After the most joyous of celebrations, the streets of Renia had quieted. The citizens had returned to their designated homes, laughter and chatter fading into the evening air. All except four—Lord Herbet, Robert, Lady Rehena, and Empress Celistine—remained, drawn together by matters far more secretive than any festivity. They convened in private, the tension between them almost palpable, lingering like the smoke of a dying fire after the festivities. The confrontation between Lord Herbet and Barron had already occurred, and Robert, ever diligent as Lord Herbet's right hand, had immediately reported the outcome to the Empress. Hence, a clandestine meeting had been hastily arranged in Lord Herbet's office.
Empress Celistine sank gracefully onto the rich, red velvet couch, her poise as impeccable as the jeweled crown she wore. Beside her, Lady Rehena perched delicately, her hands folded neatly on her lap, eyes flickering with unease. Lord Herbet remained seated in his chair, composed yet alert, while Robert stood rigidly at attention, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts.
Celistine's gaze was icy, scrutinising Lord Herbet as if weighing his soul. "So… Barron suspects you, Lord Herbet. What, pray tell, did you tell him?" Her voice was calm, almost whispering, yet carried an edge that made the room feel colder.
Lord Herbet's jaw tightened imperceptibly. He had anticipated this scrutiny and had crafted his words with care, masking any hint of duplicity. Lady Rehena's fingers twined nervously in her lap, torn between loyalty to her father and an inexplicable sympathy for the Empress, whose presence now seemed to draw her in.
"Your Majesty," Lord Herbet began, inclining his head with measured respect, "you need not worry. I revealed nothing of your plans to Barron." His tone was firm, yet deferential.
Celistine's eyes narrowed slightly, the shadows of doubt still lingering. Betrayal was a constant spectre in her mind, and she had learned to trust no one lightly.
"By Heaven's creations, I have not sided with Barron," Lord Herbet swore, voice low and solemn, the weight of his oath filling the room with a tension that seemed almost tangible. The Empress felt a flicker of relief, though a cautious wariness remained. Could she truly trust him, or was this merely another thread in the web of deceit surrounding her?
Drawing a deep, controlled breath, Celistine began to outline her strategy for returning to the Western Empire. Her hands moved gracefully as she spoke, fingers tracing delicate patterns in the air as though weaving her plan into reality itself.
"Here is the plan," she said softly, her voice firming with authority. "Renia shall serve as a bridge, through which we will send food supplies to the North."
Robert's brows knit in concern, his voice betraying the tension he could barely contain. "Your Majesty… but are we not placing ourselves in peril? The Emperor's assistants already harbour suspicions against us. Is this not too great a risk?"
Celistine's lips curved into a small, confident smile. "Fear not. I have a trusted agent, Gilbert, who regularly trades for wheat in Renia. He will pose as a merchant, delivering our goods to the North, accompanied by my brother. But first, we must eliminate the shadows planted by the Emperor, so that none may report the true state of affairs. Meanwhile, I shall feign compliance with the Emperor, masking our actions with layers of deception."
Lord Herbet's curiosity and disbelief mingled visibly upon his face. He could scarcely imagine such audacity. Who, he thought, would have the courage—or the recklessness—to challenge the Emperor in such a manner? And yet, he saw in the Empress's composure a dangerous brilliance. Barron had been right: she was indeed a threat to the realm.
"How do you intend to accomplish this, Your Majesty?" Lord Herbet asked cautiously, leaning forward, eyes narrowing in measured skepticism. "The border of the North is heavily guarded by Western soldiers. How can all the shadows be dealt with unnoticed?"
Celistine's smile deepened, serene and unshakable. "Before Grace and my brother arrived in Renia, I instructed Grace to speak with her father. Every report from the shadows will be forged; the Emperor shall be deceived into believing the guards remain vigilant. The Western guards number merely five hundred, whereas the North has a thousand and five hundred soldiers. With careful execution, and the letters falsified, the Emperor shall remain oblivious to what has transpired."
Lord Herbet's lips twitched, half in disbelief, half in admiration. The Empress, he thought, wielded power not through armies or wealth, but sheer cunning and nerve.
"And if you fail?" Lady Rehena's voice trembled slightly, her hands tightening over the edge of the couch.
"I shall not fail," Celistine said, her gaze unwavering, her tone edged with quiet conviction. "Assist me in annihilating the shadows, and I promise you: Renia will not fall. My plans will ensure its safety."
