In the biting cold of night, Barron, along with his knights, chose to make camp within a small wooded grove, their single night's rest shared in the company of the Empress herself. It would take two full days to reach the city of Renia, and the horses, weary and lathered from the long journey, could endure no more without pause.
Grace had taken charge of preparing the evening meal, the fragrant steam of soup curling into the frozen air, accompanied by coarse bread to warm and fill the stomach.Only she and Celestine were women among the travelling party.
"Your Grace, you should rest inside the carriage," Grace urged gently as she ladled broth into waiting bowls, her breath visible in the frigid air.Celestine, standing beside her, passed cups of water to the knights, the lamplight catching the soft warmth in her smile.
"I would rather help than rest, Grace," the Empress replied, her voice light, almost playful. There was a quiet joy in her expression, as though the act of serving lightened her heart.
When the last of the soup and bread had been given out, Celestine announced her wish to bathe. A small river, its waters dark and murmuring under the moon, had been found nearby — close enough for convenience, yet far enough to escape the gaze of the guards. Barron himself led both Grace and the Empress to its banks.
Celestine stepped into the cold water while Grace stood at the edge, assisting when needed."Will you not bathe with me, Grace?" the Empress asked over her shoulder.
"No, Your Grace," Grace answered with quiet resolve. "I will remain here in case… anything should occur."
Celestine made no protest, simply continuing her ablutions until she was satisfied, then returned to the carriage to rest. One by one, the knights retired to their blankets, readying themselves for tomorrow's march.
Grace, left alone by the campfire, cleaned the area, gathering and stacking the used bowls until all was neat. She scanned the shadows to ensure no one lingered near the river. Only then did she allow herself to prepare for her own wash.
She did not fully immerse herself — the wound at her hip was not yet healed. Instead, she wiped her skin with a damp towel, shivering as the icy cloth traced her shoulders and back. Wrapping the bandage was another matter entirely. Each attempt sent a sharp tug of pain through her body; the strip needed to encircle her back and waist, yet her reach was limited.
Leaning against a large stone, she paused to consider how she might manage it — and then froze. The bandage was suddenly taken from her hands.
Grace's head snapped upward. Barron stood over her, his face unreadable, the strip of cloth held firmly in his grasp. The lamplight revealed dark strands of hair clinging wetly to his brow. He had been bathing too — but further upstream, away from her sight.
Without a word, he knelt before her. The silence between them was taut, broken only by the slow, deliberate sound of the bandage being unwound and wrapped. His hands worked with practised care, encircling her waist, brushing lightly against the curve of her ribs.
"I'm going to tie it from your back," Barron murmured, his tone cool and even.
Grace gave a small nod, keeping one hand pressed to her chest to hold her garments in place. The upper part of her body was modestly covered, though her bare waist was exposed to the night air.
He leaned closer to knot the bandage. Grace could hear his heartbeat — steady yet close enough to quicken her own. A faint trace of his scent reached her: something clean, tinged faintly with rose.
When he had finished, she averted her gaze, her cheeks warming."Thank you… sir," she murmured, her voice shy.
Barron said nothing, his expression as impassive as ever. Without another glance, he rose and walked back toward the place where he would sleep, leaving Grace to gather her thoughts beneath the cold, silvered moonlight.
By mid-morning, they had reached the outskirts of Renia. As they drew closer to the city's border, Barron's sharp gaze caught upon the foliage along the roadside. Some patches lay charred, as though a sudden fire had swept through, blackening leaves and curling stems. The sight stirred a quiet suspicion in him, though he kept it unspoken. They pressed on towards the city gates, the carriage wheels crunching over the dirt road. Celistine, seated with an almost serene composure, allowed herself a faint smile — Lady Rehena had followed her instructions to perfection.
The letter Celistine had dispatched to Rehena, carried by Gilbert, had been written with meticulous care. It commanded that, upon receiving it, Rehena must wait a couple of days before setting the plan in motion. On the appointed day, she was to burn every black-berry plant within reach, first ensuring that no sprig or root remained that might sprout again. This was the very day Celistine would journey to Renia, and caution was paramount — for she travelled in the company of the Emperor's shadows, chief among them Barron, with several of his comrades close behind.
In addition, Celistine had instructed Rehena to harvest and store a single large sack of the berries, preserving them for a full month. The preservation method was strange: burying the fruit deep within the earth, wrapped in honey and salt so that no rot or corruption could touch them. Rehena had no notion why such an odd command had been given, yet she obeyed without hesitation.
