At the hour after dawn, Celistine withdrew into a private chamber with Lord Herbert and Lady Rehena. The morning light filtered through the high-arched windows, casting long shafts of gold across the stone floor. Lord Herbert, his expression grave yet earnest, requested of her a full explanation.
With steady composure, Celistine laid bare her plan—how she had already dispatched a letter to her father in the North. Her voice carried both urgency and quiet strength, and though her words spoke of strategy, there was also the weight of longing in her tone. Lord Herbert listened in silence, his brow furrowed, his hands clasped tightly before him as though measuring the truth in her every word. At length, he inclined his head, the sternness in his eyes softening. It seemed her resolve had reached his heart, for he gave his word that he would lend aid to the Empress, should dark times descend upon them.
Celistine, whose spirit never faltered in the cause of Renia's war, felt a quiet fire stir within her. The Empress stood as the people's light, while Barron, the Emperor's shadowed assistant, held the city of Renia steady—an unyielding sentinel ensuring peace and order. Yet even amidst such alliances, Celistine, Herbert, and Lady Rehena remained locked in earnest discourse, their voices low, their faces edged with worry and resolve.
At last, Celistine leaned forward, her eyes earnest, her hands pressed together as if in entreaty. "I must make another request of you, Lord Herbert," she said, her voice soft yet weighted with need.
Lord Herbert straightened, his lined face betraying both gratitude and solemnity. "Speak it, Your Majesty. You have already saved us more than once. Through the bravery of your noble brother, and through the quick wit of your handmaid, Grace, we were spared the cruelty of our enemies' siege." His voice faltered a moment, and he drew a long breath, heavy with thankfulness. His eyes glistened as though humbled, for the aid Celistine had given to the house of Renia had been beyond price.
Celistine's gaze did not waver. "I beg of you, keep my brother under your watch whilst I must return to the Western Empire." She spoke with calm assurance, though her heart quivered beneath the veil of her composure. She looked to Lady Rehena, whose hand had come to rest upon her breast, a silent promise of loyalty, then back to Herbert, whose solemn nod steadied her spirit. Celistine trusted that the family of Renia would guard her brother as though he were their own blood.
Meanwhile, Carlo awaited her command. At her bidding, he would deliver a new budget for the North, so that her father might purchase wheat and seeds, laying the first stones of recovery. Though the land had been struck low, step by step they would rise again, even whilst she herself was far from home.
Lord Herbert bowed his head, the lines of his face easing into resolve. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said, his voice steady as iron. "We shall do as you instruct."
At those words, the air within the chamber softened, and a measure of peace settled upon them all. Celistine's lips curved in quiet relief, Lady Rehena's eyes glimmered with trust, and Lord Herbert's heart seemed lightened of its burden. For in that moment, though storms yet threatened the horizon, they shared the certainty of loyalty unbroken.
While Celistine was still engaged in deep conversation elsewhere, Grace had already set herself to aiding the wounded knights in the infirmary hall. The place was in disarray, its attendants scattered like startled birds, each one frantically tending to the injured. The air was thick with the bitter tang of blood and herbs, mingled with the low groans of those who had suffered in the recent raid by the thieves of Renia. Not only knights had fallen victim; civilians too, innocents caught in the chaos, lay upon pallets with torn flesh and broken spirits.
Grace moved with quiet purpose through the turmoil. Her path led her at once to Sir Robert's bed, where the knight lay propped against the carved headboard, his face pale but proud despite the grievous wound upon his shoulder. It was now the appointed hour to change his bandages, and Grace—having been entrusted with this duty—came prepared. She had been assigned here not by chance but by dire necessity. Too many attendants had fallen, too many lay dead or stricken, and every able hand was needed. By fortune, Grace possessed both courage and skill, and thus she had been called to serve.
"How fare you, Sir Robert?" Grace asked softly, her lips curving into a gentle smile as she approached with the fresh wrappings in her hands.
Robert, though wearied, managed a crooked grin. His voice was hoarse yet laced with humour as he answered, "Not half as tough as you, it seems." He gave a short laugh that turned swiftly into a wince, the sound fading as pain caught his breath.
Grace lowered herself to the bedside, her movements deliberate, her eyes steady though concern flickered beneath them. With careful hands, she began to unwind the bloodied cloth, her touch so tender that Robert watched her in quiet wonder.
"How came you by such skill?" he asked at length, his tone laden with curiosity. His memory lingered on that day—the day Grace had faced the leader of the thieves with a valour most unexpected.
Grace's smile deepened though her gaze did not lift from her task. She tied off the last knot of the fresh bandage before replying with a playful air. "There are matters that cannot be spoken, Sir Robert. Secrets that must remain as they are. Besides"—her eyes glinted as she leaned back and offered him a quick wink—"was it not you who struck down the thieves? Or am I mistaken?"
Robert caught the meaning well enough, for Lord Herbert had already cautioned him never to speak of what had truly occurred, lest unwanted ears should discover it. He gave only a quiet nod, a faint chuckle slipping through his lips.
"Impressive," was all he said, the word heavy with more respect than jest.
Grace rose to her feet then, bowing her head politely as she excused herself from his presence. She crossed the central aisle of the infirmary, her steps light yet purposeful as she made her way to another chamber where more of the wounded awaited her hand. The hall itself was dim, lit only by wavering torches and the pallid glow of day seeping through high-set windows.
