Grant me Your Grace Chapter 106 - Side Story

 

The long corridor finally ended.

 

A massive, imposing door loomed before them.

 

Princess Dahlia Baran swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in her own ears. Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs as she tried to steady her breathing. 

 

Cold sweat clung to her palms—until a large, warm hand enveloped hers completely.

 

Strong fingers curled around her trembling ones with quiet, unshakable certainty.

 

“There’s nothing to fear,” came Hissin’s low, velvet voice right beside her ear. 

 

“She may not be gentle… but she is surprisingly flexible when it matters.”

 

He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, close enough that she could feel the steady heat radiating from his body, a silent anchor in the storm inside her chest.

 

Dahlia nodded once, small and tight, then threaded her fingers through his and gripped hard—as though letting go might cause her to unravel completely.

 

At Hissin’s subtle glance, the guards stationed before the door moved in perfect silence. 

 

Heavy iron-bound wood groaned open.

 

Beyond the threshold stretched an immense audience chamber paved in gleaming white marble that reflected torchlight like frozen moonlight. 

 

At the far end, atop a high dais of dark stone, sat Tefnu—Queen of Mohron.

 

Dahlia walked forward beside Hissin, every step heavier than the last, until they reached the foot of the dais. 

 

Together they sank to their knees, heads bowed.

 

“We greet Her Majesty the Queen.”

 

A long silence followed.

 

Then the queen slowly—almost languidly—tilted her head downward. Faded, moon-pale eyes drifted over Dahlia like mist settling on water.

 

“It has been some time… Dahlia.”

 

Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of years and unspoken grief.

“How have you found life here?”

 

“By Your Majesty’s grace, I have been… more than cared for.” 

 

Dahlia’s voice trembled only slightly. 

 

“I carry the kindness you showed me—the mercy of taking me in—etched deep inside my heart. Every day.”

 

Tefnu’s lips curved in the faintest, gentlest of smiles.

 

“Kindness… such a heavy word.”

 

Her gaze, though distant and clouded, seemed to pierce straight through to the raw places Dahlia still guarded.

 

“When all I truly did… was keep silent about Levitzenna’s deeds,”

 

Dahlia remembered the first formal audience after she and Hissin had finally untangled the knots of misunderstanding between them. 

 

Even then, Tefnu had looked at her this same way—deeply, quietly, without demand or expectation, yet seeing everything.

 

Most of the people gathered in Mohron had lost their homes, their families, their futures because of Baran. By all rights, the name alone should have made Tefnu recoil.

 

And yet.

 

She had never once turned cold. Instead, she had looked at the Baran still living inside Dahlia’s name, inside her blood, inside her memories… and offered understanding. Sanctuary.

 

Stay as long as you wish, she had said. This place can be yours, too.

 

In a nation born from broken, uprooted lives, the fierce loyalty that bound them together came from moments precisely like this—a queen who knew how to hold the wounded without asking them to stop bleeding first.

 

Dahlia had been one of those held.

 

And ever since, she had burned with the quiet, desperate need to give something—anything—back.

 

Tefnu regarded her now with that same patient, almost tender gravity.

 

“You said you had words you wished to offer me.”

 

Dahlia felt Hissin’s thumb brush once, very lightly, across the back of her hand—a fleeting reassurance, a shared heartbeat.

 

She drew a slow, trembling breath… and lifted her eyes to meet the queen’s.

 

The air between the three of them suddenly felt charged, fragile, alive with everything yet unsaid.

 

Tefnu spoke first, her voice carrying the quiet authority of someone who had long ago learned the weight of every word.

 

Dahlia drew the carefully prepared report from the folds of her robe. 

 

With a small, respectful bow, she passed the bound parchment to the waiting eunuch, who carried it the final few steps to the queen’s side.

 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

 

Dahlia’s voice was steady now, though the pulse at the base of her throat betrayed her. 

 

“While reviewing Mohron’s administrative affairs with your permission these past weeks, I discovered a sudden and sharp increase in nations requesting trade partnerships. If you will grant me your leave… I wish to negotiate and conclude those agreements myself.”

