It was early morn, and the first light of daybreak spilled over the rooftops of Renia. The new houses and structures, hastily raised after the city's trials, now stood complete. In the grand heart of the city—the Plaza of Renia—preparations for a victory celebration were well under way. Lady Rehena busied herself with the final arrangements, while Empress Celistine lent her presence to the labourers, her regal figure moving gracefully among them, ensuring that no detail was overlooked.
Meanwhile, Grace had been tasked with distributing meals to the workers who stitched banners and garments for the day's festivities. Her limbs felt heavy, her body worn beyond measure. Only days before, she had fought with sword in hand, and since then she had given what strength remained to tending the wounded within the infirmary. And now, though her bones cried out for respite, she bore baskets of bread and meat, offering sustenance to the common folk who toiled to make the city splendid once more.
For Grace, there was no rest. Years ago, she had trained to become a knight of the North, sworn to discipline and endurance—but nothing in her trials had prepared her for this relentless cycle of battle, healing, and labour. Exhaustion had hollowed her cheeks, her breath ran shallow, yet still she pressed on. For she was sworn to serve, and it was her solemn duty to remain by Celistine's side.
Within the bustling plaza, Celistine caught sight of Grace. The empress's keen eyes, sharpened by both care and command, noted the knight's sweat-streaked brow and the trembling strain in her arms. Celistine's expression softened.
"Grace," she said gently, her voice tinged with worry, "have you taken no proper rest?"
The words startled Grace, for she had thought her weariness well hidden. Forcing a faint smile, she lowered her gaze, unwilling to burden her sovereign.
"No, Your Majesty. I am quite well," she answered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Celistine sighed, a long and quiet exhale that spoke both of exasperation and of tender concern. With elegant decisiveness, she reached forward and took the heavy basket from Grace's hands.
Grace's eyes widened in alarm at the sight of her empress—her empress—carrying bread and meat meant for the common folk. She made to reclaim it at once.
"Your Majesty, please," she protested, voice urgent, "allow me. It is my charge to tend to the meals."
But Celistine shook her head firmly, her posture straight, her gaze brooking no defiance.
"No," she said, her tone sharp as steel. "I command you—return to your chamber. Take proper rest, and return only when your strength has returned. That is an order."
Grace faltered, her heart torn between obedience and duty. Yet before her empress's unwavering gaze, she bowed her head in submission. "As you will, Your Majesty," she whispered, and with reluctant steps, withdrew to her chamber.
Thus it was Celistine who stepped into the task, offering food with her own hands to the people. She knew well the depth of Grace's toil and would not permit her knight to collapse beneath such burdens.
In a small chamber across the city, Barron sat hunched over a table, candlelight casting long shadows across the walls. His sharp eyes scanned report after report of the enemy's ambush. The shadows he had once placed to guard the empress in his absence had vanished without a trace—an absence that gnawed at him.
A soldier entered, bowed low, and spoke with urgency."Sir, we seized one of the enemy's men. He revealed that a stranger—one called Clark, with hair dark as violet—appeared amongst them. This man ordered them to slay the Empress, and rewarded them with a great bounty."
Barron's jaw tightened, his expression darkening though his voice remained composed."A stranger, you say? Did you apprehend him?"
The soldier lowered his head, shame upon his face. "I fear not, my lord."
With a curt gesture, Barron dismissed him. Alone once more, the spymaster steepled his fingers, his mind weaving through threads of treachery. Who could desire Celistine's death so keenly as to fund assassins with such lavish sums? The thieves of Renia had sought only to plunder, to claim the city's wealth for themselves. Yet someone else—someone powerful—had turned their blades towards the Empress's heart.
"Could it be… the Emperor himself?" Barron muttered, his cold voice barely above a whisper. The thought lingered, yet he shook his head. No. If Harold had wished her dead, he could have seen it done long ago. Why hire thieves when he holds armies at his command? Why cloak his hand when the North already lies impoverished and without allies
His lips curved into a grim line as his thoughts darkened. Only one with wealth and influence enough to pay such a bounty could be the culprit. Yet the question haunted him still—did Celistine truly have such an enemy?
Minutes passed, the silence heavy, before a sudden thought struck him like a spark in the gloom. His eyes narrowed."The Emperor's mistress," he breathed. Yet even as he spoke it, doubt clawed at him. There was no proof—only suspicion. The woman might well covet Celistine's place as Empress of the Western Empire, yet mere envy was not evidence enough. With a shake of his head, Barron rose. He would not bring untempered speculation before Harold. Better to seek the truth himself, in shadows where he belonged.
He strode into the corridor, his boots whispering against stone. There, he caught sight of Grace. She moved slowly, her steps faltering as though her body aged decades in a day. Her shoulders sagged, her eyes clouded. Barron's brow furrowed; it was rare for him to betray concern, yet her state was plain.
Before he could speak, Grace stumbled, her head colliding softly against his broad chest. She lifted her gaze, dazed, and her lips parted."Oh… forgive me, sir—"
The words died upon her tongue. Her body crumpled, her strength spent, and she collapsed against him. Barron's calm demeanour wavered only slightly, his arms instinctively catching her.
"Grace?" His voice was low, steady, yet edged with rare worry. He pressed his palm to her brow, his sharp eyes widening at once. Heat radiated from her skin—her fever was high, her frame trembling with exhaustion.
