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Book 2: Chapter 30: Signs Of Change
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 02:53:37 +0000 UTCChapter 30:
Signs Of Change
The morning in Rivermouth tried to begin like any other. The sun rose slow over the misty fields, the dew still clinging to the grass, the smell of damp earth carrying through the air. Chickens fussed around the yards, dogs barked half-heartedly at goats, and the low voices of farmers drifted across the lanes as they led their oxen toward the fields. It should have been the start of another ordinary day.
But nothing felt normal anymore.
Winter had been hard, harsher than most in recent memory. Too many hungry nights. Too many sick children who never fully recovered from the cold. Everyone had pinned their hopes on spring, telling themselves that if they just held out long enough the thaw would bring relief. But spring had not brought what they needed. The air was softer, yes, and the frost no longer crept into their bones at night, but food was no easier to come by. Taxes had eaten into their savings, and every able-bodied young man seemed to vanish into the army drafts. The village was thinner after the last year.
And as if that was not enough, there were the bandits.
Selwin Carrow sat on his bench by the lane, staff resting across his knees, a bowl of boiled oats cooling in his hands. He watched as Rivermouth stirred awake, faces he had known for decades stepping out into the pale morning light. He knew them all, had watched them grow from children into adults with their own families, and now he watched them bear the weight of a world that seemed to take more than it gave.
He sighed, the sound long and tired. Problems upon problems.
The bandits were trouble enough. They had grown bolder in recent months, targeting caravans close to Rivermouth itself. Their most brazen act had been the murder of Eron Drosk. Even now, the name carried weight in the village. Eron had been more than a merchant. He had been a bridge to the outside world, a man who brought goods, coin, and stability to their corner of Gatewick. His death had shaken Rivermouth like an earthquake.
And now his daughter, Marlen, carried his burden. She had taken over his business, though many doubted if she could fill his place. Too young, too inexperienced, too… ordinary. Selwin did not share their doubts. He had seen her grit, seen how she held her head high even when grief should have broken her. She had her father’s stubborn heart. But even so, it was not easy. A girl who once haggled over bolts of cloth was now expected to carry the weight of the village’s trade on her shoulders.
Selwin stirred his oats and looked down the lane. Farmers were on their way to the fields, their tools slung over shoulders. A few paused to bow their heads respectfully to him, and he returned the gesture with a nod. To them, he was still the old mage, a relic of another time. Few guessed his true age or the shadows he carried within. That was just as well.
He finished his meal slowly, thinking. The bandits were not their only trouble. Something else had come scratching at the edges of their world. Beasts. Attacks on livestock, barns torn open, animals carried off into the night. At first, people dismissed it as wolves, but Selwin had seen wolves in his time. This was not wolves. These attacks were stranger, more vicious, and left behind tracks that no one could recognize. Hunters had tried to follow them, but the trails always vanished, as if the land itself swallowed them up.
Selwin was too old to go himself. His hands were not steady enough, and his core was no longer what it once was. Once, he might have taken the lead, staff blazing with light, spells burning through the woods. Now he sat on a bench, eating oats, and sent younger men to do what he could not. It was a bitter thing to admit.
He set the empty bowl aside and rubbed at his beard. A week ago, he would have thought Rivermouth’s future bleak. Bandits, beasts, taxes, and drafts. It felt like the end of everything. But then the world had shifted, and in ways none of them could have imagined.
Firstlight had brought the news. The Duchess of Ashford had declared independence. Not only independence, but she had formed an empire. Ashford no longer bent the knee to Virethorn. And of course, the announcement had spread like wildfire. Even in Rivermouth, a place the world often forgot, the news arrived by evening. The steward’s men had carried the decree through the streets, shouting the words until every villager knew them by heart.
For many, it had been almost a relief. Every man in Ashford thought the same, Virethorn was only taking but giving nothing back in return. But what did it matter to a farmer or a weaver if a duchess called herself empress? The land still needed plowing, the animals still needed feeding, and the bandits still stalked the roads. Taxes had not grown lighter overnight. The fields did not care for proclamations from Valewick. And the mothers who waited for sons pressed into the draft still had empty seats at their tables. To them, empire or kingdom, duchess or empress, it all looked the same.
Selwin thought the same too. Words could shift on banners, but what the people cared about was safety. Whether their goods reached market without being stolen. Whether the beasts that prowled the night stayed away from their barns. That was the measure of power that mattered here.
