Grant me Your Grace Chapter 105 - Side Story

Hissin ventured beyond Mohron’s borders not only in search of essential supplies, but also to find a resting place worthy of the Hinna clan’s ashes—a patch of earth gentle enough to cradle their remains.

 

Yet fate had woven something even greater into his quest: the search for a new land where Mohron’s weary people could finally settle and begin anew.

 

Just as Dahlia had quietly warned, the number of citizens falling to Mariasha had been steadily rising in recent months. 

 

Even with their partial immunity, the relentless recurrence of the sickness was wearing down even the strongest spirits. 

 

Exhausted whispers filled the air, and at last, Tefnu had yielded to Dahlia’s earnest plea, granting permission for relocation to any suitable territory.

 

But the Palan continent had never been kind to human life. 

 

Finding even a modest grave-site proved heartbreakingly difficult—how much more so a true home, a place where roots could sink deep, and generations could flourish?

 

Still, Hissin refused to surrender. 

 

Each time he left Mohron’s gates, he ranged farther than before—across distant seas and unknown horizons—returning only when hope itself seemed ready to fray.

 

And while he poured every ounce of himself into that tireless search beyond the borders…

 

Dahlia remained here, quietly shouldering his burdens, supporting him in the only way she could.

 

The varied lessons she had once received from Hovan in the imperial palace now proved invaluable; tasks that once felt impossible flowed smoothly beneath her hands. 

 

Who could have foreseen that those stolen afternoons of instruction—his patient voice, the warmth of his nearness—would one day sustain the very kingdom he now fought to save?

 

A soft, private smile curved Dahlia’s lips at the memory.

 

Across the table, Hovan caught the expression and tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes like a flame suddenly given breath.

 

“…By the way, Hovan,” 

 

She said, her voice gentle yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, “I’ve noticed quite a few nations lately sending requests for trade agreements. How do you think the Queen will handle them?”

 

Hovan exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting for a moment as though weighing secrets older than both of them.

 

“I cannot say for certain what Her Majesty will decide… but I suspect reaching any formal agreement will prove difficult, at best.”

 

Dahlia’s brows lifted in genuine surprise, a faint hurt threading through her tone.

 

“Why? I understand the borders are sealed now because of the sudden upheaval, but if we gradually opened trade… wouldn’t it bring real prosperity to Mohron? We wouldn’t need Hissin to keep risking himself on those long, dangerous journeys just to secure the bare necessities—”

 

Her words faltered slightly on his name, the sound of it lingering on her tongue like an unspoken caress.

 

Hovan regarded her for a long heartbeat, the way a former teacher might look at a student who had grown far beyond the classroom—yet still carried the same quiet fire in her eyes.

 

“You may not realize it, Princess Dahlia,” he began, his voice low and measured, carrying the weight of centuries, “but Mohron has been fiercely isolationist from the very day of its founding.”

 

Mohron had always been a small, almost incidental kingdom—born as an offshoot of something greater, forced to carve its existence from the unforgiving dark. 

 

Too poor even to claim proper land above ground, its people had burrowed deep into the earth, building quiet villages beneath stone ceilings that never saw true daylight. 

 

Many neighboring realms had once dismissed Mohron with casual contempt, as one might ignore a shadow clinging to the wall.

 

But everything changed with Baran’s fall.

 

When the truth emerged—that the Moon Lions, the dreaded emissaries of the moon, had all along been soldiers of Mohron—the whispers turned to fevered urgency. 

 

Suddenly, every nation on the continent, from petty duchies to sprawling empires, scrambled to secure any kind of pact, treaty, or mere promise of goodwill. 

 

They seemed convinced that a single thread of alliance might be enough to keep the darkness from swallowing their capitals overnight.

 

Hovan’s voice remained calm, almost gentle, as he answered her earlier question.

 

“In truth, the Moon Lions were only ever a tool meant to strike Baran down. We have taken our vengeance. Now we wish only to return to the silence we once knew.”

 

Dahlia let her gaze drift across the stack of trade proposals spread before her, each sealed wax bearing the crest of a different realm. 

 

Regret tightened her throat.

 

“…I see.”

 

She could not help but feel the quiet pang of missed possibility. 

 

Among the parchments were requests from kingdoms powerful enough that a single well-negotiated agreement could transform Mohron—bring rivers of grain, medicine, rare metals, perhaps even sunlight in the form of greenhouses and open courtyards. 

