Before the tragedy struck, Barron remained at his war table, carefully mapping out every move of the coming battle—where his men would strike, where the thieves might hide, and how to crush their hive in one decisive blow. Yet while he was lost in his strategies, far from the chaos, Gilbert and Grace had already crossed into the borders of the Northern Kingdom, managing the journey in only two and a half days.
It was the hour past midday when Gilbert slowed his horse to a cautious trot. The air was thick with the clang of armor, for the Northern border was crawling with guards, each pair of eyes sharp, watching, weighing every soul that dared pass through the iron gates. Grace, ever watchful, had already devised a trick. She and Gilbert had mixed blackberries into the grapes he carried, disguising the poisonous fruit beneath sweetness so it would not raise suspicion—especially among those guards familiar with the dark, deadly berries.
"Woah! Stop there! Who are you?" barked a guard, his hand already tightening on the hilt of his spear as Gilbert approached.
Gilbert dismounted slowly, his face shadowed by a hood, and disguised himself with a false name."I am Howman," he said in a firm, steady tone. "A merchant of fruits… grapes, especially. I have come to trade."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "Merchants are forbidden from entering the Northern Kingdom. If you step past these gates, there will be no return. Leave now." His voice was final, cutting, almost eager to deny him.
But Gilbert fell to his knees in feigned desperation, his voice trembling with a well-practiced plea.
"I beg you! I have a family inside… I have not seen them in three long years. If you will not let me through, then at least, please… deliver these fruits to them. Grapes, berries—my gift to them, my proof that I still live." His words dripped with despair, and his trembling hands offered the sack forward.
The guards exchanged glances, their suspicion dulled by greed. One of them muttered, "And what of us? Is there gratitude for those who carry your burden?"
Gilbert's lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile. "Of course. This… is also for you." He slipped a pouch of coins into the guard's palm.
With that, the guards accepted the fruits. They shoved Gilbert back, banishing him with little care, but their attention was already on the grapes, their hunger growing. Gilbert turned away, retreating to safety, but his eyes burned with cold calculation.
Grace had been watching all along. Before Gilbert had even stepped forward, she had studied every move of the border guards. She saw how cruel they were. A man had approached earlier with food meant for his family inside the kingdom, but instead of delivering it, the guards devoured it right there, laughing as they stole what belonged to starving mouths. Grace's fists clenched. She noted the piles of other offerings—food, belongings, letters—all rotting at the edges of the border wall, never sent, never received. Her anger toward these greedy soldiers grew like fire in her chest.
Hours passed. The guards, careless in their arrogance, decided to feast. They tore into the grapes mixed with the hidden blackberries, their laughter echoing against the cold stone of the gates. Grace, lurking in the shadows, seized the chance. She ambushed a messenger—likely a secret watcher stationed nearby—strangling his cries before he could alert anyone.
By the time midnight draped its silence over the border, chaos had begun. One by one, the guards collapsed. Groans filled the night as dizziness seized their limbs, their bodies betraying them. Panic spread like wildfire. Some vomited violently, others writhed, clutching their stomachs as blackberries' poison coursed through their veins. Cries went up for physicians, but it was too late—too many had fallen, their once-mighty garrison brought low by their own gluttony.
"It's time," Grace hissed, her eyes sharp with vengeance. She stripped the armor from a fallen guard, disguising herself in his uniform. In her hands, she grabbed the sack of grapes to erase any trace that could lead suspicion back to them. Gilbert, waiting nearby, rode forward at once.
"Take it and go," Grace whispered fiercely. "You must not be caught."
"Be careful," Gilbert replied, mounting his horse, spurring it into the night as fast as he could. His shadow vanished into the trees.
Grace, meanwhile, slipped toward the hidden passage—her own secret creation. Nestled in the thick grass by the side of the border wall was a dark hole, large enough for a single person. She had dug it long ago, foreseeing the day she might need it. Without hesitation, she lowered herself into the damp earth and crawled through, her breath quick, her pulse pounding.
When she emerged on the other side, the sight before her froze her blood. The Northern Kingdom lay in ruin.