 

The eunuch unfolded the pages one by one and began to read in a clear, measured tone. 

 

Though Tefnu’s sight had long since faded to little more than pale shadows and vague shapes, she could still distinguish the dense clusters of crimson ink—Dahlia’s meticulous annotations—scattered across the sheets like fresh blood on snow. 

 

She listened with absolute attention, head tilted slightly as though tasting each figure and clause.

 

When the final page turned, silence pooled in the vast chamber.

 

Tefnu exhaled once, a soft sound laced with something unreadable—caution, perhaps, or the ghost of old weariness.

 

“So many nations,” she murmured, almost to herself. 

 

“All of them knocking at our gates.”

 

The lowered timbre carried unmistakable concern—opening Mohron’s doors so wide after so many years of guarded seclusion.

 

Dahlia had anticipated this. She had spent the days before this audience rehearsing every counterpoint, every reassurance. 

 

Now she spoke—calmly at first, then with growing conviction—laying out the distinctions she had drawn:

 

Which proposed alliances Mohron desperately needed.

 

Which could wait.

 

Which demands must be refused outright?

 

And—most crucially—which refusals could quietly be turned into leverage later.

 

For a princess who had spent years locked inside the opulent cage of the imperial palace, the strategic clarity was startling. 

 

Yet anyone who truly understood would know—those years had not been wasted. 

 

Surrounded by books, maps, and the severe tutelage of exiled scholars, Dahlia had built an entire world inside her mind—one far larger and more formidable than the marble walls that once confined her.

 

As she spoke, Tefnu’s expression began to change.

 

The faint, clouded eyes no longer simply listened. They seemed to search—as though trying to see past the words to the woman who offered them. 

 

A small vertical line appeared between the queen’s brows, then smoothed again. 

 

Surprise gave way to something warmer, something almost like wonder.

 

Mohron was, after all, still only a modest kingdom stitched together from refugees and survivors. Governing it, holding it intact, had never been easy. 

 

Many of the very problems Tefnu had wrestled with in silence for years were now being met—calmly, methodically—with elegant solutions from the lips of this young Baran princess.

 

“…Likewise, the draft agreement with Hayad requires sweeping revision,” 

 

Dahlia continued, “but their advanced construction techniques are something Mohron cannot afford to forgo. I propose we renegotiate: grant them limited mining rights in the eastern ranges in exchange for bridge-building expertise. That single exchange would open our trade routes through the southern passes far more effectively than any tariff reduction.”

 

Tefnu’s head tilted again, this time with visible curiosity.

 

“And why,” she asked softly, 

 

“Does Mohron suddenly need bridges so badly?”

 

The question hung between them—simple on the surface, yet heavy with unspoken layers.

 

Dahlia felt Hissin shift ever so slightly at her side. Not protective. Not possessive. Just… present. His shoulder brushed hers in the barest contact, a silent reminder: You are not alone in this room.

 

She drew breath, met the queen’s pale, searching gaze directly, and answered.

 

“Because the bridges we build today will not merely carry merchants and grain. They will carry our people—back toward the world we were once forced to flee. And because I believe… with all my heart… that Mohron has hidden long enough.”

 

The last words came quieter than the rest, almost a confession.

 

For a heartbeat, the great marble hall seemed to hold its breath.

 

Tefnu did not answer immediately.

 

Instead, she lifted one thin, age-spotted hand and let it rest lightly on the open report—as though feeling the warmth of Dahlia’s intention through the very parchment.

 

When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer still, threaded with something dangerously close to affection.

 

“You speak as though you mean to stay, child.”

 

Dahlia’s throat tightened.

 

Beside her, Hissin’s fingers—still laced with hers from the moment they entered—tightened in instinctive response.

 

And in that small, secret pressure, she felt the unspoken promise pass between them once more: whatever answer she gave, whatever road opened next… they would walk it together.

 

“…The Mohron of today lies deep beneath the earth,” 

 

Dahlia continued, her voice steady yet laced with quiet fire, 

 

“Its form carved so perfectly into the cave’s natural shape that bridges are unnecessary here below.”

 

She lifted her gaze to Tefnu—serious now, unflinching.