Then came the second piece of news. The Empress had given Gatewick to her daughter. A girl of six years.
Selwin had nearly laughed when he heard it. The successor to the old Lady Ashford, the iron matriarch who had ruled Gatewick for three decades, was now a child who could barely reach the table without a cushion. It was absurd.
And yet, absurdity had a way of becoming reality. By Tidewake, only a day after her birthday, the girl was in Gatewick. Not weeks later, not months, but at once.
Selwin shook his head. The world spun faster than he could keep up with.
They had traveled to Gatewick themselves on Marketday, only the day before yesterday. Selwin, Aldric, Garron, and Marlen had stood in the great obsidian hall, expecting to find the steward waiting for them. Instead, they found the girl.
And she was not what Selwin expected.
She had been small, yes, and her feet had not touched the floor of the throne. But her eyes… her eyes had been sharp as blades. Cold, clear, and heavy with a power that did not belong to a child. In her, Selwin had seen a shadow of the old Lady Ashford. He had stood beside that woman once, when the war-dragon had come roaring from the mountains. He had seen her wield light itself, bright and merciless, and he had seen her stand unbroken against fire and ruin.
And now, in this girl, he saw it again. Not the same flame, not only light, but something more dangerous. Grace carried both. Light that burned, and void that consumed.
She had reached into him in that throne room. Into his leaking core, into the void that had plagued him for years. For a breathless moment, she had held his very being in her small hands. But the knife had not fallen. Instead, the girl had pulled back, as if merely testing, curious to see how far she could reach. That restraint, from one so young, had left Selwin more unsettled than if she had struck him down.
But she had not done it.
Instead, she had let go, with a gaze that told him she knew exactly how broken he was. That moment had frightened him, yes, but it had also stirred something long buried. His heart had beaten faster. He had felt alive again, like in the days when battles were fought with steel and fire and men knew where they stood.
He missed those times.
Selwin leaned on his staff and pushed himself to his feet. His knees cracked in protest, but he ignored it. He set off down the lane toward the townhall. That was his habit. Every morning, he went to see Aldric, to hear what was happening, to offer what advice he could. Rivermouth needed steady hands now more than ever.
As he walked, villagers greeted him with nods or quick words. He returned them, his thoughts turning back to the girl in Gatewick. The Princess had promised to help them. And Selwin believed she would. There had been no lie in her eyes when she said it. She would not break her word.
But how? And when?
She had been in Gatewick only six days. Today was Loreday, the day the Ashfords set aside for study. She would not come rushing to Rivermouth today. More likely it would take weeks, maybe longer, before her hand reached this far. That was how noble affairs usually went.
Still, he could not shake the feeling that change was coming faster than he expected.
He sighed as he reached the townhall, the broad wooden building that served as Rivermouth’s heart. Its doors were open already, voices drifting out as people began to gather. Selwin tightened his grip on his staff and stepped inside.
Only one week, and everything had changed. The blood of Ashford still surprised him.
The townhall smelled faintly of smoke and wax, its tall beams blackened with age. Selwin’s boots echoed softly against the wooden floor as he stepped inside. A handful of villagers were already gathered, speaking in low voices, but the one who caught his eye at once was Aldric Fenlow. The man stood bent over a table, papers and half-burnt candles scattered across it, his thick hands resting on either side of a crude map of the valley.
When Aldric saw him, he straightened with a tired smile. “Selwin. You’re early.”
Selwin tapped his staff against the floor as he walked closer. “So are you. Did you not go home after yesterday’s gathering?”
Aldric shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. “I slept here for a few hours. Not much more. There was… an emergency.”
Selwin’s brow furrowed. He had lived long enough to know the word carried weight, though Aldric’s voice carried no alarm. “An emergency, and you did not call me?”
The chief lifted a hand, waving it slowly, as if to calm an invisible fire. “Not so important that it needed to wake the whole village. By the time it happened, you and the others had already left. We could not have changed anything anyway.”
Selwin leaned on his staff. “You say that, yet here you stand without rest. Tell me, Aldric, what happened?”
Instead of answering directly, Aldric gestured toward the back of the hall. “Come. Best you see for yourself.”