As she walked, her gaze strayed—unbidden—to Barron. He stood some distance away beyond the infirmary's arching doors, his figure unmistakable even amidst the chaos. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing the taut lines of his arm as he directed the labourers repairing the ruined dwellings of the townsfolk. His right hand pointed firmly as he gave orders, his voice carrying authority, while his left rested upon the haft of a timber beam. The strength of his frame was plain, his presence commanding yet oddly grounded in the simple work of rebuilding.
Grace halted mid-step, her breath caught in her chest. Her eyes lingered far longer than she intended, tracing the curve of his muscles, the stern set of his jaw, the quiet certainty in his movements. She knew well enough that Barron was not her ally but her foe, and yet something within her faltered.
At that very instant Barron's gaze lifted, and his silver eyes locked with hers across the distance. A jolt struck her heart, sudden and fierce, as though the world itself had stilled. Heat rushed to her cheeks, and in haste she averted her eyes, turning sharply towards another ward as though her duty demanded her immediate attention. Her feet carried her swiftly away, though her pulse betrayed her with its unsteady rhythm.
Her heart had skipped a beat—perhaps two—and she could not tell why. "Surely it is naught but weariness," she told herself, pressing a hand discreetly to her breast as she moved. Perhaps I am simply tired. "Yes… only tired. Rest shall mend it."
Yet even as she sought to quiet her thoughts, the image of Barron lingered still, haunting her with a weight she dared not name.
-----
When Barron, the Emperor's most trusted secretary, and the Empress—Harold's true wife—were occupied with the great work of rebuilding Renia's city, Harold himself rode in idleness within the carriage, seated beside Lady Medeya. The lady, with her arms folded and her lips set in a pout, gave voice to her displeasure in a tone loud enough to disturb the quiet air.
"My love, answer me! Why must we depart so suddenly for the West? I had heard there would be fireworks upon the morrow's night," Medeya cried.
Harold regarded her with a faint smile, though within he felt a stirring of irritation. Never had he thought Medeya would meet his command with such complaint. Celistine, in her gentleness, had ever given respect to his every decision. Harold told himself that perhaps he was unaccustomed to such noise at his side—or perhaps this was merely Medeya's way of showing love, untempered and bold. With that thought, he chose to draw near, setting aside his vexation, and he wrapped her in his arms.
"When we reach the Western lands, I shall have fireworks prepared—just for you, my love." Harold murmured in a calm voice, seeking to soothe her.
Her eyes lit at once, like a child's gaze caught by a lantern flame. "Truly? Only the two of us?" she whispered, pleading for his attention. Harold nodded and kissed her brow. Thus, the two fell again into their show of tender affection.
When at last they came to the Western Empire and passed through to the Fifth Border, it was already nightfall. Medeya's eyes shone as she beheld the royal heart of the capital, where bright shops and noble houses stood side by side, and luxurious halls for dining drew the gaze of all who sought delight. Desiring a moment for themselves, Harold and Medeya resolved to take their supper within one of those grand halls.
The people who dwelt within the capital greeted the Emperor with reverence, and Medeya also, as though she were a lady of great favor. Together they entered a resplendent house of feasting, where they dined in contentment. After they had taken their fill, they strolled the lantern-lit streets hand in hand.
Medeya's eye was soon caught by a boutique that displayed gowns of her liking, and she begged leave to enter. Harold remained outside beneath the open sky, breathing the cool night air. He lifted his gaze in peace—until a sudden jolt broke his stillness. A man had stumbled against him.
Harold looked, and beheld but a common fellow, carrying so many painted balloons that they bobbed about him like a cluster of fruits upon a branch. The man wore a stitched cap upon his black hair, his skin bronzed by toil, yet his eyes shone golden, fierce and bright as a lion's.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty! A thousand pardons!" the man cried, bowing low.
Harold, not minded to take offense, merely gave a slow breath and said with cold restraint, "It is nothing. Yet another time, mind your steps."
"Thank you, sire. But what brings Your Majesty abroad at this hour?" the man asked with open curiosity, for it was rare indeed that the Emperor himself walked among the common folk.
Harold raised a brow and answered curtly, "I was at supper with my wife."
The man gave a broad smile. "Ah! Then the Empress is with you? She is a woman of great beauty indeed."
Harold startled at the words. For the commoner, not knowing the truth, had mistaken Medeya for the Empress. Amusement tugged faintly at Harold's lips, though he concealed it. Patiently, he said, "Nay. It is not the Empress. It is my lady Medeya."
The man's face flushed with shame, and he bent low once more. "Oh, forgive me, Your Majesty! I meant no insult, neither to the Empress nor to Lady Medeya."
With trembling hands, he thrust forward a gift. "Pray, take this balloon, in token of my apology." It was a golden one, gleaming in the torchlight.
Harold accepted it with faint wonder, and the man, still bowing, hastened to take his leave. Yet Harold's gaze lingered on him, stirred by a strange amusement at his bold ignorance.
"What is your name?" Harold called.
The man turned, his lion-bright eyes glimmering, and answered with a smile. "Leon."
With that, he walked on into the night, leaving the Emperor deep in thought.