In the Emperor's Grand Hall, tension hung thick in the air. Celistine and Harold had been arguing for some time, their voices echoing against the marble pillars. The Empress had proposed sending her own royal knights to aid the city of Renia—a plan Harold did not appreciate.
This was not yet an official decree, but the disagreement was loud enough for the gathered Grand Ministers to hear every word. They stood quietly, pretending patience, yet clearly intrigued by the imperial quarrel.
"Insolence! Why must you involve yourself in the troubles of Renia? And why use your Empress Knights for this?" Harold's voice was tight with anger as he sat on his throne.
Celestine remained outwardly calm, though inside her blood boiled.
"For their survival, Your Majesty! I have no desire other than to help them. If thieves overrun the city of Renia, it will become a threat to our nation."
Her tone was measured but firm. Harold studied her carefully, still undecided. He wondered whether she truly spoke from compassion or if this was another of her cunning manoeuvres. He knew his Empress was capable of turning the tide of any discussion with her sharp mind.
Celestine, however, meant no deception this time. She was genuinely concerned for Renia and for the Western Empire's security. She knew how dangerous thieves could be if allowed to gain ground.
At that moment, Grand Minister Honson stepped forward. His voice carried a mixture of worry and mockery.
"If you act without His Majesty's approval and fail, Empress, it could leave a mark on your dignity that may never fade."
Celestine did not flinch. She understood the risks well enough—failure could tarnish her name, strip her of influence, and even see her duties toward the people handed over to the Emperor's mistress. But fear was not in her nature. She believed she could win… unless there was a traitor within the Western Empire aiding the thieves. That, she vowed, would not happen.
The ministers were all loyal to Harold; their bias was obvious.
"Yes, I am aware," Celestine replied, her eyes meeting Harold's. "But I am a woman of my word. I do not lose easily."
Something in her tone stirred a spark of hope in Harold, though he masked it quickly. The Grand Ministers murmured among themselves, surprised by her confidence.
Harold's lips curved slightly before he spoke again. "You forget that the Eastern Empire has invited us to their grand feast at the end of this sixth month?"
Celestine froze. Indeed, the event required both the Emperor and Empress to attend. But in that moment, an idea bloomed in her mind—a way to slip from Harold's watchful gaze.
"You have Lady Medeya, Your Majesty. She can attend in my stead."
The words were delivered with a faint smirk, aimed like a dart. Harold's brow furrowed, and he struck the arm of his throne as he rose to his feet.
"Ignorant woman! How can I attend the Eastern feast with just a mistress?"
The outburst shocked everyone. Never before had Harold spoken of Medeya in such a way—especially when many believed she was his most cherished companion. Even Celestine was momentarily taken aback.
From the far end of the hall came the sound of muffled sobs. All eyes turned toward the great doors, where Medeya stood, her face pale with hurt. She had heard everything.
"H-how dare you, Your Majesty…!" she cried, tears spilling freely.
Harold's heart tightened. He strode quickly to her side, murmuring apologies. "Forgive me, my love. I was angered by the Empress's stubbornness."
Celestine caught his words and rolled her eyes, hiding a smirk.
Within minutes, Medeya's tears had softened into a pout. Harold returned to his throne with her by his side. Celestine stood before them, composed.
"So, tell me, Your Majesty—what is the matter between you and the Empress?" Medeya asked curiously.
"I cannot attend the Eastern feast," Celestine answered for him, "so I suggested you take my place."
Medeya's eyes lit up with excitement. This was an opportunity she would not waste. She pleaded sweetly with Harold, her angelic face impossible for him to resist.
"Fine!" he agreed at last. "I will allow you, Empress, to go to Renia—but only with your own knights. I will not send a single soldier of the Empire."
Celestine hid her satisfaction. With Medeya's help—though unintentional—she had secured her mission.
After bowing and thanking the Emperor, she heard him add, "I will send Barron to assist you in your journey."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Barron replied with a nod. Celestine accepted without complaint. She had already expected Harold would assign someone to watch her.