Curiosity stirred in Selwin’s chest. He followed the man down a short corridor, the floor creaking under their weight. At the end, Aldric pushed open a smaller door, its hinges groaning softly. He held it just wide enough for Selwin to peer inside.
On the floor, a boy lay curled in a nest of hay. His clothes were torn and filthy, his face pale with exhaustion, but his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. For a moment, Selwin thought the lad no older than twelve.
“He wandered into the village last night,” Aldric explained quietly. “Bratt and Jorge found him on their way home from the townhall. They brought him straight here.”
Selwin frowned. “Lost? A runaway?”
Aldric shook his head. “Not lost. A hostage. Or so he says.” He closed the door again gently, lowering his voice further. “The boy told us he had been held by the bandits in the woods for weeks. He managed to slip away only a few days ago. Said they are keeping others for ransom.”
Selwin’s fingers tightened around his staff. “So, the rumors were true. They are not only raiding, they are taking captives.”
“Aye.” Aldric’s jaw set grimly. “At first, I thought to call everyone back last night, to raise the alarm. But what good would it have done? We could not storm the woods ourselves. Not in the dark, and definitely not unprepared. And I did not want to wake the whole village to panic without cause. Better to wait.”
Selwin considered the man in silence for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “You chose rightly. Fear spreads faster than fire when the people have nothing to fight with. Better they sleep, and we speak of it now, in calm.”
Aldric exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Still, we must act. We cannot ignore this. If the bandits are holding hostages, they will only grow bolder. Perhaps we should send word to Gatewick again. Request soldiers from the city guard. This time, they must act.”
Selwin’s gaze drifted back toward the closed door, the boy’s frail form still in his mind. “Perhaps. But first, let him wake. Let him tell us everything he knows. Ransom or no ransom, we need to be certain.”
He looked back to Aldric, his voice firm despite the years that weighed on him. “Decisions made on half-truths only bring ruin. Let the boy rest, and when he wakes, we will hear his story. Then we will know what must be done.”
Aldric nodded reluctantly. “You are right. I will wait. But if his tale holds, then Rivermouth stands on the edge of worse trouble than we thought.”
Selwin agreed with a quiet hum, tapping the end of his staff against the floor. But before either of them could say more, a commotion rose outside the hall. Voices, urgent and loud, carried through the open doorway. Aldric’s shoulders slumped at once, his hand dragging down over his face in a gesture halfway between frustration and despair.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Every time one problem shows up, another comes marching right behind it.”
Selwin’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles. “No one has said it is a problem yet. Come. Let us see before you start cursing the day.”
Together they made their way toward the entrance. The closer they came, the clearer the noise outside grew, a mixture of shouts and hurried steps. By the time they reached the threshold, a villager was already running toward them, panting, eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost.
“They are coming,” the man gasped. “From the road to Gatewick. Riders. Knights in plate, and a carriage behind them. They will be here in minutes.”
Aldric’s brows shot up. “Riders? Knights?” He glanced at Selwin in disbelief. “And a carriage? Who in all hells would that be?”
Selwin frowned, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Are they here because of the boy?”
“That would be impossible,” Aldric muttered, shaking his head. “How could they know? He only arrived last night.”
“Then who?” Selwin’s voice was quiet, but steady. “A carriage means someone of standing. The steward?”
Aldric gave a bitter snort. “No. That snake is gone from Gatewick. Good riddance, too.”
Selwin’s eyes narrowed slightly, a thought creeping in. “Then perhaps…” He let the idea hang in the air. “Perhaps it is the princess. Acting already.”
Aldric blinked, almost scoffing, but his voice lacked conviction. “So soon? No. It cannot be. She has only been in Gatewick for six days.”
“And yet,” Selwin murmured, “she did give her word. And she is an Ashford. They have always moved faster than others expect.”
For a heartbeat, silence settled between them, filled only by the distant rumble of hooves. Aldric shook himself and muttered under his breath. “If it truly is her…” He rubbed at his face again. “Iras save us, what a morning.”
Selwin’s eyes twinkled faintly, though his expression remained grave. “Then let us not keep her waiting, whoever it is. Come outside. We must receive them properly.”
They stepped out into the brightening square. Already villagers were gathering, drawn by the sound of iron striking the road. Farmers, merchants, wives with aprons still dusted in flour, children peeking from behind their parents’ legs. All of them turned their gazes toward the main path leading into Rivermouth.