What had once been noble streets were now broken bones of houses—shattered wood, filthy stone, roofs caved in. The air stank of decay. The people who staggered through the streets were gaunt, their faces hollow, skin stretched thin over brittle bones. Children rummaged through mud for scraps, women clutched rags for warmth, men slumped against walls with empty eyes.
Grace's chest ached, fury tightening in her ribs. This was no kingdom—it was a graveyard where the living still walked.
She wasted no time. Pulling her hood over her head, she hurried toward the mansion—the mansion that still stood tall despite the kingdom's suffering. Inside lived the man she sought, the father of Celistine.
And it was there, amidst the hunger and ruin, that Grace's true mission in the North would begin.
Grace had already reached the great mansion of the North. Fortune favoured her that night, for only a handful of Western guards lingered at their posts. Their vigilance was careless, their eyes dulled by long hours, and so she slipped past them with ease. Her heart thudded in her chest as she pressed herself against the cold stone wall, her breath shallow with both dread and determination.
She climbed the sprawling oak that towered beside the fortress. Its roots had clawed into the earth for centuries, and its limbs reached high enough to brush the balcony where the chamber of Celistine's father lay. Grace pulled herself upward, her hands stinging from bark and her gown catching on the rough wood, yet she did not falter. She had come too far to turn back now.
At last she reached the balcony door and slipped inside. Darkness swallowed the chamber; heavy drapes smothered the moonlight, and the air was thick with the scent of old timber and smoke. Grace stood still, straining to hear even the faintest sound. She had not walked these halls in many years, and now, standing here again, she felt the weight of her absence. Was this truly the chamber she sought? Doubt pricked at her heart.
Moving slowly, she stepped towards the bed. A figure lay beneath the covers, motionless, the rise and fall of breath faintly visible. Grace's chest tightened. She stretched out her hand to wake him—
—when suddenly cold steel kissed her throat.
A blade. Drawn so swiftly she had not heard him approach.
"Who are you?" The voice was sharp, low, and commanding, cold as winter's edge.
Grace's heart leapt into her throat. She raised her hands at once, her blood chilling at the realisation of how easily her life could be ended in that moment. Damn it! she cursed inwardly, her mind racing. She had been too focused, too reckless.
"Turn around," the man commanded.
Slowly, very slowly, Grace turned. Her hood shadowed her features, but when her gaze lifted, her breath caught.
Before her stood a young man, tall and broad of shoulder. His hair gleamed like molten gold, strands catching what little light there was and shining as if they carried the sun itself. Yet it was his eyes that struck her still—piercing violet, cold and merciless, staring at her as though he might strike her down without hesitation.
For a heartbeat, terror surged through her veins. But then recognition dawned, and relief, like a fragile flame against the dark.
"Carlo?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The young man's brow furrowed. His blade did not waver, though confusion flickered in his eyes.
"It is me, Grace!" she cried, throwing back her hood so that her face was laid bare.
Shock washed over Carlo's face. His grip loosened, his expression softening with disbelief, then blooming into joy. "Grace…?"
"Yes!" she breathed, her lips trembling as she smiled.
In an instant, the sword was lowered. Carlo stepped forward and seized her in a fierce embrace. Grace felt the strength in his arms, the warmth of familiarity. She had been like a sister to him once, long ago, though older by some years. And now, in this hour of peril, their reunion was no less than a balm to his soul.
"Grace! By the gods, I thought you lost forever," Carlo said, voice breaking with emotion.
She clutched him tightly, tears stinging her eyes, though she willed them not to fall. There was no time for weeping. "Why are you here? Where is my sister?" Carlo pressed urgently, his tone taut with fear.
"It is a long tale," Grace said in a hushed voice, drawing a steadying breath. "But there is no time. We must find your father at once. The guards must not see me—it is perilous beyond measure."
Carlo nodded swiftly, determination hardening his youthful features. He motioned for her to follow, and together they crept from his chamber, shadows against the walls. The corridors stretched long and dim, their footsteps echoing faintly on the stone floor. Grace's eyes flickered to every corner, expecting at any moment the whisper of spies or the light tread of a maid who might betray her presence.
At last they reached the chamber of King Henry. Carlo pushed the door gently and stepped inside.
