk waiting for me?
She brushed past him, and slid behind the desk instead. Her small frame looked almost swallowed by the chair, but she sat like she belonged there. She rested her hands on the wood, meeting their eyes with quiet expectation.
“So?” she said, letting the word hang.
Aldric cleared his throat and took the offered chair. Selwin lowered himself into the guest seat, his staff resting across his knees, his eyes unreadable.
All right, gentlemen. Show me what is so urgent that you dragged me into your smoke-filled village theater. And pray it is worth my time. Because I really need some distraction from all this shit going on.
Before Aldric could open his mouth, Selwin leaned forward, his voice steady but low. “At first, Princess, let us express our gratitude that you are here. We never would have dared to expect that you yourself would come to your people in need.” He bowed his head, and Aldric quickly followed, their chairs creaking under the movement.
Grace waved her hand lightly. Respect is fine, but if they keep this up, we’ll still be here tomorrow with them kissing my ass. Out loud, her tone was smooth, and measured. “My mother gifted me the lands of our ancestors to take care of the people here. For too many years, you were left without the true protection of our house, even though you have always been among the most loyal of our subjects. So, it is only right that I come myself, with my knights, to help where I am needed.”
Selwin wavered at her words, his eyes shining suddenly. Tears welled, catching on the lines of his face. Aldric looked moved too, though he held himself together better than the old mage.
Oh gods. I overdid it. Please don’t cry on me. Seriously, I’m six. This is embarrassing.
She forced her smile brighter, her voice cutting gently to steer them back. “So please, explain your problems to me in detail.”
--::--
Clara opened her eyes.
Her head felt heavy, her limbs numb, like she had slept too long on the wrong side and her whole body had forgotten how to wake up. The ceiling above her blurred and swam, little specks drifting in and out of focus. She blinked slowly. They didn’t vanish.
Dust, she thought at first, but no… they shimmered faintly, like glass in sunlight. They twisted and vanished, then reappeared, dancing on currents she couldn’t feel. Clara’s breath caught.
Mana.
She could see mana. Not just the way mages spoke about it, not just glowing circles traced on parchment. She could see it, whirling like a thousand tiny fireflies.
Her heart leapt, but the joy collapsed in the same instant as her memory caught up.
Her pain came back to her first. Not like a memory, but like her body still carried it, deep in her chest where it had once torn her apart. She remembered the screaming, her own voice breaking raw as though something inside her was clawing its way free. It had been endless, unbearable, fire and ice pressing against her ribs until she thought she would shatter.
And then the dream had swallowed her whole. Bellgrave, her home. The orchard and its heavy branches. Her ribbons, her birthday, her little blue dress. All of it too bright, too perfect, the way memories sometimes lied to you.
She had run barefoot through the grass, the orchard heavy with fruit, ribbons brushing against her arms as she twirled. The sparrows darted overhead, and she told herself they were clapping for her, cheering her on. It was still her birthday.
Then her mother came, smiling as she bent to tie the ribbon into her hair. For a moment warmth spread through Clara’s chest, but the words that followed smothered it. Her sister’s betrothal. More important guests. More important futures. Clara forced her smile, as she always did, but something cracked when she stood in the courtyard at her own great moment and no one looked her way. Her voice slipped out, small and sharp, “Was it always like this?”
And everything froze.
The sparrows froze mid-flight. The music in the courtyard snapped silent. Even the torches burned still, as if painted on glass. The world was waiting.
That was when she saw her.
Not walking toward her, not appearing with a sound, just… there. A girl sitting cross-legged on the grass, as if she had always been waiting. Her skin pale as porcelain, her hair drifting like it floated in water. Eyes full of stars, pulling Clara in until she could hardly breathe.
The girl smiled, soft at first, then wrong, lingering too long on her lips. She leaned close, her voice steady and certain.
“Yes. It was always like this, Clara.”
Clara’s breath caught. Her chest tightened. She wanted to ask who she was, but the words wouldn’t come. Somehow, she already knew.
Elyra.
The name pressed itself into her mind before the girl even spoke it.
Clara shivered, clutching the blanket tighter around herself. She knew they had spoken—long, so long she had almost believed it was real—but the words slipped through her mind like water. She could not hold them. Every time she reached for one, it melted away into the same blinding haze that had seared her chest.
And yet, even with the dream fading, the weight of it lingered.