----
When the ministers and Celestine had withdrawn, silence claimed the vast hall, leaving only Harold and Medeya. She sat on his lap, arms folded tight across her chest, lips drawn into a pout, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Forgive me, my love," Harold murmured, his voice low, coaxing.
"I heard you call me 'just a mistress.'" Her tone wavered, though pride held it firm. "Am I no longer of worth to you?"
He tilted her chin until her defiance met his gaze. The heat in his eyes burned away her indignation, and when his mouth closed over hers, the kiss was slow but deep, thick with unspoken need.
Medeya's resistance melted. Her fingers tangled in the folds of his robe, pulling him closer. Harold's heartbeat quickened, his desire no longer content to be restrained. His hand slid upward along her side until it cupped the fullness of her breast, squeezing with possessive intent.
A soft moan escaped her lips, muffled between their kiss, her body arching instinctively into his touch. His thumb brushed over her through the thin silk of her gown, drawing another shiver from her. But when his other hand began to wander lower, Medeya caught it, her voice low and breathless.
"Not here, Your Grace…"
A slow, wolfish grin curved his mouth—half challenge, half promise. Without breaking her gaze, he rose, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. She clung to him, her breath unsteady, another faint moan slipping out as his grip on her remained firm and claiming.
The heavy doors shut with a deep, resonant thud, sealing them away from the world. Golden light from the tall candelabras bathed the chamber in a warm glow, shadows dancing over silken drapes and the vast bed draped in crimson velvet.
Harold's gaze never left Medeya's face as he carried her across the room. Each step seemed slower, deliberate, as though he were savouring the nearness of her. Her breath came quicker, her fingers curling into the back of his neck, feeling the heat of him through the fine fabric.
He set her down gently upon the bed, but his hands lingered at her waist, firm and possessive. Medeya's lips parted as if to speak, but no words came—only the faintest sigh, trembling with anticipation.
"Do you still think you are just my mistress?" Harold's voice was low, roughened by something deeper than anger.
She met his eyes, her own dark with defiance and desire. "Convince me otherwise."
His hand rose to her cheek, thumb brushing her skin as though memorising its softness. Then he leaned in, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that deepened with each heartbeat, slow and burning. Her fingers clutched the front of his robe, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.
The world beyond those velvet curtains faded; there was only the warmth of the chamber, the quickened rhythm of their breathing, and the unspoken promise in their locked gaze.
Harold's grip tightened at her waist as though anchoring her to him. Medeya felt her defiance melting, replaced by a heat that spread through her veins. His touch was everywhere—tracing the curve of her back, the slope of her shoulder, the delicate line of her neck—each movement deliberate, reverent yet claiming.
He drew her closer until she could hear the steady, powerful beat of his heart against her chest. Her fingers slid to his jaw, feeling the strength there, and his eyes—dark, unyielding—held hers as if daring her to look away.
When his lips found the hollow just below her ear, her breath caught. The chamber seemed smaller, the air thick with something unspoken yet undeniable. Every flicker of the candlelight cast them in gold and shadow, like two figures trapped in a painting, frozen in a moment that could shatter at the slightest touch.
Harold pulled back just enough to see her face. "You will not leave this room," he said softly, but there was iron in his tone. "Not until you know who you are to me."
Medeya's reply came as barely more than a whisper. "Then show me."
His hands tightened, his body pressing into hers as the space between them vanished entirely. The warmth grew, fierce and unrelenting, until it was all she could feel—his presence, his power, and the certainty that nothing beyond these walls mattered.
And as the golden light danced over them, the outside world ceased to exist.
Three days later, the bright midday sun poured over the palace courtyard. Celestine had already packed her belongings, and her servants—including Grace—had carefully loaded every last chest into the Empress's carriage. All that was left was to wait for departure.
The Empress's escort was formidable: one thousand and five hundred soldiers under her command, along with Barron's five subordinates, all bound for the City of Renia to confront the thieves threatening its safety.
Celestine wore a simple blue day dress, elegant but far from extravagant, her golden hair tied neatly at the back. She knew the road ahead would take two days and one night to complete. Yet, despite the significance of her mission, Emperor Harold had not bothered to see her off. His silence was still heavy with resentment—he had not forgiven the moment when Medeya had stepped between him and his wife during their conversation.