Celistine's reasoning was simple — the berries must vanish from Barron's sight. She knew this was his first visit to Renia and intended to keep her true designs hidden, for the black berries were to play a role in her future schemes.
By the time the sun had begun its slow descent, the Empress's knights, Barron, Grace, and Celistine herself arrived at Renia's principal estate. Lord Herbet and Lady Rehena awaited them in the grand forecourt.
"Greetings, Your Majesty. I trust your journey was safe?" Lord Herbet bowed low.
"It was indeed — smooth and without incident. You may rise, my lord," Celistine replied, her voice composed yet warm.
They entered the mansion, a fine residence though modest when compared to the splendour of the Western Empire. Servants moved swiftly, tending to every need. Lord Herbet's attendants escorted Barron and the Empress's guard to their quarters, where they might rest before the evening.
When night had settled upon the city, the great dining hall was lit with soft golden light. Celistine, Barron, Lord Herbet, and Rehena shared a fine supper before withdrawing to the council chamber to speak of the campaign against the thieves.
"First," Barron began, his tone steady but resolute, "we march to their lair. We take their leader alive, if possible — or bring him to justice swiftly."
He spoke with the precision of one who had inherited strategy from the finest hands; his foster father had once been captain to the late Emperor himself.
"The thieves are but a small force," Barron continued. "We hold the advantage."
It was true — Renia's city guard stood strong, and with the Empress's own knights, their combined strength dwarfed that of the enemy. Celistine, however, was listening for another reason entirely. The talk of tactics was a mere veil; her true concern was Grace — and how to free her from Barron's unyielding watch, so that the girl might deliver a certain letter northward.
"What if we strike them first?" Lord Herbet ventured.
"It is easily said, my lord, yet far more dangerous to attempt," Barron countered. "We know nothing of the snares they may have set. Every move we make may already have been foreseen. They are thieves — and thieves are cunning in the ways of war."
His words held weight. To wage battle against thieves was no less perilous than a campaign against a foreign power.
When the council adjourned, Barron declared that the march would begin in the following week. Celistine and Grace would remain at the Renia estate during the campaign. Lord Herbet had already located the thieves' hideout — a full day's march away.
One by one, they departed the chamber until only Celistine remained, her mind already weaving the threads of her plan. She retired to her private rooms and summoned Grace.
The girl entered swiftly, bearing a towel as pretext, for even now the Emperor's shadows watched her every step. They kept their voices low, every syllable weighed with caution.
"Your Majesty — the plan?" Grace whispered.
"Barron will be away with the army within the week," Celistine murmured. "You must deliver the letter, unseen. Can you do this?"
Grace's jaw tightened. She knew the journey north would take several days — perhaps more, if the weather turned. She would travel with Gilbert, bearing the black berries as an offering to the guards at the northern border. The secret passage there was now heavily patrolled; she would need swiftness and cunning to reach it before Barron returned. The greater peril was not the road, but the Emperor's shadows, ever vigilant in their duty to guard both the Empress and Grace.
"We may need Rehena's aid," Celistine said at last, her eyes glinting with quiet resolve.
While Celistine was absorbed in her own designs, another hand was already at work — weaving a scheme meant to bring about her downfall. Somewhere beyond her sight, Max, brother to Medeya, moved like a shadow upon the board. Disguised in plain garb and having dyed his hair to a deep, unnatural violet, he had already slipped into the thieves' stronghold.
There, in the dim light of the enemy's lair, Max laid his offer before them — a chest heavy with coin, worth a million moonshards. His terms were simple: the thieves would bend to his command.
"All we must do is bring down the Empress?" Hagorn, the leader of the band, asked, his gaze fixed greedily upon the wealth that had come to him through Medeya's kin.
"Yes," Max replied, the word curling from his lips like smoke. "But it will not be done by brute force alone. Without careful design, such a feat is doomed to fail." An evil smile ghosted across his face, dark and deliberate.
"So… what is your plan?" Hagorn pressed, curiosity sharpening his tone. The thought of claiming Renia — the city he had long coveted — was enough to stir his eagerness to the edge of impatience.
"This is how it shall be," Max murmured.
And so he began to speak, and one by one the enemy captains leaned in. Even Hagorn bent forward to listen, drawn in by the slow, deliberate weaving of Max's words. Each instruction was delivered with the precision of a man certain of his triumph — certain that by the end, the Empress Celistine would lie broken, and his victory assured.