 

Real life, not mere survival.

 

And above them all lay the one that made her heart stutter.

 

The proposal from Hayad.

 

Miftah Hayad had fought beside Saltar, had risked everything in that brutal war. When it ended, he had returned home—alive, thank the stars—though the coup he once dreamed of had crumbled. 

 

Yet before he vanished back into the desert politics of his homeland, he had found the reunion Dahlia secretly arranged—a stolen night with the woman he had never stopped loving. 

 

Word reached her later that he had withdrawn entirely from the succession struggle, turning his formidable mind instead toward diplomacy and trade. 

 

No more knives in the dark. 

 

Only letters, caravans, and careful bridges between kingdoms.

 

She had not yet dared to write him.

 

The silence between them felt like an unpaid debt—one she carried like a stone against her ribs. 

 

He deserves to know we survived. He deserves to know I remember.

 

Dahlia’s fingertips brushed the edge of Hayad’s request, lingering there as though the parchment still held some trace of his warmth.

 

She drew a slow breath, then turned to Hovan. Her voice came softer than she intended, threaded with something vulnerable.

 

“Hovan… would it be possible for me to request an audience with Her Majesty directly?”

 

He blinked once, surprise flickering across his usually unreadable features.

 

“You wish to speak with the Queen yourself, my lady?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

She met his eyes, steady despite the sudden quickening of her pulse. 

 

“I would like to discuss the matter of trade with her… personally.”

 

For a heartbeat, the room held only the faint scratch of distant wind through the upper tunnels and the soft crackle of the single lamp between them.

 

Hovan studied her—not with suspicion, but with something closer to quiet recognition. 

 

As though he saw, beneath her careful composure, the deeper ache that had driven her to ask.

 

The longing not only for Mohron’s future, but for the man still out there searching the edges of the world for a home they might one day share.

 

And for the debts—of gratitude, of memory, of unspoken promises—that she refused to let die in silence.

 

He inclined his head, very slightly.

 

“I will convey your request to Her Majesty at once.”

 

Dahlia exhaled, the smallest tremor hidden inside the breath.

 

Somewhere beyond these stone walls, Hissin was still walking foreign horizons, still searching.

 

And here, in the heart of the earth, she would fight in her own way—to open doors he had left closed, to build something lasting out of the ruins they had both carried so long.

 

For him.

 

For them.

 

For the fragile, trembling hope that one day he might return not to shadows, but to light she had helped kindle in his name.

 

Hovan exhaled slowly, the sound low and thoughtful, shadows of hesitation crossing his face.

 

Dahlia’s heart gave a small, anxious twist. Had she overstepped? Had she placed him in an impossible position?

 

“If it’s too difficult…” 

 

She hurried to add, voice softening with genuine care, 

 

“Please don’t feel pressured. Mohron has its own ways, its own rhythm. I would never dream of forcing my will here and disturbing the delicate balance you’ve all guarded so long.”

 

Hovan simply looked at her.

 

For several long seconds, he said nothing, only regarded her with that quiet, searching gaze that always seemed to see several layers deeper than words could reach. 

 

Then, almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head.

 

“…It would do no harm to raise the matter once. Just once.”

 

Dahlia’s eyes widened, bright with sudden, unguarded hope.

 

“Really?”

 

“Don’t set your heart on it too fiercely,” 

 

He cautioned, though the faintest curve touched the corner of his mouth. 

 

“All I can do is pass along the request for an audience. The rest lies with Her Majesty.”

 

“That’s more than enough,” she breathed. 

 

“Thank you, Hovan.”

 

At that precise moment, a warm, familiar voice drifted through the open doorway—low, teasing, edged with affectionate exasperation.

 

“I told you to look over the documents for a reasonable amount of time and then put them away. And here you are, roping poor Hovan into yet another endless discussion.”

 

Dahlia’s breath caught.

 

“Hissin!”

 

There he stood, leaning casually against the doorframe, travel dust still clinging faintly to the shoulders of his cloak, hair tousled by wind and long roads. His eyes—those storm-dark eyes she had carried in her chest every hour he was gone—found hers at once, steady and warm and impossibly tender.

 

She was on her feet before she realized she had moved, crossing the room in quick, eager steps until she stood close enough to feel the chill that still clung to him from the night outside.

 

“You’re back,” 

 

She whispered, as though saying it aloud might make the miracle vanish.

 

“Mm. I’m back.”