"Father," he said quietly.
The King stood at the window, his form cloaked in moonlight. He turned at once, and when his eyes fell upon Grace, astonishment coloured his face. "Grace?" he exclaimed, moving towards her swiftly. "Where is Celistine? Why are you here alone?"
His voice trembled, not only with shock but with a father's fear. A storm of questions broke forth—how fared his daughter in the Western Empire? Why had no food or supplies come from her hand these past months? Why was the North ringed with Western guards, holding them as though prisoners in their own land?
Grace bowed deeply, then drew from her cloak a letter, sealed yet worn from her journey. She held it forth with reverence. "Your Majesty, you must read this. Empress Celistine sent it with her own hand. She feared her letters to you were watched—some even forged."
Carlo's head snapped towards her. "Forged?" he muttered darkly.
King Henry broke the seal and began to read. His eyes scanned the words, his face tightening line by line.
Dearest Father,Forgive me that I could not send you a proper letter. I fear the messages you have received have been falsified. The Emperor has taken a mistress, and the forgeries claim you gave consent. Yet you and I both know this cannot be true. Something is amiss. When I sought the truth, my fears proved real: the Emperor hides from me all that concerns the North. Harold has seized power whilst the Emperor lies bedridden, and my station as Empress is no longer secure. Do not be troubled, Father—I will find a way to defend the North and bring justice. Tell me all that has passed, so I may act swiftly to protect our people.With love,Celistine Norenian.
The words struck Henry like a sword through his chest. His hand trembled so violently the parchment crumpled, his breath ragged as though the weight of betrayal pressed the very air from his lungs. He sank heavily into the nearest chair, his lips parting but no words coming forth.
"Your Majesty," Grace said gently but firmly, "the Empress now fights in Renia against the thieves. In that chaos, she seized her chance to send me here, to uncover the truth. And it seems, alas, that our worst suspicions were right."
Henry dragged a trembling hand across his face, then lurched to his desk. He seized a quill and began to write swiftly, his strokes fierce and urgent. "If word reaches the Emperor's spies… it may already be too late."
But a sudden knock rattled the door.
Carlo stiffened, his hand flying to his sword. Henry's eyes widened in alarm. Swiftly he thrust Grace into the cabinet, shutting it tight.
The door opened.
"Johanes? What brings you here?" Henry asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
Johanes entered—captain of the Northern knights, Henry's most trusted man… and Grace's father.
"My liege," Johanes said, bowing deeply, "I come to report—all the Western guards have fallen gravely ill." His voice carried bewilderment, for he could not comprehend such sudden misfortune.
Henry's jaw tightened. "I know whose hand guides this," he murmured grimly. Then, with a sigh, he opened the cabinet door.
Johanes' eyes widened. His breath caught as he saw her. "Grace?"
"Father!" she cried, rushing into his arms. She clung to him desperately, her tears spilling unchecked, her body trembling with the force of her longing. Years of distance, fear, and silence melted away in that single embrace.
"My child! What are you doing here?" Johanes asked, his voice breaking, filled with both awe and dread. "Where is Celistine? How fares she?"
Through her sobs, Grace poured out the truth—the forged letters, the Emperor's mistress, Harold's usurpation, and the poisoned blackberries that had brought the Western guards low.
"Father, you must do all in your power to stall the Emperor's spies," she pleaded, her hands clutching his armour. "Do not let them report what has happened. We are weaving a plan—Empress Celistine and I—to bring hope to the North."
King Henry rose, sealing the letter he had finished. He pressed it into Grace's trembling hands. "Take this to her. She must know all, at once."
Grace nodded, resolve burning through her grief. "I will. And once she knows, we shall send moonshards and supplies. In seven days, a man named Gilbert will come by the hidden passage. Wait for him, Father. Trust him."
Henry and Johanes both gave solemn nods, their faces grave.
Grace embraced her father once more, tears streaking her cheeks, her farewell heavy with sorrow and love. She turned to go—only for a hand to seize her shoulder.
She turned, startled, and met the blazing violet eyes of Carlo.
"I am coming with you," he declared, his voice raw with desperation, his face set with fierce resolve.