Celestine's eyes caught sight of Barron checking the carriage wheels. Satisfied, he stepped closer and bowed slightly.
"Your Majesty, the carriage is ready. You may enter now,"he said, his tone firm and businesslike, extending his hand toward her.
Celestine accepted, resting her fingers lightly in his palm as she stepped up. The dress was long, and she needed the steady support. Once she was seated, Grace approached next. She wore a plain long-sleeved blouse with a brown skirt, her hair tied into a simple bun.
Barron, as courtesy, extended his hand to her as well.Grace gave him a cool, unreadable look.
"I can take care of myself, sir. Thank you,"
she replied—polite, but laced with sarcasm.
Barron only shrugged and stepped aside, watching as Grace carefully placed her foot on the step. But halfway up, she caught the edge of her skirt beneath her shoe and—
"Kyaa!"
The usually composed Grace, skilled in combat and feared by many, had slipped in the most ungraceful way possible. She landed squarely on the ground, a look of pure irritation on her face.
Barron's shadow fell over her.
"Can you take care of yourself now?" he asked with a smirk.
Grace's cheeks heated—not from pain, but from the embarrassment of failing in front of him. Without a word, she dusted herself off and approached the carriage again. Barron offered his hand once more, this time with a teasing smile. Grace arched a brow at him, turned her face away, and used both hands to lift her skirt.
She took the first step—then stumbled again. Her heel slipped against the stone, and the world tilted for a brief, alarming second. But before gravity could claim her, something firm and steady caught her from behind.
A rush of warmth pressed into her back—solid, unyielding, and alive. She froze.
Her eyes snapped open. Barron's arm circled her waist, strong and certain, the leather of his sleeve brushing lightly against the silk of her dress. His grip was neither rough nor hesitant; it was as though he had been expecting her fall all along.
Her breath caught, her pulse leaping wildly in her chest. She could hear the faint rustle of his coat as he shifted closer, his presence enveloping her like a quiet shield.
A faint blush crept to her cheeks, betraying her confusion. She wanted to step away, yet some unspoken part of her didn't move.
Barron's gaze lingered, unreadable, his face close enough that she caught the faint scent of cedar and steel. For a moment, the bustling world beyond the steps faded to nothing—just the muted thud of her heartbeat and the sound of his even breathing.
He did not speak. Neither did she.
With calm precision, he guided her forward, his hand steady against her waist as if reluctant to let go too soon. Only when her feet found the top step did his touch withdraw—slowly, deliberately—leaving behind a ghost of warmth that refused to fade.
Grace exhaled, unsure if the tremor in her hands came from the stumble… or from him.
Grace muttered,
"Thank you,"
barely meeting his gaze before slipping into the carriage.
Celestine had witnessed the entire scene and was trying—and failing—to hide her smile.
Grace sat opposite her, narrowing her eyes.
"What's wrong, Your Grace?" she asked, suspicious.
Celestine chuckled softly.
"You and Barron have quite the chemistry, don't you?"
Grace froze, then burst out,
"Ha!? That old man? No way, Your Grace! He's not my type. Ew!"
Celestine laughed openly this time, finding her usually stoic guard unexpectedly charming.
Outside, Barron mounted his white horse, leading the one thousand five hundred-strong escort toward the Empire's gates.
Minutes passed before Grace broke the silence.
"Empress, what's the plan?"
Celestine's lips curved into a knowing smile.
"First, we proceed as planned."
Whether it was the gods' will or her own determination, Celestine silently prayed for success.
****
Far behind them, inside the palace, a young woman with white hair and sky-blue eyes stood by a high window, watching the Empress's carriage disappear into the distance.
"Max," she said, her voice smooth but laced with venom, "you know what to do. Make sure this journey becomes the Empress's downfall."
Her lips curved into a cruel smile as the sound of marching soldiers faded from sight.
"Yes," Max replied from the doorway.
Without another word, he turned and left Medeya's chambers, already weaving the first threads of his plan to destroy Celestine into her journey in Renia.