Hearing such determination, a measure of relief softened Lord Herbet's expression. The Empress's words carried weight and sincerity, and he realised that she would never jeopardise Renia for her schemes.
"Tomorrow we depart," she continued, her voice dropping to a more intimate, pleading tone. "Three days hence, upon my arrival, I shall dispatch a substantial sum to Gilbert—half to procure wheat, half for the North's needs. I entreat you, lend me a portion of your armies to aid my brother and Gilbert in their deliveries."
"Your instructions will be followed, Your Majesty," Lord Herbet replied solemnly. In that moment, Celistine felt a rare certainty bloom within her—a fragile but cherished reassurance that her people in Renia might yet stand by her. The blessing, it seemed, was indeed at her side.
Yet, beyond the doors of Lord Herbet's office, shadows lingered. In the dim corridor, a man silently listened, crouched in the darkness, unseen by the conspirators.
"Sir Barron was right. The Empress is planning something," the spy murmured, panic rising in his chest. Swiftly, he hurried down the hallway toward Barron's chambers. But fate had it's own design. From the shadows, another man emerged silently, dispatching the spy with a swift, precise strike. The body crumpled to the floor, blood pooling in a dark, spreading stain.
The assassin glanced back, signalling to two others who had accompanied him. "Clean this up," he ordered, polishing his bloodied sword with a cloth, the motion almost ritualistic.
"Yes, sir," came the reply, and the two men moved with eerie efficiency, removing the spy's body while masked maids, clad entirely in black, swept every trace of the crime from the corridor. Moments later, the assassins vanished as if into thin air.
The man who had struck down the spy removed his coat and mask, revealing a pallid face framed by black-dyed hair, and eyes of a haunting violet—Carlo, the Empress's brother, architect of the purge upon Barron's shadows. The two knights who had carried out the cleanup, Alex and Alec, twins and the finest swordsmen in Lady Rehena's service, had executed their task with silent precision.
The web of intrigue, treachery, and clandestine loyalty had tightened, and the game for the fate of Renia and the North had only begun.
At first light, when the morning bells tolled across the city, Empress Celistine, accompanied by her knights, was already preparing for departure. The morning light fell softly across the courtyard, glinting off the polished armour of her retinue. Lady Rehena, unable to contain her emotions, burst into tears once more, her delicate frame trembling. She could scarcely believe that the Empress would depart after spending but a single month within the city of Renia.
"Please, do return soon, Your Majesty," Lord Herbet implored, his voice gentle yet tinged with concern.
"Yes… we shall miss you terribly," Lady Rehena added, dabbing at her tears with a finely embroidered handkerchief.
Celistine inclined her head gracefully, a faint, reassuring smile playing upon her lips.
"I shall, I promise. It is time I take my leave. My gratitude to you, Lord Herbet, and to you, Lady Rehena." Her voice was calm yet carried the weight of sincerity.
Grace, in her carriage, took her seat, the condition of her health noticeably improved, a quiet comfort to Celistine. Barron, meanwhile, mounted his horse with habitual precision, casting a brief, protective glance toward the Empress. Celistine offered her brother Carlo a final farewell, noting how he lingered at the window of his chamber, observing her as she stepped into the carriage. A faint smile crossed Carlo's pale features; in his heart, he knew that one day, his sister would return safely to the North, triumphant in her designs upon the Western Empire.
The Empress raised her hand in a final wave, a graceful, commanding gesture to the commoners gathered along the streets. Their cheers and farewells accompanied her carriage until the border of Renia, where the city's territory ended, and the journey toward the Wester Empire began in earnest.
"Your Majesty, what is our next course of action?" Grace asked softly, her tone thoughtful, almost hesitant, as she glanced at Celistine.
"First, we must ensure the delivery of goods to the Northern Kingdom," Celistine replied, her voice cool, deliberate, yet underpinned with quiet determination.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Grace acknowledged, bowing her head respectfully. Celistine's eyes, deep and contemplative, turned to the carriage window as her mind began weaving the next steps of strategy for when they reached the Western Empire.
Two days passed during the long journey from Renia to the Western Empire. As they approached the empire's grand gates, Barron led his knights through the entrance, the echo of hooves reverberating across the stone. Behind them, Celistine's carriage rolled forward, carrying her and her retinue of battle-worn knights.