 

“But the surface… the surface will need them.”

 

Surface.

 

The single word struck the vast chamber like a dropped stone in still water.

 

Tefnu’s brows drew together in the faintest flicker of disbelief; the queen who had long ago schooled her features into calm masks could not quite hide the tremor of something raw beneath. 

 

Beside Dahlia, Hissin stiffened. His grip on her hand—still joined since they first knelt—tightened sharply, not in restraint but in instinctive, protective alarm.

 

His dark eyes searched her face with naked worry—Are you truly about to offer your own blood again? Are you about to pay that price once more?

 

Dahlia turned to him.

 

For one suspended heartbeat their gazes locked.

 

In hers, ‘Trust me.’

 

A silent, fierce plea wrapped in unshakable certainty.

 

In his—fear warring with devotion, the kind that would follow her into fire if she asked—and the kind that would beg her not to walk into it alone.

 

She gave his fingers one small, reassuring squeeze before turning back to the queen.

 

“The Baran continent receives the sun’s full, merciless strength,” she said. 

 

“As long as that sun continues to burn, the land above will remain a wasteland of death. Forever.”

Tefnu’s breath caught. “Then you mean to—”

 

“Yes.” 

 

Dahlia’s voice was soft now, almost reverent. 

 

“With Hayad’s techniques, we will see the sun. We will claim the surface. We will build Mohron’s new cavern—not beneath stone, but beneath sky.”

 

Hayad’s mastery was legendary: bridges spanning impossible chasms, aqueducts carrying rivers across mountains, dams taming furious waters. 

 

If those same arts were turned toward the construction of shielded citadels and vast sun-blocking canopies… 

 

Mohron would no longer be merely a hidden refuge. It would become something new. Something living.

 

“Mohron’s new cavern…” 

 

Tefnu echoed the phrase slowly, tasting it. 

 

A small, startled laugh escaped her—soft, incredulous, almost fond.

 

“It is… an audacious dream. Impeccably reasoned. Almost too perfect.” Her tone sobered. 

 

“And yet I remain deeply skeptical that Hayad will ever bend so far as to aid us.”

 

She leaned forward slightly, the movement carrying the weight of long years spent reading men’s hearts rather than books.

 

“A forgotten pocket kingdom buried underground suddenly treated as though it commands armies of thousands. Someone, somewhere, is already calculating how to ride that rising power for profit. And others…” 

 

Her voice dropped to something quieter, colder. 

 

“Others will see only a threat. They will watch us with knives already drawn, determined that we never rise high enough to cast a shadow over them.”

 

People, she did not need to say, have always feared most the ones who were once beneath them.

 

“And should we succeed in raising bridges—should we truly climb back into the light—” 

 

Tefnu’s pale eyes seemed to pierce straight through Dahlia, 

 

“Who do you imagine will hate us most bitterly of all?”

 

Dahlia did not flinch.

 

“The nations stronger than we are… yet not yet strong enough to call themselves empires.”

 

The answer came without hesitation.

 

“They will do anything—everything—to keep one more rival from claiming a place beneath the same sun.”

 

Silence fell again, heavier this time, thick with the scent of ambition and peril.

 

Hissin’s thumb traced one slow, unconscious circle over the back of Dahlia’s hand—a gesture so small it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else in the chamber. 

 

But she felt it like a heartbeat against her skin.

 

A vow.

 

A tether.

 

A reminder that whatever abyss they might yet step into, he would be there—fingers laced with hers, refusing to let go.

 

Tefnu watched them both for a long moment, the ghost of a smile touching her lips once more.

 

“You speak of bridges,” 

 

She murmured at last, “But what you truly mean to build… is hope.”

 

Her gaze lingered on Dahlia’s face, then drifted—almost imperceptibly—to the man who stood so close their shadows merged on the marble.

 

“And I begin to suspect,” the queen added very softly, 

 

“That you are not building it alone.”

 

Dahlia had weighed every risk. Precisely because of them, the agreement with Hayad mattered more than anything else.

 

“Hayad’s third prince—Miftah Hayad—was stripped entirely of his place in the line of succession for one reason alone: he lent me his strength during the final battle with Baran.”