 

Without another word, he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead—slowly, deliberately, letting the kiss linger. His mouth was cool from the night air, yet the contact sent heat blooming through her like summer breaking across frozen ground.

 

Dahlia closed her eyes, breathing him in—leather, distant pine, the faint metallic bite of far-off rain. Home. He smelled like home.

 

A discreet cough sounded behind them.

 

“Hm-hmm…”

 

Dahlia startled, cheeks flushing as she remembered they were not alone. She stepped back quickly—too quickly—only to catch Hissin throwing Hovan a flat, unimpressed look.

 

Hovan merely lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug, the picture of innocence.

 

“I’ll leave you two to speak in peace,” he said mildly. 

 

“Regarding the matter you mentioned, my lady—I’ll make inquiries soon and report back.”

 

“Thank you, Hovan,” 

 

Dahlia managed, still breathless.

 

He offered her one last gentle smile—knowing, fond—before slipping quietly out and closing the door behind him with a soft click.

 

Hissin’s gaze returned to her. One dark brow arched.

 

He guided her gently backward until the backs of her knees met the edge of the wide, cushioned sofa. She sank down, he followed, settling close enough that their thighs brushed.

 

“So,” 

 

He murmured, voice dropping to that intimate register that always made her pulse stutter, 

 

“What exactly is it you wanted Hovan to look into… instead of simply telling me yourself?”

 

Dahlia swallowed, suddenly aware of how near he was, how the lamplight gilded the sharp line of his jaw, how every breath they shared seemed to pull the air thinner between them.

 

“Trade agreements,” she said softly. 

 

“I was thinking… perhaps if I spoke to the Lord directly, he might consider opening discussions. Just a little. Just enough to—”

 

“Trade agreements,” 

 

He echoed, the words quiet, almost amused—but beneath the surface, something darker flickered. Not anger. Not quite. 

 

Something hungrier. More possessive.

 

He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched hers, until she could feel the warmth of him chasing away the last of the night’s chill.

 

“You’ve been worrying about the kingdom’s future while I’ve been gone,” he said, low and rough. 

 

“Planning. Scheming. Trying to build something stable… for all of us.”

 

His fingers found hers, threading them together with deliberate care.

 

“…Including for me?”

 

Dahlia’s heart slammed against her ribs. 

 

She didn’t trust her voice, so she simply nodded—small, fervent.

 

Hissin let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, might have been something far more raw. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a slow, burning kiss to her knuckles.

 

“Then tell me,” he whispered against her skin. 

 

“Everything. From the beginning.”

 

The room seemed to shrink until there was only the two of them, the soft glow of the lamp, and the fragile, trembling promise of a future they were finally daring to reach for—together.

 

Dahlia spread the documents across the low table between them—parchments still carrying the faint scent of foreign inks and sealing wax. 

 

Hissin leaned forward, one arm braced beside her, his presence warm and solid after so many empty nights.

He scanned the growing stack, one dark brow lifting in quiet surprise.

 

“Quite the crowd, suddenly eager to attach themselves to us.”

 

“They believed the Moon Lions were nothing more than blind, merciless calamity,” Dahlia said softly. 

 

“Sweeping in under cover of darkness to crush kingdoms without reason or warning. I… thought the same once, before I knew the truth.”

 

Her voice faltered for a heartbeat. Before Baran’s collapse, the Lions had been little more than legend—a nightmare that struck without mercy. 

 

Only later had she understood every raid, every shattered throne, had been the slow tightening of a noose around her own homeland’s neck.

 

She pushed the memory aside and met his gaze.

 

“Mohron has existed for barely forty years. You’ve adapted remarkably—carved life from stone, built order from shadow. But time will make isolation harder to sustain. Our population grows while our resources remain fixed. Self-sufficiency was never truly possible here.”

 

Hissin listened in silence, his expression unreadable yet intensely focused on her. 

 

The lamplight caught the faint dust of travel still clinging to his lashes, the subtle tension in his jaw. She could see him turning her words over, weighing them against every mile he had walked in search of a future for his people.

 

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts. Then he reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he turned one of the pages.

 

“You’re right,” he murmured. 

 

“Waiting for Hovan isn’t necessary.”

 

Dahlia blinked. 

 

“What?”

 

His mouth curved into a slow, devastating smile—warm, decisive, and laced with something deeper, something that made her pulse leap.

 

“We’ll go tomorrow. Straight to Her Majesty. To request permission for trade agreements.”