Upon hearing the distant cheers and cries of welcome from the citizens, Celistine's eyes softened. She surmised that news of Renia's victorious defence had already spread. Yet, a knot of unease settled in her chest. How would her husband, Emperor Harold, react? Would he recognise the triumph she had orchestrated, or would he claim the laurels as he so often did? It was the first war she had personally commanded, yet victory had been theirs—and still, she could not predict her husband's mood.
The carriage rolled into the courtyard of the imperial mansion. Celistine's gaze swept over the gathering of nobles, some arriving in ornate cages, others milling toward the main hall, where celebrations were customarily held. Yet none seemed to notice the arrival of the Empress herself; only the carriage and Barron's presence were observed, for the Empress's knights had been discreetly dismissed by Barron. Even the Emperor's own assistants were oblivious to her arrival.
"Your Majesty, is this some surprise celebration the Emperor has prepared for you?" Grace whispered, curiosity lacing her tone.
"I cannot say," Celistine replied, a furrow knitting her brows. "Let us ask Barron." She motioned to Grace, who quickly summoned him. Barron appeared at the carriage window, his face a mask of disciplined composure, betraying nothing.
"Barron… what is this? Do you know what is happening?" Celistine asked, her tone edged with both curiosity and a hint of incredulity.
"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but I do not know either," Barron confessed, his voice steady. Celistine believed him, though her mind raced. She could scarcely fathom the occasion, for she knew her husband, Harold, would never arrange a surprise celebration for her. Her thoughts turned sharply, suspicion prickling at her instincts.
"Medeya must be behind this," she murmured under her breath.
"Grace, let us join their festivities," Celistine said, her tone resolute. With that, she and Grace stepped boldly from the carriage, announcing with their very presence that the Empress of the Western Empire had returned. Celistine stood tall and regal, a figure of authority and grace, while Grace and Barron flanked her, walking with measured confidence.
In truth, even before the Empress had arrived, Medeya's intentions had been set in motion. The next day would mark Medeya's birthday, and her scheme was simple: to distract Harold from the presence of Celistine. News of Celistine's triumph had reached Harold, yet Medeya's machinations, though flawed, aimed to draw his attention elsewhere.
Within the imperial office, Harold sat, entangled with Medeya, who perched upon his lap, her upper garments loosened, revealing a careless intimacy that the Emperor ought not to indulge. Her angelic eyes shone with calculated innocence as she addressed him softly.
"Ah… love?" Medeya cooed, her voice melodious, while Harold's hands moved indiscreetly.
"Yes?" he murmured, distracted.
"My birthday… tomorrow. Could we hold a grand celebration for me?" she asked, pouting, feigning sweetness. Harold paused, finally noting her request.
"But the Empress has returned. I had planned to celebrate her arrival… Could we hold your celebration tomorrow?" he replied, oblivious to the storm brewing.
Medeya's reaction was immediate. Rising sharply, she readjusted her dress, her face a mask of indignation.
"What is wrong, love?" Harold asked, concern etching his features as he observed her.
"You prioritized that dull Empress who defied you—she even helped Renia when you refused! Yet you plan a celebration for her, not for my birthday!" Medeya exclaimed, her voice trembling with both anger and hurt. She stormed toward the door, leaving Harold momentarily stunned.
Realising her distress, Harold rose and caught her in his arms, embracing her tightly. "I am sorry, my love… Alright, you shall have your celebration, as you wish," he murmured, soothing her as she let tears fall freely, unnoticed by the maids peering from the shadows.
"So sweet…" a maid whispered, awed.
"Kyaa! The Emperor is so sweet!" another squeaked.
Medeya seized her moment, casting herself dramatically before Harold, ensuring that all in the mansion would witness the Emperor's devotion. Her eyes, wide and imploring, held him captive.
"Are you certain?" she queried, her expression a perfect mirror of innocent longing. Harold's fingers brushed away her tears, the gesture tender and deliberate.
"You said you wanted to celebrate the Empress's return… liar!" Medeya teased, pulling back playfully, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. Harold chuckled at her antics, recognising the depth of her affection, even in her jealousy.
"Hahaha! No, I shall not resist you further," he admitted, calming her agitation. They embraced once more, the hallway their private sanctuary. Medeya's smile was devilish now, triumphant in the success of her little scheme.