Without hesitation, Barron swept her into his arms, carrying her as though she were no heavier than a feather. Cradled in his hold, she lay unconscious against his chest as he bore her swiftly towards the infirmary. His face remained calm, unreadable, yet in his heart a thought burned with unsettling clarity: Grace had been pushed beyond her limits, and though she bore it in silence, someone must see the truth.
Meanwhile, Celistine had finished handing out food to the common folk, and at last she allowed herself to rest upon a small wooden chair at the edge of the plaza. From her seat she watched the people move about, each busy with their tasks. Some stitched banners, others arranged garlands, and many simply laughed together, their faces alight with relief. The war with the thieves was over; no more shadows of fear lingered, no more unrest troubled their nights.
Earlier that morning, Celistine had entrusted Lord Herbert with a detailed chart, laying out strategies to secure Renia should the thieves return. She had advised how the city guard should be stationed by day and by night, and had set forth new rules to strengthen Renia's defences. Lord Herbert, ever loyal, obeyed her counsel without hesitation.
As she sat quietly, her gaze fell upon the grass beneath her feet. A gentle breeze stirred, carrying with it the voices of the people—honest folk, content to live simply as farmers and craftsmen. A thought stirred within Celistine's heart. How I long for life to be as it is here in Renia, she mused. The people respectful, noble in spirit, asking for nothing more than peace and simple labour. Not like the Western Empire, where life is draped in luxury, yet behind every smile lurks a dagger. In that realm, power is survival, and without it, one is nothing.
Her lips curved into a wistful smile. Her heart whispered of the North—her homeland—still fractured, still poor, still scorned. Yet she held a vision. When I return, I shall mend it. I shall raise the banner of the North so high that it will one day be feared and respected. Its people shall be strong, educated, and honoured. Not merely subjects, but equals.
Celistine lifted her eyes to the sky, her expression calm yet tinged with longing.
"What occupies your thoughts, Your Majesty?" asked Lady Rehena gently, approaching with her familiar sweet smile. She lowered herself gracefully to sit beside the Empress.
Celistine's smile softened, though her voice was low and touched with sorrow. "Nothing—only my father, and the North."
Rehena reached for her hand with quiet warmth. "Do not worry, Empress. All shall be well."
The two women sat together in silence, their eyes turned skyward, watching the clouds drift slowly across the pale blue expanse—one smiling in hope, the other in gentle resolve.
----
In the Western Empire, fury echoed through the chamber.
"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" Medeya's shrill voice rang out, sharp as a whip. Her hands lashed against her brother's shoulders and head, each strike a sting of frustration. Maxon knelt before her, his body hunched, arms raised feebly as though to shield himself, though he scarcely dared resist.
"I am sorry, Sister!" he cried, his voice trembling with both fear and shame. "I will not fail again, I swear it!"
Yet his desperate promise only deepened her scorn. Medeya stood over him, her dark eyes blazing, her arms folded tightly across her chest as though to restrain her own wrath. She turned her face away, but her lips twisted in contempt. Her brother had failed her once more, and this failure was not a small matter—it was the very assassination of the Empress of the North, Celistine.
How many times must he blunder? she thought bitterly, her jaw tightening. The plan had been within his grasp—yet again he let it slip!
Maxon, meanwhile, lowered his gaze to the marble floor, the weight of her disappointment pressing like a stone upon his chest. But in his heart, a thought gnawed at him. I was so close. The blade was ready, the strike certain… until that man appeared.
Yes—he remembered clearly. A figure had emerged from the shadows: a man with hair dark as midnight and eyes of striking violet—eyes that bore the same unusual colour as the Empress herself. This stranger, calling himself Carlo, had intervened with deadly precision. Maxon had felt in that moment that the man could have ended his life without hesitation. The sheer fury in his gaze was enough to freeze his blood.
And yet… what unsettled him most was not the man's skill, but the girl who had been at his side. The same woman he had once encountered in a tavern—laughter on her lips, a common disguise upon her frame. How was it possible that she now stood with the Empress in Renia, serving at her side?
Maxon's lips curved slowly, a sly smile forming despite his sister's rage. So… she works with the Empress, does she? Then perhaps I have stumbled upon her shadow, her loyal hound. And perhaps I know her true face at last.
"So, tell me, Sister," Maxon said, his voice regaining a touch of confidence as he raised his head to meet her eyes, "what are we to do next? For I believe I already know the game to play behind the Empress's back."
Medeya's brow furrowed, her anger still hot upon her face. Yet her reply came cold, measured, like ice quenching fire."Nothing. We wait. The thieves have already sung of your failures, and I will not risk their whispers drawing suspicion to you. Keep your head low, brother. Do not tempt an investigation into your affairs."
With that, she turned upon her heel, her robes sweeping across the floor, and swept out of Maxon's chamber without another glance.
Left alone, Maxon rose slowly from his knees, dusting them off with a muttered curse. He raked his fingers through his hair and paced to the window. His reflection in the glass looked back at him with mocking eyes.
Then, suddenly, he threw his head back and let loose a wild, rasping laugh that echoed off the stone walls."Ahahahaha! Damn it all!" he shouted between bursts of laughter, his fists clenched with manic energy. "All this time… she was disguising herself as a whore, spying on me under my very nose!"
He slammed a hand against the window frame, his grin widening into a feral sneer. Now that he knew who she truly was—the loyal hound of the Empress, the woman he had once desired—he would ensure that knowledge became his advantage.
Grace Braiden Drusus