But something else cut sharper, another memory.
She was here, in this room. Opening her eyes, her body twisting against the floorboards, Elyne’s braid falling forward as she leaned close, runes burning above her, and an old man’s hands carving desperate patterns into the air. The weight of light pressed on her chest until she thought her ribs would shatter.
And then her small, pale hand, as if no longer her own, thrust forward and pierced the man’s chest. His scream ripped through her, sharp enough to make her flinch even now. Light poured into him, boiling him from the inside out. She remembered the smell, the way his body cracked, split, and fell like a doll with its strings cut.
Clara’s breath caught. Her hand shook where it lay against the sheets.
She had killed someone.
Her chest tightened. Did she really—? Was that her? The memory twisted, confused, but it felt like it was her hand, her choice. She saw it from inside her body, felt the flood, the raw surge of power, and the way it left her empty after.
“No…” The word slipped out, soft, shaking.
But inside her chest, something pulsed. Not the quick, frantic rhythm of her own heart, but another beat, deeper and heavier, like a drum struck far beneath the earth. Her breath caught as she pressed a trembling hand to her sternum. The throb pushed back against her palm, warm and steady, carrying strength that did not feel like hers.
Her own mana core.
Clara drew in a sharp breath as the realization struck her. She could feel it now, deep inside her chest, not fragile or slipping away as she had always feared when she heard the stories whispered by others, but solid and steady. It was alive, beating with a rhythm that was not quite her heart yet just as real, each pulse spreading warmth through her body like blood carried by her veins. For the first time she understood why people called it a second heart, because that was exactly what it felt like, something vast and new that belonged to her.
Her body felt lighter than before, as if all the weight she had carried her whole life had shifted. Every breath filled her deeper. Every blink made the motes of mana brighter.
And yet—
Her stomach churned. She could not shake the image of that man’s eyes, wide with terror, glowing as he burned. Her hand curled into a fist.
Had she really done it?
She hugged her knees tighter to her chest, trembling. The warmth of her new core beat steady against her arms, undeniable. Every throb reminded her that something inside her had changed forever. She had killed a man. For… this?
What have I become?
The door creaked open. Clara flinched, head snapping up. Elyne stepped inside, her braid still a little loose, her face tired but smiling.
“Oh, Clara… you’re awake,” Elyne said softly, crossing the room without hesitation. “How are you feeling?” Her voice warmed, and she leaned closer, her eyes shining. “I’m so proud of you. Do you understand what happened? It’s rare—so rare—that someone outside my family awakens the space affinity.”
Her words wrapped around Clara like a blanket, but instead of soothing, they sparked something sharp inside. Clara blinked, her breath catching. Space affinity. Her. Not just anyone, not just overlooked Clara trailing behind her siblings.
Her voice was shaky at first. “So… I really… awakened?”
Elyne smiled, the kind that made her seem almost radiant. “Yes. You did. You have a core now, Clara, a true one. And not just any, but space. That is something many mages will never even see in their lifetime. It makes you special.”
Clara’s arms loosened from around her knees. She stared at her hands, pale and small, still trembling. Special. Not forgotten. Not left at the edge anymore.
The horror still clung to her. She could still see the old man falling, still feel her hand pushing forward, the warmth of life tearing out of him. But Elyne’s words pushed against that fear, heavy and insistent.
Her lips parted, and when she spoke her voice carried more weight than before. “Then… then I’ll become a real mage. And if I do, no one will ever ignore me again. Right?”
Elyne’s expression softened. The sharpness she often wore melted into something almost maternal. She leaned closer, brushing a curl from Clara’s damp forehead with gentle fingers. “Oh Clara, what are you asking? Since you came to the Estate, have I ever made you feel ignored? Or is this… about Grace?”
Clara shook her head quickly, curls bouncing. “No! Not Grace.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. Grace was the only one who had ever really seen her, even before she had a core. Grace had looked at her like she mattered, like she was someone. That had always been true.
But Clara already knew the answer to her own question. Even if Elyne misunderstood her, it didn’t matter. With the core burning steadily in her chest, no one could afford to overlook her anymore, not her parents, not her siblings, not anyone. Her eyes shone with a strange new determination. Something had become clear to her now: I’m not just Clara anymore. Not just a ribbon at the edge of someone else’s dress. I’ll make them see me.
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