 

The words landed like a promise.

 

“Hissin…”

 

She breathed his name like a prayer, heart swelling with a fierce mix of gratitude and longing. While he had been out there, risking everything on endless roads and foreign shores, she had poured herself into this—poring over ledgers by lamplight, mapping every scarcity, every need that could one day become strength.

He noticed.

 

His gaze dropped to the meticulous annotations she had made in the margins: lists of critical goods, suggested technologies, strategic negotiation points carefully outlined to give Mohron every possible advantage. 

 

Hours of quiet devotion, all while he was gone.

 

Hissin’s expression softened, something raw and tender flickering behind his eyes. 

 

He shifted closer on the sofa until his thigh pressed warmly against hers, until the heat of his body chased away the underground chill.

 

“You did all this,” 

 

He said, voice low and rough with emotion. His fingertips traced the edge of one page, then found her hand again, lacing their fingers together. 

 

“While I was away… you carried this burden alone. Planning. Preparing. Building a future for us.”

 

Dahlia’s breath caught. The way he said “us” sent heat rushing through her veins.

 

“I wanted to help,” she whispered. 

 

“I wanted you to come home to something more than stone walls and endless searches.”

 

Hissin lifted her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm—slow, deliberate, his lips warm against her skin. When he looked up, his dark eyes held hers with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs.

 

“Then tomorrow,” 

 

He murmured, forehead resting lightly against hers, 

 

“We begin changing that future. Together.”

 

The word lingered between them like a vow, heavy with promise, thick with the quiet thunder of everything still unspoken—longing, devotion, the fragile hope that the world beyond these walls might one day be theirs to share.

 

In the soft glow of the lamp, with his breath mingling with hers and his hand still cradling her own, Dahlia felt the distance of all his journeys finally begin to close.

 

With all my heart poured into this… shouldn’t I at least make sure it doesn’t end up like pouring water into a bottomless barrel?

 

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

 

At Hissin’s low words, something fragile and luminous trembled in Dahlia’s eyes. 

 

A soft glow of emotion slipped in, and her lips curved into a smile so tender it felt like a secret shared only between them.

 

“Thank you, Hissin.” 

 

Her voice was barely above a whisper, thick with feeling. 

 

“I’ll prepare everything as perfectly as I can—so perfectly that even Her Majesty will have no choice but to be satisfied.”

 

“Don’t push yourself too hard.” 

 

He spoke quietly, but the concern wrapped around each syllable like velvet. 

 

“If it really can’t be done… we just move. Forgiveness is always easier to beg than permission is to receive.”

 

Dahlia shook her head quickly—almost fiercely—as though he’d suggested something scandalously reckless.

 

“The proper channels exist for a reason. Even asking for an audience through you is already an extravagant privilege I shouldn’t take lightly.”

 

“You’re allowed to take more than that.” 

 

His gaze held hers, steady and burning. 

 

“You’re mine.”

 

Mine.

 

The single word sank deep into her chest like warm ink spreading through water. 

 

Heat prickled beneath her collarbone; the skin along her throat suddenly felt unbearably sensitive. 

 

Dahlia’s fingers tightened around his hand, clinging as though the contact alone could anchor the wild flutter inside her ribs.

 

“Even so… no.” 

 

Her voice was soft but resolute, trembling only at the edges. 

 

“I will only move under Her Majesty’s express permission.”

 

Hissin let out a small, exhausted huff of laughter.

 

“You’ve become completely Moonish.”

 

He leaned forward, letting the fatigue he’d been carrying for days finally pull him down. His forehead came to rest against her shoulder, his body seeking her warmth like a man starved for shelter.

 

“Go inside and rest properly,” 

 

She murmured, even as her arms were already moving to cradle him closer.

 

“This is the most comfortable place for me.” 

 

His breath brushed the side of her neck, low and intimate. 

 

“Wherever you are.”

 

Dahlia’s lips curved into a helplessly fond smile. She lifted one hand and gently cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through dark strands, guiding him to settle more fully against her.

 

He exhaled—a long, bone-deep sound of relief—and let himself sink completely into her embrace.

 

For the first time in what felt like forever, a fresh spark of purpose lit Dahlia’s eyes. 

 

They glittered, bright and alive, as moonlight caught on still water.

 

The quiet space between them hummed with unspoken promises, with the slow burn of devotion that neither dared name aloud—not yet.