 

“Miftah Hayad.” 

 

Tefnu’s voice sharpened with recognition. 

 

“The very man once entangled in marriage talks with Baran.”

 

At the name, Hissin’s brows knit together for the briefest instant—a flicker of old jealousy, old wounds not yet fully healed. 

 

Dahlia felt it like a current running through their still-joined hands. She turned her gaze to him, soft but steady—Be at peace. This is not betrayal.

 

He exhaled once, almost soundlessly, and the tension in his fingers eased—just enough.

 

“Yet objectively,” she continued, 

 

“He possesses every quality required of a king. With even a modest base of support, he could rise again. I believe it with certainty.”

 

Tefnu’s pale lips curved faintly. 

 

“You wish to see Miftah crowned.”

 

Dahlia did not flinch from the gentle accusation.

 

“It is… a personal debt, yes. One I made long ago. This is how I would repay it, however belatedly.”

 

Mohron’s position in the world was no longer small or hidden. 

 

An alliance forged here—deep, unbreakable—would carry real weight. Enough to tip scales in a distant court. 

 

Enough to give a fallen prince a ladder back to power.

 

“You do not even attempt to disguise the true reason,” 

 

Tefnu observed, almost amused.

 

Dahlia bowed her head once more, deeper this time, offering naked honesty.

 

“Whatever ripples this choice sends outward will eventually reach Mohron’s shores. It is my duty to lay every advantage, every danger, bare before you—so that Your Majesty may weigh them with clear eyes.”

 

Tefnu closed her eyes.

 

A long, slow breath escaped her, edged with the faintest sound of inner struggle. The silence stretched—taut, heavy, endless.

 

Dahlia felt her own certainty begin to fray at the edges.

 

Perhaps it had always been too much to ask. Perhaps she had overreached.

 

Then—

 

Tap.

 

The sharp, deliberate sound of Tefnu’s cane against marble shattered the quiet.

 

One careful step. Then another. The queen descended the dais stairs with measured grace, each tap of the cane echoing like a heartbeat in the vast hall.

 

She stopped directly before Dahlia.

 

“Baran did not lose only its gods, it seems.”

 

The words carried layers—regret, recognition, something almost like pride.

 

Dahlia lifted her head.

 

Tefnu’s clouded eyes looked straight down at her. And then—slowly, warmly—the queen’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile.

 

“I will entrust Mohron’s fate… to you.”

 

“Your Majesty…”

 

Dahlia’s voice cracked. Her eyes shimmered, wide and bright with sudden, overwhelming emotion. She bowed low, forehead nearly brushing the stone.

 

“Thank you. I will give everything—everything—to ensure you never have cause to regret this.”

 

“If you require aid,” 

 

Tefnu murmured, “Make use of this one.”

 

Her gaze flicked toward Hissin.

 

“He is a capable servant… and far more besides.”

 

With surprising tenderness, Tefnu reached out and laid a thin, wrinkled hand on Dahlia’s shoulder—steadying her, blessing her. 

 

Then, with quiet instructions to the eunuch to prepare a private strategy chamber solely for the princess, the queen turned and withdrew, her cane tapping a slow, fading rhythm down the long corridor.

 

The great doors closed behind her.

 

Only then did Dahlia dare to look up—straight into Hissin’s face.

 

Joy broke across her features, unguarded and radiant. Tears clung to her lashes, but they were bright, not sorrowful.

 

She turned fully toward him, their hands still entwined, fingers locked so tightly it almost hurt.

 

“We did it,” she whispered, voice trembling with wonder. 

 

“We can finish what we began… all the threads we left dangling.”

 

Hissin did not speak at first.

 

He simply looked at her—really looked—as though memorizing every line of her face in the torchlight. Then, slowly, he lifted their joined hands and pressed his lips to her knuckles, a gesture so reverent it stole the breath from her lungs.

 

“Whatever comes next,” 

 

He said, voice low and rough with feeling, “We face it together.”

 

The words were quiet.

 

But in the echoing silence of the audience hall, they rang like a vow carved in stone.

 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on Dahlia’s heart felt lighter—not gone, but shared.