At the stroke of midnight, Barron had already arranged the two thousand soldiers, while the remaining forces stayed behind to guard the Empress in case of sudden trouble. As Barron secured his belongings upon his horse, Celistine stood silently, watching the preparations. This march would mark their unity, and tonight, she would give her blessing to the forces who would fight in her name.
"All the knights are ready, sir," said one of Barron's captains, his voice firm with loyalty.
Barron gave a curt nod and mounted his horse once more. Celistine stepped forward, standing before the gathered knights, with Lady Rehena and Lord Herbert by her side. The cold air of the night carried her voice as she lifted her gaze to her warriors.
"Listen, my beloved knights of the Empress, and brave warriors of Renia!" she declared, her words echoing with fire and faith. "Fight with your souls, and know that our prayers will walk beside you. These thieves are nothing but slanderers against our nation. Do not allow them to cross our path—stop them, break them! I, Celistine Norenian Wendelia, place my blessing upon you all. Win this battle, and I shall grant the deepest wish of your hearts. Lend me your victory, and with it, we shall guard the peace of Renia!"
The armies erupted in shouts—voices filled with hope, courage, and power. Their bravery was magnificent beneath the moonlight. Celistine's tears slipped down her cheeks, her heart swelling with both pride and sorrow. Yet Barron's gaze was fixed not on her, but on Grace, who lingered at the back of the Empress. Grace's eyes, however, were locked on Barron, unease flickering in their depths. She was not worried for him, but her instinct warned her of a looming tragedy that no blessing could prevent.
Celistine then stepped closer to Barron, her hands trembling slightly as she held out a small object. "This pendant is a symbol of victory," she said softly, her voice breaking with emotion. "I give it to you—bring me victory with it."
It was a pendant shaped like an eagle, the eternal emblem of triumph. Grace leaned forward and placed it into Barron's hand. He accepted it without a word, his face unreadable, though the weight of it pressed upon him.
"I shall accept this," Barron answered coldly, his tone like steel. "In behalf of the Emperor's will to guide you here. Thank you, Your Majesty. We shall march now."
Without further delay, Barron spurred his horse, his knights following in formation. Their march began under the shadowed sky, the clash of hooves echoing against the silence of midnight. Celistine stood still, her eyes fixed upon them until the last glimmer of their armor disappeared into the dark.
While the march of the armies slowly faded from Celistine's sight, silence fell upon the palace. One by one, the nobles and soldiers withdrew to their chambers, the echoes of iron boots replaced by the hush of night. Yet in her private quarters, Celistine remained awake, her mind fixed on the plan she had long prepared.
"Grace—it is time." Her voice was cold, cutting through the stillness.
Without hesitation, Grace darted into her small chamber. She shed her servant's dress and clad herself in the assassin's garb: a fitted black cloak, her movements swift and practiced. She slipped through the window like a shadow, careful not to be seen. Thanks to Lady Rehena's aid, Barron's spies—his network of shadows—had already been cleared away, silenced by Rehena's most trusted knights.
Yet this had not come easily. Before Barron departed with the armies—and before Grace could carry Celistine's secret letter north—Celistine had gone to Lady Rehena in the dead of night, pleading for her help.
"My lady, there is something I must speak of with you," Celistine whispered as they met within Rehena's private chamber. The air was heavy with candle smoke; Rehena, still half-drowsy, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, bewildered at such a summons.
"What matter brings you here at this hour, Your Grace? It is nearly dawn…" Rehena asked, her tone puzzled.
Celistine's gaze was firm, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. "Tomorrow, at midnight, Barron will lead the armies to march against the Thieves' Nest. But before he departs, he will leave spies behind—to watch me, to ensure I make no move he deems treacherous."
Rehena frowned, confusion deepening. "Why would he do this, Your Grace?"
"To watch me," Celistine admitted, bitterness softening into sorrow. "And they are not wrong. I must send a letter to my father in the North… and they would never allow it."
"The North?" Rehena's brows knitted, astonished. "But how will you do such a thing?"
"It is a long tale, but Grace—my maid, my blade in the shadows—she is more than she appears. She is trained in the sword as well as secrecy. Yet I cannot succeed unless you help me. You must rid me of Barron's shadows, for I cannot escape their eyes without you." Her voice broke slightly, pleading, for she had no one else in this court to turn to.
Rehena's expression softened, and after a moment's silence she gave a slow nod. "Very well. I will help you, Your Grace."
Celistine clasped her hands with trembling relief. "Thank you, my lady. I shall never forget this. Not in this life nor the next."
Rehena drew her into an embrace, her own voice gentle, almost sorrowful. "I understand what you feel. Were I in your place, I too would risk everything. You are not alone, Celistine."
And for the first time in many lonely nights, Celistine's heart found solace—for in Rehena, she had found an ally willing to stand beside her, even against the shadows Barron left behind.
Grace finally reached the meeting place, where Gilbert was waiting with quiet patience. Beside him lay a heavy sack of blackberries and a strong horse already prepared for her.
"Let's go!" Grace said firmly, her voice carrying both urgency and determination.
