Chapter 2

  The stairs of Haven Heights were carved for the legs of giants, not toddlers. Mable sat on the third step of the shared terrace, her golden curls bouncing as she struggled with a wooden gear her dad had given her. Her blue eyes were wide with a frustration that was rapidly turning into a pout as the notches refused to align. She let out a small, huffed breath, her cheeks flushing pink.

  "Ace! Ace, look!" Mable shouted, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

  Grace, barely five but already carrying herself with an effortless, easy confidence, hopped down from a higher ledge. She landed softly in her boots, her obsidian eyes dancing with a quick, sharp light. She didn't just walk over; she moved with the stride of someone who already owned the terrain.

  "It’s upside down, Mabes," Grace said. She knelt beside her, her hands moving with a fluid, natural precision. She flipped the gear, clicked it into the mechanism, and gave Mable a wink that made the younger girl beam.

  "Grace, honey, we told you," Sarah called out from the doorway of the clinic, wiping her hands on an apron. Sarah was Mable’s mother, but she watched Grace with the same protective eye. "It’s Gr-ace. Mable, try again. G-r-a-c-e."

  Mable screwed up her face, her bottom lip trembling. "Ace," she insisted, her small hand clutching Grace’s sleeve.

  Grace stood up, brushing the stone dust from her knees. She turned to Sarah, a slow, charming smile spreading across her face—the kind of look that made the village adults stop mid-sentence.

  "Don't worry about it, Aunt Sarah," Grace said, her voice bright. She slung an arm around Mable’s shoulders, pulling her close. "I like it. I am Ace."

  She said it with such casual authority that Sarah simply blinked, the correction dying on her lips. From that day on, the name Grace stayed in the village records, but to the only person who mattered, she was Ace.

  The winter of their seventh year brought a "Black Frost" to the Heights. The wind was a serrated blade, and the village children were huddled in the communal courtyard, waiting for the Luma-carts to bring the afternoon ration of warm cider. The air tasted of copper and ice, and the blue street-lights hummed with the strain of the surge.

  Mable was sitting on a crate, carefully wrapping a scrap of lace around a doll’s head. She was so focused on the tiny knots that she didn't see Leo—a boy three years older and twice her size—stalking toward her through the crowd.

  "Move it, Mable," Leo grunted, giving the crate a hard kick that nearly sent her toppling. "This is the spot with the best heater-vent. Go sit in the snow."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Mable looked up, her blue eyes filling with a sudden, watery hurt. She started to gather her things, her hands shaking. "I was just finishing—"

  "I said move." Leo reached out to shove her shoulder.

  He never touched her.

  Grace was suddenly there, stepping into the space between Leo’s hand and Mable’s coat. She didn't scream or wave her arms. She simply stood there, looking up at him with a cool, mocking tilt of her head.

  "You’ve got a smudge on your nose, Leo," Grace said, her voice smooth and conversational, though her black eyes were as hard as polished flint. "Or maybe that’s just your face. Hard to tell with the frost."

  The other children nearby let out a collective "ooh." Leo’s face turned a deep, angry crimson. "Get out of the way, findling."

  Grace didn't flinch. She took a half-step forward, invading his space until he was the one forced to lean back. She looked completely relaxed, as if she were enjoying the confrontation. "You want this spot? You can have it. But first, you're going to apologize for spilling Mable’s lace. It was a gift from my Dad."

  Leo sneered, but as he looked into Grace's unblinking, obsidian gaze, his bravado began to leak out of his boots. There was an edge to her, a sharp, cold competence that made his stomach turn.

  "Whatever," Leo muttered, stepping back and looking at his friends. "Keep your stupid crate."

  He turned and stomped away. Grace didn't watch him go. She turned back to Mable, her face instantly softening into a quick, playful grin.

  "He’s got no style, Mabes," Grace laughed, kneeling to help pick up the lace. "Next time, tell him the heater-vent smells like his feet. He’ll leave faster."

  The sun was dipping below the cloud-sea, staining the stone walls of the duplex a deep, bruised purple. Inside, the fire hummed, and Grace was sitting by the workbench in her father's lab, tinkering with a broken compass.

  Mable walked in, carrying a heavy ceramic mug of warm milk and a thick wool blanket. She didn't say anything, just draped the blanket over Grace’s shoulders. Grace leaned back, letting out a long, tired breath as Mable sat on the stool beside her.

  "The Elders were asking for you," Mable whispered, poking at a loose thread on the blanket. "I told them you were helping your Dad. I told them to go away."

  Grace smiled, her eyes half-closed.

  “There’s something on your head. From the bushes I guess” Mable started to unbraid Grace's hair, her fingers clumsy but careful. "Probably," Grace muttered. She reached back and squeezed Mable’s hand. "What would I do without you, Mabes?"

  Mable grinned, her blue eyes bright in the firelight. "You’d probably be freezing on a landing somewhere, picking fights with boys twice your size."

  Grace let out a real laugh, leanng her head against Mable's. "Yeah. Probably."

  Mable handed her the mug. "Drink your milk. You're getting cranky."

  "I'm not cranky," Grace said, though she took a long sip.

  They sat together in the quiet of the lab, the only sound the hum of the pipes in the walls. Outside the wind was still howling, but in here, it was just two girls, a warm blanket, and the end of the day.