The fog still clung low over the fields, but through it came the glint of polished steel. First one, then three, then a whole line of riders emerged, their armor black and gleaming, banners fluttering above them. Behind them rolled a carriage, its dark wood polished, curtains drawn tight against the morning light.
A ripple of unease passed through the villagers. Selwin felt it too, the weight of expectation pressing against his chest. Whoever had come this morning, it was no simple visit.
He gripped his staff more firmly and stepped forward beside Aldric. “Come,” he said again, his voice low but steady. “Whatever this day holds, we face it together.”
Aldric gave a slow nod, his jaw set, and together they walked to the edge of the square to meet the riders.
--::--
The carriage rattled to a slow stop. Grace tilted her head against the window frame, blue eyes narrowing as she peeked out. Figures were already gathering in the square. Farmers still in their work shirts, merchants with half-buttoned vests, children clutching their mothers’ skirts.
And there—two familiar faces. Aldric Fenlow, the village chief, looking stiff as ever, and Selwin Carrow, the old Void mage, staff in hand. She almost smirked. Guess word got around quick. Or maybe they just knew better than to ignore a carriage rolling into their backwater village with ten knights in full black plate.
At least the ride was over. Grace shifted, stretching her legs one last time. Sitting across from Rin for hours had been a special kind of torture. The girl hadn’t said a single interesting thing the whole way. Just sat there, stiff, silent, eyes sharp like a dagger pretending to be invisible.
Grace rolled her eyes. Yeah, yeah, Rin, I know. You’re practicing how to kill me in your head. Super scary. Maybe next time try it with some style. Sitting in silence like a block of wood isn’t exactly making me shake in my boots.
The carriage rocked slightly as the knights dismounted outside. She heard Ser Calen’s voice boom across the square, all formal and proud. “By order of Her Grace, Princess Imperial of Ashford, the Lady of Gatewick—” Oh gods, here we go. “—make way for Princess Grace of Ashford!”
Grace pinched her cheeks lightly, feeling the warmth bloom on her skin. Smile, Grace. Do your princess smile.
Her lips tugged into the perfect curve, bright and warm, even as her stomach twisted. Ugh. Fake it, fake it, fake it. She shoved the frown down deep where no one could see and replaced it with that practiced beam that made villagers melt.
The door creaked open. Sunlight spilled into the cabin, and Ser Calen stood waiting, helm tucked under one arm, posture stiff enough to snap. Grace placed her hand in his and stepped down from the carriage.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Then, like someone had dropped a stone in still water, the whole square sank into silence. One by one, the villagers dropped to their knees. Farmers, merchants, even the children. All kneeling in the dirt, heads bowed.
Oh, now this is a look. Grace let the smile widen a touch, her cheeks still pink from the little slap. She walked with deliberate steps, slow enough to let the knights flank her, but light enough to make it seem effortless.
Princess mode: engaged.
Inside, her brain was screaming. Holy shit. Not again. They actually kneeled. All of them. Do they think I’m going to bless their crops or something? Get up, you idiots, you’re making this way too dramatic. It’s really getting out of hand, all this kneeling whenever I show up unannounced—just like in the market at Gatewick.
Her eyes swept the crowd, then locked onto Selwin and Aldric as they rose. At least those two had enough backbone to meet her gaze. Aldric bowed stiffly, and Selwin dipped his head with a half-smile, like he already knew half her thoughts.
“Your Grace,” Aldric said, voice formal but a little strained. “We are honored by your presence in Rivermouth.”
Grace tilted her head just so, letting her smile soften into something warm and gracious. “Chief Aldric. Master Selwin. It is good to see familiar faces so soon again.”
She could almost hear the collective exhale of relief from the villagers around them. Good. Keep thinking I’m sweet. Keep thinking the princess came down from her shiny castle to pat your heads.
Aldric gestured quickly toward the hall. “If it pleases Your Grace, we can speak more comfortably inside.”
Of course, he wants to drag me into a hall. Can’t have the princess standing in the square where chickens are running around. Oh no, dignity first.
Still, she gave him a gracious nod. “Lead the way.”
The knights shifted to form a loose ring as Aldric guided her forward. The villagers parted like water, bowing deeper as she passed. Grace kept the mask up, smile bright, chin lifted, every inch the little empress they expected.
The smile never left her lips as she crossed the threshold of the townhall.