Without wasting another moment, the two of them set off toward the North. The journey would take them two to three days at best, and every heartbeat mattered—they had to move swiftly, before Barron discovered their absence and caught up with them.
___
In the Eastern Kingdom, night had already settled, and the feast was well underway. The great hall shimmered with golden light as King Givora Decastro of the Eastern Empire sat proudly beside the Emperor. At the Emperor's other side, Lady Medeya watched the dancers with delight, her eyes gleaming as music and laughter filled the chamber.
The celebration was grand and joyful, yet Emperor Harold alone carried no joy upon his face. He could not explain what stirred within him, but watching Medeya so radiant brought him a small measure of comfort. Or perhaps it was because he had long grown accustomed to the Empress, Celistine, always at his side during such gatherings. Without her presence, he felt out of place. Perhaps it was simply because Celistine was Empress—that her stature commanded respect wherever she went—while now, beside him, stood only his mistress.
The thought stung him. Imagine… the Emperor of the Western Empire, his consort nothing more than a mistress. Harold wondered, if Medeya were to become Empress, would these feelings change? Would the people's eyes regard her differently? Would their whispers cease, their contempt fade? For tonight, he sensed the nobles of the East looked upon Medeya with little regard, her position seen as beneath them. But if she were crowned Empress—perhaps then, all would change.
"What troubles you, Your Grace?" asked King Givora, studying the Emperor's distant gaze.
"Nothing," Harold replied, his voice calm though his heart was heavy. "I am merely a little tired."
"Then why not let Lady Medeya dance, Your Grace?" the King suggested warmly.
Harold had no choice but to extend his hand. Medeya's cheeks flushed with joy as she accepted, her heart fluttering at the gesture. At last, the Emperor had chosen to lead her to the dance floor.
The music swelled, and together they moved with grace across the polished marble, their steps matched in rhythm. Medeya danced as though the night belonged to her alone—determined to outshine every noble lady present. Her angelic beauty glimmered under the chandeliers: eyes the colour of clear sky, hair white as new-fallen snow. The court ladies watched in envy, their hearts pierced by jealousy.
Yet Harold's heart was elsewhere. He could not deny that Medeya was the fairest woman in the hall that night, but his thoughts strayed to the distant City of Renia—where his wife, Empress Celistine, commanded her armies and faced a war against the thieves. While she bore the weight of empire and battle, her husband now swayed beneath glittering banners, caught in the splendour of the Eastern court.
He hated himself for such thoughts, but he concealed them well. He would not let Medeya see. He feared that, should he reveal how Celistine still haunted his mind, Medeya's heart would drown in jealousy. And so Harold forced himself into the dance, holding Medeya close, moving with her in rhythm—hoping, if only for this night, to silence the shadow of Celistine that lingered within him.
___
It had been three and a half days since Barron prepared for the strike, sharpening his plans and weaving new strategies with careful precision.
"Sir! We've sighted the thieves' hive. They patrol their grounds with caution, weapons at the ready," reported one of the knights tasked to watch the enemy.
"Good. We strike when the sun reaches its height," Barron commanded, his voice cold and steady. The camp moved with tense purpose, knights adjusting armor and readying blades. But just as order settled over the men, a messenger from Renia's main estate arrived, dust clinging to his cloak.
"Message, my lord." The rider knelt and handed over the sealed parchment. Barron broke it open, reading the neat script: The Empress and her maid remain firm, all is well.
No flicker of emotion crossed his face. He set the letter aside and returned to his maps. He never suspected that Rehena's shadows—masters of disguise who mirrored his own spies—had meddled in the exchange. Their hidden work kept Grace and Celistine's plan untouched, ensuring the maid's journey north would face no hindrance.
But then, chaos struck.
Without warning, the sky darkened with a rain of crossbow bolts. Dozens of arrows hissed through the daylight, slamming into Barron's camp. Several knights fell, pierced before they could raise their shields.
"AMBUSH!" Barron roared, his sword flashing free. Knights scrambled for cover as the thieves broke from the treeline, blades glinting beneath the sun.
The clash was brutal. Steel rang against steel; screams mixed with war cries. Barron carved his way through the fray, cutting down every foe who dared cross his path. A thief lunged at him, sword raised high to cleave him in two—but Barron sidestepped, parried, and drove his blade through the man's chest without hesitation.
The battle raged until the ground was littered with the fallen. Though the ambush had been fierce, the enemy's numbers were not great. Barron's knights, bloodied but unbroken, pushed them back and stood their ground.
"Load the great crossbows!" Barron barked. "We take the fight to their den—now!"
The order rang clear beneath the daylight. Without waiting for nightfall or sunrise, the knights marched with burning fury straight to the thieves' stronghold.
But when they stormed the hideout, their triumph soured into confusion. The place was empty—abandoned. Not a single enemy remained.
"Wait… all of them, gone?" Barron muttered under his breath. His eyes narrowed, mind racing. He counted back. The ambush force had numbered no more than five hundred. Far too few to account for the horde they had been tracking.
And then, realization struck him like a blade to the gut.
"The City of Renia…" His eyes widened with dread. His voice thundered across the stunned silence of his men.
"THE CITY OF RENIA IS IN DANGER!"